Essa paled somewhat at the sight, and though Rurik held her hand and asked after her, she put him off with assurances she would be fine. She would, but he knew that sights like this ate her up inside. It was as though civilization itself was munching on her bones.
At a crossroads sat a long log cabin, its crude stone chimney puffing clouds of wispy white into the otherwise cloudless sky. Few windows adorned it, and it was a dark and sallow looking place, but he knew it well. It was the furthest boundary of the town’s influence, save some of the ranches along the river. A simple wooden sign marked it, a crude mug carved into the boards, its color faded with the elements. No name adorned the sign—and it would be a waste if one had, given how few of its guests could read—but Rurik remembered.
The place was called the Prancing Prixy. His brothers always told him it was supposed to be the Prancing Pixy, but that the owner—a large, rose-cheeked woman named Jezelie—couldn’t spell a damned thing. Anyone who called her on it was usually given a swift slap to the head. She was a good woman, but she did not take criticism well and she had very little patience. The food, though, as Rurik recalled, was a thing of beauty. She didn’t do that, of course—that part was her son’s doing. Shy lad, that one, with none of the mother’s make. Deliveries often sent him running to the manor, though, so he always shared her rosy cheeks, at least.
At the sight of the place, Rowan’s face lit with memory as well. “Jez! Sweet Jez. Come now, if ever there was a place for rest…” His tone implied suggestion, but his feet were already carrying him toward the inn.
“Hold yourself, coz. The beds can wait a moment longer.” Their scout turned to Rurik expectantly. “I figure it should be your call, milord, as you were kind enough to drag us so far.”
“The trees do us fine.” Alviss was already starting along the trail again. Chigenda moved at his heels, nodding to no one in particular. “We are best where crowds are not.”
“If the Prixy has ever been crowded a day in its life, I should call the sky the sea and go jumping for a swim,” Rurik said. “And Jez has ever been kind. Even if she weren’t—she’s been blind as a bat on four years now. As long as I keep from sight, we should have no trouble.” Even so, he tugged the long tail of his hair over his shoulder. It, like so many scars, was a souvenir of the road.
He could see Rowan’s face lighting and his pace resuming. The man might have even squealed, had he not had the present company. It was hard to blame him, either. It had been at least a week since any of them had slept in a real bed, let alone indoors. Essa was right off after him, though, snapping at him to stop.
Alviss halted, and turned on him with a harsh stare. “Joke. Surely. You would stay inside so close to home? Anyone might see. Do not be stupid.” Behind the words and the look, Rurik felt the rest of it: “Do not make this any worse.”
“It makes no difference where they find us, Alviss. Inside, at least, we would stick out less. And I would risk much for a warm bed. Besides—but the thought of it, I think, has nearly set dear Rowan to humping at my leg. Would you so deprive the dearly depraved?”
“Small towns speak quick.” Rurik was grinning, though, as the Kuric said it. Alviss grunted and shook his head, but he offered no more resistance. He merely waited for the others to make up their minds.
Rowan applauded. “Bravisimo. A glorious conclusion, friends. Now—a pint of water, perhaps a touch of wine? And the bed—oh the beds, my friends.” He threw an arm about his cousin, drawing her tight to him with a surprised squeak. “How my feet sing for freedom from these leather shackles.”
The Kuric did not meet the others’ eyes as he trudged after them. Rowan was proclaiming the blissful change of luck and touting all the many things on which he would dine, the coin no issue in his mind. He was first to the door, rambling in Essa’s ear, but she pulled away from him to wait for Rurik, and Rowan himself was brushed aside as Alviss caught up. Despite Rowan’s protests, the hefty man simply shunted him aside and headed in, face like stone.
But Rurik drew up short, for one did not accompany them. He glanced back to find Chigenda rooted still to the path, their horses gathered around him, the light reflecting off his bald head. The man was stubborn as a mule and callous as a drakkon, but if he wished to challenge them on this, Rurik would not back down. Quite the contrary—he would rather leave him than settle. He had contemplated it for a long time, and for much greater offenses than this.
