Blackstone (Book 2)

by Honor Raconteur

  Siobhan seemed to realize that full stomachs, plus hard work, equaled tired people. She pushed herself to her feet and announced to the group, “I think it’s best the watches go in pairs while we’re out here. We might fall asleep if on our own. So Rune and Wolf first watch, Tran and Markl second watch, Fei and Beirly third watch, and I’ll take fourth watch.”

  Since fourth watch was early in the morning, when Siobhan normally chose to rise, Wolf didn’t argue this. Besides, fourth watch was the safest of all, so if there was any watch to let her take alone, it’d be that one.

  Resigned to having to stay awake a few more hours, he rolled himself up to his feet. “Rune, help me mark out a perimeter.”

  “I’ll mark north side,” Rune said, already moving that direction.

  Kiō had gotten quick on things like these. Smiling to himself, he went the opposite direction, marking how far out to patrol with any large stone that came to hand. Satisfied, he went back to camp.

  Everyone had more or less turned in at this point. Beirly was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He met Rune near the campfire. “Shall we walk the first circuit?”

  Rune shrugged agreement and fell into step with him. They walked in silence the full circle around the camp. At this distance, they couldn’t feel the heat of the campfire, and could only see the silhouettes of their companions as they slept. Wolf was just glad it was a peaceable night with fair weather. Camping in foul weather was something to avoid at all costs.

  “Wolf.”

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s your story?”

  For a second, he didn’t quite know what Rune was asking. Then it clicked. “You mean how I came into the guild?”

  Rune nodded, a barely discernable gesture this far from the firelight. “I heard how Deepwoods was originally formed. But I don’t know how any of you came into it.”

  That was a very reasonable question to ask. In fact, Wolf was surprised that Rune hadn’t asked it earlier. Looking about him, he took in the starry sky, the soft breeze coming in off the ocean, and the stillness of the night.

  “My father always said that secrets and stories were best shared at night. Alright, Rune. Let me tell you the story of Erik Wolfinsky.”

  Chapter One

  He stared straight ahead with dead eyes, the raucous noise of the crowd washing over him without touching him. He stood on a platform—little better than a slab set a foot higher than the ground—with a half dozen other men. All of them were in poor condition, weak, half-starved. They were squeezed in together, so much so that just taking a breath would jostle the person on either side. He had his half-healed arm held protectively to his chest to keep it from being injured further.

  Early this morning, they’d been dragged into an outdoor shower of sorts, where they’d been given strong lye soap and cold water. No new clothes, though, just a rag to dry off with. The chance to be clean had been welcome, but the effort his slave masters had made to better their appearance was too slipshod to do any good. His beard and hair still matted, as were the other men’s, and their clothes tattered beyond repair.

  Then again, it wasn’t like the masters really cared. They had every intention of selling this lot cheap, as they were in too poor of a condition to get a high value. He had no illusions about his own value at this point. A former dark guild mercenary with a missing hand would not be attractive to most buyers. If he didn’t sell today, though, he likely wouldn’t see a tomorrow. His masters were tired of towing him from market to market.

  The sun rose, filtering through the awnings of the market stalls and heating up the place to an unbearable level. The stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and manure from the various animals became ripe enough to gag on. But Erik Wolfinsky was used to such smells after the past three months and he simply waited it out until his nose grew accustomed to it.

  By midday, three of the men that were standing with him were sold off. He took little notice of it, save that he now had room to stand with arms akimbo if he chose. His bad arm he let hang at his side now that he wasn’t worried about it being banged against.

  “Hello?”

  Strange. That voice gave the impression a woman was speaking to him. He lowered his gaze, looking down. Clear green eyes looked straight back at him, and in them, he saw sympathy. He blinked, for surely this was an illusion. People looked at him with fear, distaste, but never sympathy.

  “I’m Siobhan Maley,” she introduced herself with a winsome smile.

  What a beautiful woman. And where was that accent and red hair from? She looked different than the people of western Robarge. Her skin was pale, except the freckles across her nose, and she was taller than most women. The lilt to her words was foreign to him and he couldn’t place her. She wasn’t from Orin, Wynngaard, or Teherani, though. That he knew. So she must hail from some other part of Robarge.

  When she didn’t get a response, she prompted, “What’s your name?”

  It had been so very, very long since someone asked him that. He had to wet his lips before he could answer. “Erik. Erik Wolfinsky.”

  “Wolfinsky?” she repeated, eyebrows raising. “You look Wynngaardian. Are you?”

  “Aye.”

  She let out a low whistle. “You’re far and away from home, sir.”

  Sir? The respect made his throat tighten.

  Cocking her head, she asked, “Do you want to go home?”

  Home…he’d dreamed of it often. “I…don’t think I can.”

  Shaking her finger at him, she tsked him gently. “That’s not what I asked. Do you want to go home?”

  Something about the way she asked, the way she looked at him without flinching, made a small flicker of hope ignite in his chest. Barely able to breathe, he forced out, “Yes.”

  “Well enough, then.” Nodding in satisfaction, she turned to the master standing nearby. “How much?”

