He let out a shocked huff. “Should have paid more attention to your own destiny and less to mine.”
Twice now, snakes had come to warn him. Gabriel was neither ignorant nor a fool. He knew what that meant: he’d stumbled into exactly the sort of mess he’d spent his entire life avoiding. But the warning was near useless without telling him who his enemies were. Or, for that matter, who his friends were.
Isobel?
No. He refused to place her under scrutiny. She might lead him into danger, but it would not be a willful betrayal.
Warning aside, that still left the question: had it been the snake they both sensed or something else? But by now, anything that had been shadowing them would have moved on or hidden itself. And he needed to get moving as well, or he’d still be walking come nightfall to catch up with Isobel and the horses.
They made camp reluctantly, as the evening shadows made the trail’s footing more uncertain. Given his druthers, Gabriel would have kept walking all night rather than making camp where they might be vulnerable, but Isobel hadn’t quite mastered the art of sleeping in the saddle yet, and she needed to rest.
While she slept curled up under her blanket, he groomed the horses by moonlight, taking comfort in their soft breathing, aware that if anything were to approach, they would know before he did, but not so much comfort that he could bring himself to sleep as well. That finished, he sorted through their packs, redistributing the weight, and gauging how long their supplies could last. The result wasn’t encouraging.
The moment the sky began to lighten, he woke Isobel. Her eyes opened immediately when he touched her shoulder, and she sat up without complaint, alert but aware that he’d not woken her to an emergency—a far cry from the sleepy-eyed girl who’d breakfasted with him in Patch Junction.
“No fire this morning,” he said, handing her a narrow strip of pemmican and a canteen, and laughing when she made a face. The fact that it didn’t taste as good as the salt-dried charqui was why it was still left when they were down to the very last of their supplies. “Drink all the water you want, though. We’ll be in De Plata by noon, and a hot meal for dinner.”
“De Plata.” She rinsed out her mouth with water, spitting out into the dirt, then repeated the name, imitating his accent. “That’s a Spanish name.”
“It was a Spanish outpost originally.”
He could feel his stomach rumbling, refusing to be distracted by his own strip of pemmican. While Flatfoot might feel better with lighter packs, even Steady, who could feed himself on two tufts of grass and stubbornness, kept trying to mouth at Isobel’s hair every time she passed within reach, as though the braid might somehow have become straw. She smacked his muzzle with a gentle reprimand and swung herself up into Uvnee’s saddle.
“Well, I don’t care if the town was originally settled by an entire pack of magicians and a dust storm, so long as they can provide a hot meal, a real bed, and enough water to wash myself and all my clothing.”
“All the comforts of home,” he promised. “A priest named Escalante built a church there and brought a few desperate families in, thinking that if he managed to establish a foothold, perhaps convert a few heathens, Spain would have a base from which to claim the rest of the mountains and work their way down into the plains.”
“What happened?”
“Natives put up with him for a few years, then tired of his foolery.”
Izzy rolled her eyes, unsurprised. “Gospel sharp used to ride through town every year, heading for the native hunting camps. Boss said they got pleasure out of being told no. Never heard that they rode out with more followers than they rode in with.”
“A man has religion, takes something major to make him change it. There weren’t any plagues or disasters near De Plata, the crops didn’t fail, so the padre had nothing to work with. Anyway, once the priest was gone, the villagers he’d brought with him stayed because they’d discovered silver in the streams, and—”
“We’re going to a silver town?” Izzy reined Uvnee in hard enough to make Uvnee buck slightly in protest. “Sorry girl,” she said, patting the mare’s neck in apology. “Truly?”
He shook his head, amused at how her fear was so obviously competing with excitement.
“What do you think De Plata means? But don’t get too excited. No matter what stories they tell over campfires and in rag novels, silver mines are boring. Dark holes, grimy miners, and inert silver you wouldn’t even recognize in its rough form. But they have something better in De Plata.”
“Better than silver?” She was dubious.
“Much,” he said, but wouldn’t tell her more.
The road they were on soon became a steep slope, with even the normally sure-footed mule having difficulty. The trees grew taller and more thickly on either side, birch and alder supplanting cottonwood, and the ground underneath was a harsh red studded with rocks. The sense of being watched lingered, although Gabriel wasn’t sure if the feeling was true or simply the fear of it lingering.
“You’re sure they won’t fall?”
It took him a moment, lost in his own concerns, to remember what she was asking about. The mountains. “They haven’t so far as my father’s father knew; there’s no reason to think they will now.”
“Your grandfather was here to know?” She looked surprised and a little impressed.
“So he claimed.” He mounted up again before she could ask more. His family wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. Fortunately, from the frowning glances she kept shooting up at the peaks in front of them, Isobel had other things more important to worry about.
The hills didn’t fall, and they rode into De Plata midafternoon, the sun casting an oddly overcast light through the trees. The town wasn’t much: a shallow bowl between two peaks, consisting of a mercantile, a run-down-looking guesthouse that had seen better years, the longhouse where the miners ate their meals, and a ramshackle shack with a chirurgeon’s sigil overhead. At the other end of the single street, there was a small cluster of stone shacks, windowless and slumped, where the men slept. Farther past, visible more because he knew than being able to see it, were the entrance to the mine and the furnace where the silver ore was melted into usable form.
