The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

“Mm,” Wil agreed readily enough. “And Mistress Sunny, too.” Dallin nearly laughed out loud when Wil’s expression went nearly dreamy. Dallin couldn’t exactly blame him. Sunny Ramsford was sweet and beautiful, and had certainly beaten Dallin out in the ‘ideal companion’

  category, bless her, and she hadn’t even been trying. “And she’s the most amazing cook,” Wil went on. “Have you ever had her venison sausage?”

  “Ha,” retorted Dallin. “It’s my recipe. She stole it.”

  Wil’s mouth dropped open. “Really? You know how to make that?”

  Ah- ha. Dallin hadn’t thought about it in such plain terms before, but now that he considered Wil’s obvious regard for Miri, the way he’d chatted amiably with Miss Jillian, how he’d been as close to charming as Dallin had ever seen him when Mistress Elli had brought them breakfast the other day, it clicked into place like a key in an oiled lock. He’d noticed it on their first day on the road, but now all of the accumulated evidence rose to support it: all one had to do to win Wil’s regard was feed him.

  Dallin snorted, flipped his pack closed and cinched the fastenings. “No,” he replied with a smirk. “But you should see your face.”

  Too bad he didn’t know how to make it and couldn’t whip a plate of it from thin air to offer. He could certainly do with some of that open favor. He sighed it away and settled for the provisional congeniality.

  They spent another several days plodding through admittedly beautiful countryside, dotted here and there with the rare lone cottage or farmstead, and wending their way slowly back to the road and the almost-comfortable rapport they’d achieved in the days previous. Wil’s smirky smile came back, and so did the questions and the sardonic comments to Dallin’s answers. Dallin was not the least bit embarrassed or chagrined to admit to himself that he’d missed them.

  The dreams were still on his mind.Though not constantly at the fore of his thoughts like before, they still lingered in the back, just waiting for a lapse in conversation, or the wrong turn of phrase. Or when it came time to attempt sleep. Dallin wasn’t getting much of that these days. He thought several times to ask Wil if he knew anything about the old gods—Wil sometimes knew odd things, after all—but was reluctant to inject anything of possible import into the casual and pleasant conversation and the tentative balance they’d once again managed to strike between them. He’d quite thoroughly had it with serious talk for a while, and had no doubt Wil had, too. He kept it all locked behind the agreeable conversation and easy smiles.

  They made better time than Dallin had anticipated, reaching Chester late in the morning of the seventh day since they’d left Dudley. They’d been passing travelers much more frequently this morning, both coming and going, startling the knickers off an old man and his wife traveling by ox-cart as Wil and Dallin led their horses out of a thicket and onto the road right behind them. Dallin had waved a friendly greeting, conscious of his no doubt intimidating appearance and fully prepared for the couple to either cower and ignore them or pull a weapon on them; they did neither. After the initial distressed alarm, they both slanted annoyed glances over their shoulders, tipped grudging waves, and ambled on.

  “Rugged and fierce, eh?” Wil drawled.

  Dallin shot him an acerbic smirk, mounted up. “It’s you and your waifish charm,” he retorted. “It’s counteracting my carefully cultivated air of danger.” More likely the fact that they were only a few days out of Lind and people Dallin’s size weren’t as uncommon here as they were farther south, but he saw no need to let Wil in on the logic. “Given another thirty seconds, she’d’ve been cooing all over you, trying to feed you up on her ‘famous pork pies’ or some other such specialty.”

  “Waifish,” was all Wil snorted as he swung himself up into the saddle and fell in after Dallin.

  They both made it a point to smile brightly and tip their heads politely as they passed the couple again.

  The sun was bright but the day cold, a harsh wind cutting right through their coats and whining in their ears. Chester stretched over the wide, flat summit of a broad knoll, sloping slow and gradual up from the belly of the open valley of Green Basin.

  Dallin stopped them just as they started up the incline that led to the gates, dug his hat out of the saddlebags and handed Wil’s to him. Dallin himself likely wouldn’t stand out here as much as he did in Putnam, but Wil’s dark hair would. “Keep it pulled down, if you can,” Dallin told him as Wil donned his hat. “Try not to let anyone get a look at your eyes.”