  The master eyed her dubiously, studying her from head to toe again. “Forgive me, Miss—”

  “Guildmaster,” she interrupted. The smile and charm she had before was gone and in its place was a woman that was not to be trifled with. Those green eyes pinned the master in place with a stare lethal enough to melt iron. “I’m Guildmaster of Deepwoods. And I asked you how much.”

  Guildmaster? Erik stared at her incredulously. If she was older than eighteen, he’d eat his boots. What was left of them. How in the world had she become a guildmaster this young?

  The master must have thought the same thing as he cleared his throat and said in a wheedling tone, “If I can see your guild crest…?”

  She pulled a leather case from her inside vest pocket and flipped it so that he could see a D in an elaborate scroll, like a leaf and vine twisted in on itself in shades of greens, oranges, and golds. “I’m an escorting guild from Goldschmidt.”

  “Ahhh, yes, so I see.” With that confirmed, the master did a sharp about-turn in attitude and smiled at her in an oily fashion. “As you can see, he’s very large and strong in spite of the missing hand. He’s also a former mercenary, so has good fighting skills. He’d be perfect for an escort guild such as yours—”

  Her eyes narrowed, toe tapping an impatient rhythm in the dirt. “How much.”

  “One hundred kors,” the master said brightly.

  The guildmaster’s toe stopped tapping. Putting both hands on her hips, she leaned toward him menacingly. “The man’s half starved, his clothes are rags, and it’ll be quite the feat to find anything that’s going to fit him. That’s not even taking into account the medicine it’s going to take to get him healthy again. And you’re asking how much?”

  “Yes, but his experience is such that—”

  “Fifty,” she countered, cutting him off.

  “That’s robbery!” the master wailed in a practiced whine.

  “No, one hundred is robbery,” she snorted.

  The master studied her again and this time seemed to realize that however young she might be, she was shrewd, and he was not going to c
on her into something. Besides, she was the first to show interest in Erik in the last three months. “Seventy kors.”

  The guildmaster didn’t even blink. “Fifty-five.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  “Sold.” The master held out a hand, and she took it, sealing the deal.

  Satisfied, she inclined her head toward the chains. “Take those off.”

  “Of course, Guildmaster.” He rubbed his hands together. “If it is agreeable, you can pay me first…”

  “I better get paperwork for him,” she added, pulling a money purse from her belt pouch. Frowning, she started counting it out in her hand, lips pursed. “Hmm, I’m a mite short. Hold on.” Turning in place, she yelled out over the crowd, “BEIRLY!”

  From somewhere within the crowd of pedestrians a man’s deep voice called back, “Here! Shi, where are you?”

  “Slaver’s corner!” she called back.

  There was a great deal of swearing in response, which Erik found interesting. From the man’s reply, he hadn’t expected his guildmaster to be over here. So they hadn’t come to the market to buy a slave? Then why had she bought him?

  From the crowd, a man pushed his way through, huffing and puffing as he did so. At first glance, it looked like he was related to the woman, as they both had red hair. But it was a brighter shade of red, the man was stocky and short, and his eyes were brown. He visually latched onto the woman and strode straight to her, face drawn together in an unhappy frown.

  “Shi, what are you doing?”

  She pointed straight to Erik. “Buying him. Give me ten kors, I’m a little short.”

  The man called Beirly didn’t budge. “Shi, have you lost your mind?”

  “No, not at all,” she denied pleasantly. “We’re heading toward Wynngaard in a month, right? Well, he’s from Wynngaard. I figure he can serve as translator and guide while we get the caravan there. He’s a former mercenary, so he can help guard the caravan too as we travel. It’s perfect.”

  Oh. Was that why she wanted him?

  Beirly didn’t buy this logic and shook his head at her. “That isn’t why you’re buying him. I know you better than that.”

  Not denying this, she waggled her fingers at him. “Ten kors.”

  Blowing out an irritated breath, he dug his money purse out. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “You don’t really want me to say something to that, do you?”

  Laughing, she shook her head no.

  Erik watched this play out with his heart in his throat. Part of that was because his future, out of these chains, depended on the man giving her those missing ten kors. But part of it was that it had been many years since he had seen such a warm interaction between two people. It was true friendship between them, sweet and easy. In that moment, even in this bleak place, they seemed to glow to him.

  His lips parted as memory came back to him of a distant time, when he was still a child, and he had such warm connections to people. It made his heart ache at the loss of it.

  She handed over the kors, receiving the receipt of sale in return, which she carefully stowed in her vest pocket. Then the chains were taken off his wrists and he tentatively stepped down. Far from alarming her, she craned her neck to look up. “My, you are tall! You make me feel short. Are all of your people like this?”

  “Not all of Wynngaard,” he denied, voice rusty from disuse. “But I’m from the mountains, and my people are this large.”

  “Well.” Eyeing him up and down, she seemed to be making a judgment on what to do with him. “First things first. Food. Beirly, mark his sizes, find him several changes of clothes and new boots.”

  Beirly gave him that same look of sizing him up. “Tall order, Shi.”

  Her smile at him meant, move it. “Then you’d best get started.”

  Raising his hands in surrender, asked, “Is your purse empty, then?”

  “Just about.”