Even so, he was Alviss’s ward. The man would throttle him if he set to further strife.
“Are you coming, Zuti?”
His question was to the man, but his eyes were on the spear. They were always on the spear. He had long ago learned to avoid the Zuti’s eyes as much as possible. They were cold and unrelenting, and he found he had not the heart to bear their inquisition—and since the Zuti’s introduction to Usuri months past, they had only grown worse.
Rurik had been as much a victim as the rest. He had not seen the girl in many moons, and she had never gone so far for attention. Usuri the Many-Starred, as far as the Empire was concerned—soothsayer, witch, and Assal only knew how many other supposed kinds of heretical criminal. An old friend, she was. An old friend, and one of the few people in the world capable of truly and surely frightening him to his core.
He could still see it: the blank, hollow looks on the faces of so many fictional villagers.
Why did you do it? He had asked himself the question a hundred times since, though only Usuri held the answer. Then again, she had told him why—he just didn’t like the answer. It did not excuse death. He could see Alviss bleeding into the dust, a bolt lodged in his throat. There had been so much blood and so little sound. He still had nightmares about it. Dead bodies all around, and his oldest friend was to be but one more. His breaths had all but gone when the dream ended. All in the clap of your hands.
Perhaps he had not handled the girl right after the whole debacle, but he had tried. Chigenda thought him a coward for it, no doubt, but he thought he had been fairly practical at the time. The Zuti judged him simply on association, though. That he had ever known her and suffered her to live was some sort of crime against the world, apparently, and Rurik doubted Chigenda was the only one to think so.
As yet, however, Chigenda’s anger had been restrained. If the Zuti took true offense, Rurik knew it would be his spear that did the talking, and Rurik had already seen what that particular pole could do.
Chigenda scoffed contemptuously. “You tink I blend? How stupid be?” His words were thick, his grasp of Imperial Maice somewhat broken. The man knew the language—and by what education Rurik had never inquired—but his voice still struggled with many of the intricacies, his coarse tone still suited to the tongues of his native land.
“I am certain you will blend as well as I. You are Alviss’s attendant, and so shall it be. If you disagree, you are always welcome to the trees. Plenty of space for you to roam.”
Eyes every bit as dark as Chigenda’s skin lit into him. Sandaled feet—bound by straps, in the Zuti fashion—shuffled in the dirt, like a bull readying for a charge. Or simple indecision. Rurik prided himself on reading people, but not the Zuti. All he ever sifted from that one was anger, and there was lots of it. Specifics seemed inconsequential. Still, he figured he had the man when his spear slid back with the rest, into the oversized quiver on his back.
Down the road, voices mingled amidst the trees. Rurik’s eyes drifted, but he stood his ground, waiting for the Zuti’s decision. Chigenda turned to toward the sound and listened for a moment before parting with a condescending snort. “Is stupid boy,” he said plainly. “You do us—I do you.” Then he strode across the grounds, toward the troughs. With a whistle, their horses followed at his heels.
Rurik had the uncanny feeling the Zuti had just stepped over his grave. Still, as long as Alviss was around, he told himself he had little to fear.
He lingered just long enough to catch a peek at their looming guests. A pair of them moved on the road f
rom the village, small figures, unremarkable against the backdrop. Nothing marked them as anyone particular. Even so, Rurik did not dare leave his face still on display for when they drew near. They may have been unknowns, but in Verdan, he certainly was not.
Essa awaited him in the doorway, one leg arched across it to bar his path. “You had best be careful of that one,” she said with a frown. “He’s a rotten, temperamental lout, but a monster with that spear.”
She reads my thoughts. “Alviss will handle him.” He said it as much to reassure himself as her. “He is all bark and no bite, so long as our trusty old man is with us.”
Her face seemed to darken. “I am not so sure.”
As soon as the darkness had set upon her, however, and quick enough to evade question, Essa shook it off again. A smile lightened her features as she suggested they away inside. They had better things to do, she said. Rurik was not so certain. Chigenda had been a grim topic for many moons with her. Long he had thought to search out the why of it, but she was never forthcoming. She used his own distaste for the man as her cover.