  Wil merely nodded, pulled the hat low over his brow and slanted Dallin a grim, edgy tic of a smile. “Head down, eyes to the ground,” he muttered, blew a breath between his teeth and set his shoulders.

  The gates of the small city were open, the days of battles and skirmishes in this part of the country over ten years past, and life—as was its wont—picked up like they had never been. A fortress once, the walls were thick stone, cut from the cliffs Dallin knew dressed the step-like formations where the Flównysse carved its way through the countryside. Still strong and kept, but Dallin couldn’t help but note and curl his lip at the fact that the watchtowers were all unmanned. With unrest at the Border simmering once again, strongholds like this one were all the more important, and he didn’t like that his countrymen had got so lax lately—not when it had only been a little more than a decade since he himself had been defending that Border. Guards stood posts at the entrance, but they seemed mostly for show. Dallin didn’t see them stop a single soul, either going in or coming out.

  “Looks like Market Day,” Wil mumbled as they dismounted, and he craned his neck to have a look ’round the guard. He was already hunching in on himself, face set and eyes hardening, wary.

  It made Dallin understand fully just how much Wil had opened up on their journey. Even the discomfort of a few days ago didn’t compare to this near-complete reversal. Now, he was the narrow-eyed creature made of strung nerves who’d pulped an enemy’s head; he was the hard-faced man who’d tried to throw himself through iron bars to get at a prisoner. The earnest young man who’d shown Dallin a prized find in the woods, holding out his hand and offering ingenuous discovery, was gone entirely, tucked away in the amount of time it took him to slide from his saddle.

  “Just stick close,” Dallin told him as they led their horses to the gates. “We’re fine. No one’s followed us so far, and there should be no reason anyone would guess we’d come here. We’re as safe as we can be.”

  Wil only shrugged noncommittally, though his gaze never stopped shifting, weighing, calculating. For all that he might as well have been on holiday when they’d been trekking in the wilderness, now Dallin thought Wil might spot trouble even before he did.

  “You’ll have to check your weapons here,” one of the guards gruffed, bellying up to Wil with a superior look Dallin recognized all too well—something he’d seen often enough on the faces of Elmar and Payton back in Putnam.

  This was one of those men who would only ever achieve minimal rank and command, lording it over those who didn’t know better, because they were the only ones he could bully effectively. Terrific. Just brilliant. “There’s a no arms edict in Chester on Market Day,” the man went on. “You check ’em here and pick ’em back up on yer way out.” He reached out toward Wil. “Unshoulder that cannon there, boy, din’t ye hear—”

  Dallin saw it coming; it was only by virtue of reflexes that he managed to get between the guard and Wil as Wil’s shoulder dropped, the rifle coming around and across his torso in one smooth sweep. Dallin caught it before Wil could swing it up to firing-stance, angled himself in front of the guard’s hand before he could lay it to Wil’s arm and get it bitten off for his trouble.

  “He’s with me,” Dallin told the guard calmly, surreptitiously keeping hold of Wil’s arm down low and slightly behind him, feeling the tension and vibrating stress running beneath his fingers. He was a little surprised that Wil didn’t wrench out of his grip and shoot them both, but he stayed still and silent, though
Dallin would swear he could hear a low growl rumbling at his back. Dallin’s horse stretched her neck, dipped her great nose over and buried it in the crook of Wil’s shoulder; Dallin had to actually choke back a snort as Wil twitched and cursed at her under his breath. “I assume dispensation is granted to visiting officers?” Dallin said pointedly to the guard.

  “And who’re you?”

  Dallin sighed, dug out his badge and his papers, keeping his hand clamped to Wil’s arm. He’d rather not have to show identification—he’d hoped they could slide in and out of Chester without leaving much of a trace, and here they were, stopped at the gates, every passerby goggling and whispering as they sidled along—but there was absolutely no way he was going to allow himself to be disarmed, and he judged flashing his badge about to be the lesser risk.

  “From Putnam?” the guard asked suspiciously, squinting closely at the raised lettering around the sword and leaf pattern that was Putnam’s seal. “Ye en’t from Lind?”

  The question shouldn’t have surprised Dallin, but it did. “Used to be,” was all he said.

  The guard tilted a narrow stare at first Dallin then Wil.