  Beirly handed over a few more coins, which she took amiably, before he turned on a heel and went back into the main market.

  Erik nearly leapt out of his skin when she slipped her hand into his, her hold firm. Seeing his reaction, she shrugged at him. “I don’t want to lose you in the crowd. Now, tell me, when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

  He had to think for a moment. Did last night’s tossed scraps count as a proper meal? “A while.”

  “That’s what I thought. Alright, we’ll head down Food Row. If you see something that tempts you, sing out, and we’ll stop there for lunch.” So saying, she towed him along.

  Even as weak as he was, he could snap this woman’s neck in half without much effort. Surely she knew this. But she didn’t seem in the least afraid of him. She just walked, trusting him to be at her side. Trust like that was something else he hadn’t had in a very long time.

  He had no idea why she had really bought him. Her friend hadn’t believed it was for business reasons, but that brought up the question of what her true motives were. But in the ten minutes he’d known her, she’d shown him kindness and trust, and he was loath to lose this chance of being treated like a human being again. Then and there, he promised himself that whatever she asked of him, he’d do. Even if she never took him home, as she’d said she would, he’d still do it.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Anything look good to you?”

  Oh, right. Food. He looked to the right and left of the road, spied a roasted chicken stand, and pointed his chin at it. “There.”

  “Oh, chicken? Sounds good.” Smiling, she cut between two carts and dragged him straight there.

  The cart wasn’t much, just something that could feed four people at most, but the smell coming from it was a good one. He took the stool next to hers tentatively, aware of the sidelong glances of the people around them. But she didn’t seem to either see or care what other people thought. She smiled up at the cook and said, “One chicken for me, flat bread if you have it, and…oh, is that apple cider I see?”

  “Yes, miss,” the burly cook responded with a weather eye on Erik.

  “Good, I’ll have a tankard of that. Wolfinsky, order what you want.”

  Not sure how much generosity he could impinge on, he said, “What my guildmaster ordered.”

  With an exasperated sigh, she turned to face him. “Wolfinsky. It’s Siobhan to you, not Guildmaster. And there is no way under the heavens that a man your size can eat what I do and be satisfied with it. Beirly eats twice as much as I do and he’s shorter than me! Goodman, give him three times the amount you serve me.”

  Siobhan? She wanted him to call her by name? He drew back in confusion. What did this woman really want from him?

  Tapping a finger on the wooden surface, she called his attention back to her. “I hail from Widstoe, which is on the eastern edge of Robarge. And among my people, we eat together to form friendships. So. Won’t you eat with me?”

  “You want…” he had to take a breath before he could force the full sentence out, “You want to be friends with me.”

  “Right.” She said this easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “A former dark guild mercenary and slave. For a friend.”

  “Right,” she agreed again. Her eyes tilted up in a silent smile. “It’s not a bad deal for you. Being my friend means being part of my guild, so you can cross over the Grey Bridges, and can make it back home again.”

  While that was true—a dark guildsman couldn’t travel across the Grey Bridges, it wasn’t allowed—that wasn’t the point at all. “Aren’t you worried that you might be getting the raw end of this deal?”

  “The fact that you are worried about me says I made the right choice.” She waggled her eyebrows at him. “A truly bad man wouldn’t be. He’d have already taken off and run for freedom.”

  Oh. True, even though she’d held on to him, if he was truly determined to get away from her, he could have managed it
easily. So, she felt she knew everything she needed to know because of how he’d acted in the past fifteen minutes? Oddly enough, it made sense. She seemed whimsical, as if she was simply doing what she wanted to do, but there was method to her madness after all.

  The food was set in front of them with a clatter of plates, and the issue of friendship was abruptly shelved as he was presented with real food. Like a voracious wolf, he devoured all three chickens, the four pieces of flatbread and two tankards of cider without pausing for breath.

  Siobhan’s hand came up and she patted him on the shoulder. “Slow down, man, slow down. Eat too fast, and your stomach will rebel.”

  She was right. He forced himself to stop and breathe.

  “Now. Tell me, how did you lose the hand and how long ago was that?”

  Looking into those innocent eyes, he found he couldn’t tell her the full gory story and instead shortened it to the basics. “In a fight, three months ago.”

  “So it’s healed?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Concerned, she put her tankard down. “What, it’s still not healed?”

  “Infection set in at first,” he explained hesitantly. He didn’t want her to think that she’d have to spend even more money on him. Medicines were expensive. “But that’s cleared up now. I just kept bumping it against things, and it kept re-opening. It’s healing now, though.”

  Not taking his word for it, she drew his hand to her, and unwrapped it. He studied her expression as the filthy wrapping fell free. Her eyes went wide with horror, mouth opening.

  “You call that healing?!” she demanded incredulously. “Look at it! So red and puffy, and…no. No, this won’t do. Goodman, where’s a decent surgeon or apothecary?”

  The goodman leaned over the side of the cart to take a look. He let out a low whistle before saying, “That’s nasty looking. Vidal is who you want. Down this street, take a right at the white tent, and two streets over. His clinic is on the corner, has a red door on it. He’s a bit pricey, but his medicine works the best.”