Removing her foot from his path, Essa took him by the hand and led him inside. It was much as he had remembered. A few candles burned, but otherwise the place was left to what sallow light drifted in through the canvassed windows. Brown-haired Tully—unmistakable with his protruding jaw and pinprick nose—stood bent over a table in the corner, running a rag in circles over the wood. He glanced up at them, then back to his work.
The boy’s mother was nowhere in sight, but Alviss and Rowan waited by a door across from them, where a short hall would lead them to one of many unused rooms. A key dangled from between the Kuric’s gnarled fingers, meaning Tully’s mother had already been dealt with—and had likely taken back to her wine. The woman had always liked a hearty vintage. Every afternoon, when the sun was high.
Only one other man sat within the hall and he was near to drowning in his mug, as likely to drop against the wood as look to their arrival. As the pair of them neared, Alviss tossed Rurik the key—a thick, rusted brass piece that was long past its day. Rurik held it before him in distaste.
“Are you certain it won’t crumble in the lock?”
“Two rooms,” the Kuric said, ignoring him. “Far left—yours. Far right—ours.”
It was the usual arrangement. Only when they were particularly low on coin would they all bunk to a single room—and those nights were never pleasant. Rooms tended to be a bed and a good bit of floor, and you were not about to fit more than two people into most tavern beds. Cram five to a room, including a rather disagreeable killer, and even the most stoic of nerves would quickly cramp.
As it was, Rurik never had a guarantee of bedding anyways. Yours was never just himself. Yours meant Rowan and Essa as well, locking them in a continuous cycle of swapping sheets for floorboards. Those nights he had with Essa were the greatest, but all too fleeting. Rowan’s whining drowned them out. The floorboards poked and prodded the warm memories from his mind.
“All together than?” Rurik glanced over his shoulder at Tully, the youth finally giving them the time of day. Alviss nodded, though, and that was enough for the boy. A pang of dismay filtering through his features, the boy turned back to his cleaning. Then he ventured enough to ask them for any drink requests. For the moment, they had none.
Palming his key, Rurik pondered his options. Bed was out of the question. It was much too early, and he was much too energetic at the prospect of how close they had come to home. There was much to be done, and so little time to see it done. There was still some light in the day, and barring any potential appearances from those wandering the forest trail, there seemed to be little immediate danger of exposure. Their Zuti was off binding up the horses, and when he was done, they could send him to his room.
Rurik saw this as an opportunity. “Well now, what do you say? We made good time. Shall we have a peek? The sooner the better, always.” Already he could see the frown forming in the Kuric’s twitching cheeks, but he pressed on regardless. “And it is still early, after all.”
“Milord—” Rowan scarcely had the word parted from his lips before Essa and Rurik both fixed him with incredulous scowls. Across the room, Tully did not seem to notice. When Rurik and the others glanced his way, he looked up, but they turned away as quick, and summary glances saw him content to mutter in his corner. If he heard, he did not care. Nevertheless, Rowan looked pale as a ghost when the attention refocused on him. His lips formed around a silent “sorry,” which Rurik waved off.
“As I was to say, much as I would love to seek the old haunts, we would do best to caution for the night. We have wandered far. We should rest before we make our moves. A restless mind is no weapon in battle.”
“Would that there could be no battle at all,” Essa curtly added.
“A poor choice of words on my part, dear. To rephrase: the beds look divine.”
“Is this not a discussion for closed doors? Go.” Rurik shooed them toward the door, urging them to their rooms. Alviss stepped through the doorway, stooping to avoid the low frame, but he was the only one to make it through. Rowan followed closely at his heels, fussing about the abuse of power, when the door from the outside drew open.
Sunlight filtered in, and Rurik spun away, tipping his hat down over his face as he tried to push into the hall. Rowan did his best to oblige him, but it made for an odd picture. Amidst the clap of leather boots, a gasp and an exasperated voice beckoned their eyes back across the tavern to where two figures stood, illuminated by the day beyond.