  “What’s yer business in Chester?” he wanted to know.

  “Our business is not yours,” Dallin replied tersely, pushing all his years of command into his tone. “But we would be happy to discuss it with your superior, if you feel it necessary. Of course, then we might find it equally necessary to explain how, at least in Putnam, we don’t growl at visiting colleagues and attempt to manhandle them at the gates.”

  Of course, Putnam had no gates, and all visiting officers were required to check in at the Constabulary and explain their business upon arrival within the city’s limits, but this man didn’t need to know that.

  The guard glared but backed down a touch. He eyed Wil up-and-down, gaze going half-lidded with a knowing little smirk, but he addressed his next question to Dallin:

  “Yer little, uh… lad got a badge?”

  Dallin’s jaw clenched. He’d used the wrong approach.

  He’d been looking for instant respect, or at least a pretense of it, when he’d pushed authority into his demand. What he’d got was instant jealousy and hatred. And since Dallin was too big to bully and had a badge that outranked the guard’s, the man chose Wil as his default. The inflection of the word ‘lad’ made the insult to Wil all too clear, and the sudden deliberate interest blooming in the flat stupid eyes made it clearer. Prey. Wil’s admittedly pretty face with its fading bruises probably nearly screamed ‘rough trade’ to someone like this. Dallin didn’t know if he was indignant on Wil’s behalf or his own.

  “As I said,” Dallin grated, tone low and dangerous, “he’s with me.”

  “Who he’s with, makes no nevermind,” the man informed him, still eyeing Wil in a way that was beginning to make Dallin’s skin crawl. Wil saw it, too, tensing even more behind him; Dallin could feel the throttled rage boiling. “It’s what he’s got that matters,” the man went on, eyebrows waggling. “Don’t know what sorts of arrangements they have out Putnam way, but here you’ll have to—”

  “You finish that sentence,” Dallin said between his teeth, “and it’ll be the last your tongue sees of your filthy mouth. For the Mother’s sake, man, you’re on duty!”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed and his lip twitched, but the hateful smile remained. “If he en’t got a badge, he can’t carry a gun.” He slid another slow glance over Wil, very clearly and purposefully lewd, then slanted it up to Dallin, challenging. Bluffing. Baiting. Ugh, he looked just like Elmar, with his square, stupid face and smug air.

  Dallin doubted the man would even have Wil, even if Dallin shoved Wil at him with a cheerful grin—this was all poking and provoking just because he could. “Either he hands it over,” the man went on with his pompous little smirk, “or he’s with me, and you can pick him up on yer way out.”

  Dallin made himself breathe evenly, made himself think it through. Knowing it was all a bluff wasn’t helping.

  He didn’t like being provoked. The thought of giving in to the grandiose boor was repugnant, but the only two alternatives were to turn around and leave or to demand to see the man’s superior. And Dallin didn’t want to do either. He supposed there was always the alternative of beating the shit out of the foul troll, or letting Wil shoot him, but either of those—while probably a little too satisfying to imagine—would regrettably call attention to them they really didn’t want. Dallin ground his teeth, turned to Wil, grip still tight on his arm.

  “You’ll have to give it up,” Dallin said, low and as even as he could manage through his anger.

  Wil tilted his head, looked at Dallin from the corner of his eye, gave the horse a light swat and shrugged her away. “I know,” he answered, just as quietly. “I just didn’t want him touching me. And I… he’s…” He clenched his jaw, huffed. “I don’t want his grubby paws touching it, either.”

  Dallin thought about that, too. Carefully. Then he smirked.

  “As you wish,” he told Wil, let go of his arm, and held out his hand. “Give it to me, then.”

  Wil frowned, peering at him curiously for a moment, then slid the strap from his elbow. He checked the safety on the rifle, and with one last glare for the guard, handed it over to Dallin. Dallin gave him a nod and a small waggle of eyebrows, slipped the gun’s strap over his own shoulder and turned back to the guard.

  “There,” he said with a pleasant smile. “No badge, no gun. We’ll be going now. Unless you’d care to go fetch your superior for that little chat?”