There was no stable; the horses and mule were left in a corral on the other side of the shacks, sharing space with a small herd of long-haired goats and a pair of particularly bedraggled donkeys who seemed disinclined to greet the newcomers.
“Where is everyone?” Isobel asked, and he couldn’t fault her nervousness, considering the lack of greeting they’d found at Clear Rock.
“Most of the locals will be in the mine,” he said. “It’s the only reason this town exists. Mine the silver, purify it, send it down into the Territory. That’s all they do here.”
“Everyone?”
“Most everyone. You don’t raise a family if you’re a miner, Iz. It’s a hard life.”
“Not everyone’s a miner.” Where a minute before they’d been alone, now an older man was leaning against the corral gate, watching them. “Some of us trade, some of us hunt. Some of us deal with the likes of you.”
“The likes of—” Isobel started to bristle, all the calm he’d managed to put back into her cracking and falling away with one ill-timed barb.
“Gabriel Kasun,” he said, offering his hand to the stranger, his other resting on her arm, a silent warning. The old man didn’t take it, and Gabriel let it drop, refusing to take offense. He was white, blue-eyed, and younger than Gabriel’d thought at first, just hard-worn. “This is Isobel née Lacoyo Távora.” It seemed like months since he’d first heard that name, not a matter of weeks. He thought about mentioning where she hailed from, then thought about their shadow and decided against it. She either agreed or felt the glitter had worn off since Patch Junction, because she said nothing either.
“Marshal Itchins,” the stranger said, tur
ning the inside of his lapel to show the silver sigil pinned there. “Your business in De Plata?”
“Supply run.” The fact that this man was a marshal changed things. Isobel should check in. But the paranoia that had been growing in him since the Caron farmstead kept him from saying anything. “Then on to see Graciendo.”
Itchins’s expression didn’t change. “You a friend of the old bear’s?”
“Not exactly. But he’s expecting me.” The marshal still looked dubious, so he added, “I’m carrying letters for him.”
“Didn’t know the old bear knew anyone outside, to be getting letters.” The marshal didn’t smile. “He expecting you, not her?”
“I’m mentoring her. Is there a problem?” He couldn’t remember ever getting this sort of questioning—then again, he’d never encountered a marshal in De Plata before. Had the unrest Devorah mentioned made its way west? Or was something else going on? Isobel had said the storm she’d seen came over the mountains. . . .
“Just cautious,” Itchins said. “We only get three, maybe four people here in a year. Seeing two show up at once . . .”
“It’s good to see that you are alert, marshal. Especially since there is no badgehouse affiliated with this town, despite the presence of a mine and its proximity to the border.” Isobel had stepped forward as she spoke, and Gabriel felt himself move back a pace instinctively. His hand itched to rest on his knife, but he kept it still, away from anything that might be considered a threat.
“I work the circuit through here, from Red Springs on down,” the marshal said. “De Plata’s a regular stop along the way.” His eyes narrowed, studying her. “And you’ve an interest in my road . . . why?”
Her chin lifted, and Gabriel would swear he saw her grow a handspan taller, her eyes lit with a vigor he hadn’t seen in weeks. Being challenged seemed to bring out the fierce in her.
“My name is Isobel née Lacoyo Távora,” she repeated. “Of Flood.”
His gaze flicked over her, hat to boots, and his jaw tightened slightly. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”
“We travel the road we’re sent?” She smiled tightly, and it never reached her eyes.
“Hrmph.” He turned away, clearly dismissing her, and addressed Gabriel. “You’ll want to talk to Angpetu, get a bed for the night. Assume you’ll be heading out in the morning.”
Neither of them responded to his assumption, merely took their saddles and packs, and headed for the bunkhouse.
They could sense, without looking back, that the marshal watched them walk away.
“He’s an ass,” Gabriel said out of the corner of his mouth.
“What?”
“The marshal. He’s an ass. Don’t think that a sigil makes men somehow better. Sometimes it just means they’re an ass with a badge.”
Izzy scowled and scuffed her toe against the soft dirt of the road, watching puffs of dust form around her boot. It wasn’t only that the man had been rude. She could have gone into her pack and shown Itchins the papers she carried, the way she had at Patch Junction, but she could read him easily, could tell that the papers wouldn’t mean anything to him this far away from Flood, this far removed. Marshal Itchins didn’t care about papers she carried, assuming he could even read them.
She curled the fingers of her left hand into her palm, letting the nails dig into the flesh there, making a fist as though she were about to hit something.
“They’re still holding a badge,” she said. “And it wouldn’t make any difference, would it? If he respected me, it would only be because the papers told him to. I’m not anything more than . . .” She took a deep breath, feeling her eyes itching and her throat clog. She would not cry. She was Isobel of Flood, the devil’s Left Hand and a rider—and as such, more than any marshal’s equal, even if he could not see it. Even if she did not quite believe it; she knew the importance of a strong bluff. “Tell me about this person we’re going to see.”