“Essa? Assal be true—is that you?”
No one could have stopped the flow of curses flooding through Rurik’s mind at that very moment. We were made. All he could think of were blades and armor and an axe for his thin neck. He had a hand on his sword even before Essa answered. Rowan threw an arm across him, to hold him back, but he made no ill moves—so long as the new arrivals made none of their own.
Essa stepped from the door, back to an old life. Rurik kept hoping she would deny these men, but she moved right toward them.
“To the blood, dear friend. But too long removed.”
The hand on his hilt faintly shook when Essa’s hand was delivered into this unknown man’s. When the lips were laid upon that flesh in turn, Rurik became very thankful for Rowan’s denying arm. Such rashness would have been unbecoming.
Chapter 2
Voren Bäcker was no man’s man, and every man’s. Neither servant nor soldier, he was master of the wheat fields, yet owner of none. He bowed to no single man nor deity, but serviced one and all with hand and flame. Voren was a baker, through and through—a baker’s son, another’s grandson, and great-grandson of the late Master of Kitchen to the equally dead Lord Kraggus himself, called “the Pig” behind his back, and not for lack of cleaning.
When Essa had left Verdan, he had been but a boy, a few months shy of his ninth year. Even so, he had been his father’s apprentice since he had been old enough to shape the bread, and there had been no doubt as to his future. Now Voren was a month into his manhood, the master of his home and a provider to dozens of slavering mouths for miles around.
Yet he was still as plain as ever. Baking was not a profession that bred strength. Voren was near a twig, in fact, with russet brown hair trimmed tight to the scalp. Essa had always wondered how he could stay so thin working where he did. The temptation to indulge himself must have been overwhelming—but whether for will or lack of taste for treats, Voren remained ever a skeletal vision.
Despite this, he had a lovely face. Had, and still did. Alas, for the soot and grime that constantly coated it. More’s the pity for the decision of his haircut. His scalp was somewhat lumpy, and with his mane so short, it tended to draw one’s eyes from his. His father had the skull for it, but he never had. Voren dressed plain, spoke curtly, and could not be pried from her. Not that she or anyone else had tried. She had, admittedly, been somewhat worried as to how Rurik would react. Thankfully, he hadn’t.
But a copper for your thoughts. Her eyes alighted on the young Matair seated alongside her, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked on the man at the other end of the table. She was unsure if she should be fighting back a giggle or glaring daggers into his skull. Such aggression, my sweetest prince. Years later, I see, some of that rod remains between your cheeks. Though he was normally at ease enough, certain matters drew Rurik rigid with tension. Family, nobles, and young men seemed to be the general causes. Given Verdan held all three, she could but wonder how puckered up Rurik really was.
Voren’s apprentice had come and went without his master. A squat boy with a horse face and over-large hands, he struck her as something of a simpleton, but she was not unkind to him. Thankfully, he was content to take the house’s orders and ride off to get them started. Voren would follow later. Essa had waited until the apprentice had gone before beckoning Rurik over to greet the baker.
For the moment, Voren was regaling them with the tale of his father’s passing. He had been sick long before Essa had ever left, but she was still sad to hear of his death. The elder Voren had been a kind man, somewhat rough around the edges, but easy enough to speak with. When her own father had dipped too steeply into his cups, it was Voren’s father that made sure she ate. Unlike so many others, there had been no ridicule accompanying the act.
Rinsing down the thought of an unpleasant man with a sip of wine, she forced herself to smile. It did no one any good to be dour. Given what they had arrived in town to do, at least one among them had to keep a smile. If not, they would lose more than just their lives.
She heard the creeping footsteps long before they ever reached her. She saw the motions in the baker’s eyes, the stiffening of his lip—subtle tightening—in preparation for laughter. Sighing, she waited for the inevitable—the sudden clamp of fingers on her shoulder. It came, it went, and all she sufficed to do was to smile as she turned, and look her cousin dead in the eye. Rowan’s own smile fell speedily.
The Hollow March Page 3