  The guard gawped, but Dallin nearly let a malicious little grin curl at his mouth when he heard Wil give a very quiet but very satisfied, “Ha,” behind him. The glare the guard gave them was sincere, but the flourishing gesture as he handed back the badge and papers and finally let them pass was grudging and thwarted. Dallin could feel those dead eyes between his shoulder-blades well after they cleared the gate and entered the city commons. Still seething, Dallin searched for and found a provisional livery with a post to tether the horses, waited impatiently for a call chit then flipped a gilder to the lad who tendered it with the promise of more if their saddlebags and Dallin’s crossbow were unmolested when he came back to claim them. Tucking the receipt into his breast pocket, he pulled Wil over and around a leather-worker’s stall.

  “Sorry about the gate,” he told Wil. “Took me a little off-guard. And we need to get something very clear.” He held the rifle up. “You can’t just go about shooting people when they piss you off.”

  Wil dragged his arm from out Dallin’s grip with a bit of a sulk. “I wouldn’t’ve shot him,” he muttered.

  It would be very unwise of Dallin to snort right now.

  “You can’t point it at him, either, or wave it about, or even make threatening gestures, or look at him cross-eyed. I know he’s a great knob, but he’s got a badge and isn’t afraid to use it. You fuck with someone like that and he’ll have you in irons just because he can, and I’ll have a bugger of a time getting you back. Now, I’m hanging on to this—” Dallin held up the gun again; Wil scowled, opened his mouth. “Just until we leave Chester,” Dallin assured him quickly. “You can have it back again once we’re outside the gates, all right? But they’ve apparently got an actual law against weapons on Market Day, which makes sense, when you think about, and if you get nabbed with it, we’ll end up getting more acquainted with the local law than we want to be. And keep the damned knife in your boot. We’re lucky they didn’t actually search you at the gate.” He slipped the rifle’s strap over his shoulder.

  “Now. I smell roasting meat coming from somewhere—would a hot lunch lift your spirits any?”

  Wil looked down, scuffed his boot in the dirt and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Some,” he mumbled, the scowl not quite so fierce now. “A hot lunch and a beer would do better.”

  Dallin snorted and rolled his eyes. It really was true—feed him and he’d forgive you just about anything. “Come on, then,�
�� was all Dallin said.

  They were at a gunsmith’s stall, Wil ogling the small array of handguns, running careful fingers over each burled grip, Dallin haggling with the owner over the cost of shells, when Wil quietly and casually sauntered up behind Dallin.

  “Shouldn’t’ve pissed off that guard,” he murmured into Dallin’s ear, flicked a surreptitious look to the stall owner and then leaned around Dallin. Dallin thought at first that Wil was perusing the knives set out on a black velvet cloth on the table to his left, but his eyes darted a quick sweep to all points beneath the brim of his hat before he picked up a knife, held it up like he was showing it to Dallin. “There’s two of them over by the fountain,” he said quietly, turned the knife about in his hand and caught the light with it. “Your friend from the gate and three others are standing across the street, pretending to but not actually buying pasties from a very angry-looking cart owner.”

  Shit. Shitshit shit. Seriously. Could Dallin have possibly bungled their supposedly unnoticed entry into Chester more badly? Bloody hell, he was better than this, he knew he was. Where had his instincts gone?

  He nodded at the knife. “You like that one?” he asked Wil, a little more loudly than he needed to, but the gunsmith was eyeing them with a touch of suspicion now.

  Dallin leaned down to Wil, even slipped a serene smile to his face—just a silly smitten man, having a private moment with his companion, perhaps deciding whether or not to treat him to a new blade. “Good eye,” he said calmly. “Well done you.” He turned back to the stall’s owner. “We’ll take that and this.” He pointed to the knife in Wil’s hand, and gathered the ammunition over which he’d been arguing just a moment ago.

  Wil gave the owner a smile that was somehow shy and sly all at once. “Is there perhaps a back way out of here?”

  He nudged Dallin then flicked his glance down to where Dallin’s purse hung from his belt. “A nice quiet…. oh, alley, maybe, where a man could say proper thanks?”

  The gunsmith pursed his lips, but when Dallin drew four gilders more than necessary from his purse, laid it all out on the bench next the purchases, the man sighed with a grimace. “Through the curtain past the longbows,” he offered grudgingly, though he swept up the coins in his nimble fingers without hesitation.