“Graciendo? I could tell you legends and stories and things I’ve seen and heard myself, and you’d call me a liar. Graciendo is best met personally.”
She scoffed under her breath, then thought about all the people who came to see the boss, to look at him, to play against him at his own table, and decided that maybe she’d wait before she judged. The marshal, ass or not, had seemed impressed by the man, and Gabriel rode weeks to bring him letters. . . .
The guesthouse barely earned the name: it was a quarter the size of the building in Patch Junction, and her first look inside confirmed her suspicious. The front room was dusty and dimly lit, with two doors in the back. The only furniture was two straight-back chairs next to a rickety wooden table, and only the small, cast-iron box stove dimly glowing with coals within indicated that anyone had been there in the past few days. Gabriel cleared his throat and dropped his bags on the floor, which creaked again under the weight. There was noise from somewhere, and the left-hand door opened and a woman came out, wiping her hands on a small towel. She was slight-built, wearing a man’s shirt and trousers, with the black hair and darker skin of a native, but her hair was cut short to her ears and slicked back against her scalp like a man’s. Even in the dim light, Izzy could tell she wasn’t much older than herself, eyes bright and skin unlined.
“One square per night for the two of you covers a bed each but not the bath. Meals are another square.” She had a voice that carried, husky but clear.
“How much for the baths?”
The owner started to say something, then stopped, reaching for Izzy’s hand. Surprised, she let the woman turn her hand over, her thumb brushing over Izzy’s palm, then pulling the fingers back gently, as though to expose her hand to someone.
She heard Gabriel make a noise and tried to curl her fingers around it again, but the other woman had a surprisingly strong hold. Held up like that, the mark was clear, the lines darker than before, the looping circles centered within a larger circle familiar to every soul in the Territory.
The woman closed Izzy’s fingers around the mark gently, then took a step away, dropping contact as though it burned her. “Room’s through there,” she said, and pointed to the right-hand door. “Towels are in the bath, no charge.”
She took the coin Gabriel handed her and disappeared back through the left-hand door, closing it firmly behind her.
“Iz . . .”
A thousand words in that one syllable, and a question hung between them. She braced herself, but Gabriel didn’t say anything more, just picked up his bags and went in through the right-hand door. After a moment, she did the same.
She hadn’t been hiding the mark, not exactly, but it felt, now, as though she had.
The sleeping quarters were as barren as the front room, four beds with no barriers between them for modesty, but there were pillows and blankets, and no obvious draft, and it wasn’t sleeping on the ground. Izzy dropped her pack on the nearest bed, and touched the striped blanket. Wool, harsh to the touch but likely warm as anything she’d slept under back in Flood, maybe even more so. “She said there were meals included? How does a town this small support a restaurant?”
“It doesn’t, exactly,” Gabriel told her. “The miners don’t bother with cooking their own meals. There’s a mess hall, serves up two meals a day. It’s not fancy, but it will be warm. And it won’t be trail rations.”
“I’d eat rocks rather than more pemmican.”
“I can’t promise they’ll have elk, but I remember their mutton as being excellent.”
Dinner had been everything Gabriel had promised, the square-chested cook who might have been the guesthouse keeper’s older brother serving up warm stew with beans and bacon, and a corn pudding that left her warm and full. But it was the bathhouse—the “something better” Gabriel had promised—that won Izzy’s heart. It had been nothing more than a stone hut over a natural spring, smelling of sulphur and filled with steam, but the war
m water had eased the last soreness out of her muscles until she was convinced that she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
The mattress was thin and lumpy, and the blanket scratched as expected, but there weren’t any rocks underneath, and the pillow was surprisingly full. And yet, sleep evaded her. At the other end of the room, Gabriel snored lightly, clearly not having the same problem.
She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, finally letting herself think about what had happened since leaving Flood. A month they’d been on the road. Only a month since she’d sat in front of the devil and said what she wanted . . . and she was more confused now than she’d been then. She’d thought becoming his Hand would mean something, would make her something, but . . .
She looked at her hand, the sigil on her palm invisible in the darkness, but she could feel it etched into her skin. His hand, moving hers. Nothing she did was on her own; nothing she accomplished was hers. There was no reason for anyone to respect her.
Izzy pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart beat slowly, a thump and a pause, a thump and a pause. Too slow, too loud. Her palm itched, and her heart pulsed, the air in the sleeping chamber suddenly too close to breathe.
As though still asleep, she rose from the bed, reaching for the dress she had worn the day before, slipping it over her chemise, then sitting down and sliding her stockings back on. She could feel the buttons in the back of her skirt press against her legs as she bent over to pick up her boots, carrying them with her as she reached for her jacket, and slipped out to the front room. It was empty; they had not seen the woman who ran the place since she took their coin. She sat down on the chair to button her boots and put her jacket on.
Outside, the surprisingly cold air slipped underneath her clothing instantly, making her shiver. She buttoned her jacket and rubbed her fingers, wishing for the pair of knitted mittens that were in her pack. But if she went back inside for them, she might wake Gabriel, and the thought of trying to explain why she was awake and dressed before sunrise made her willing to bear the cold.
Silver on the Road Page 24
