The men urged their horses forward with grunts and clicks, and then the horses thudded away.
Talen watched them through the trees, but dared not say a word. Perhaps it was a ruse, one or two of them staying behind. So he waited. As he did, the itch to move began building in his limbs again. Or maybe it had never gone away. His breathing had eased, but he was still light-headed.
“Talen,” Nettle called up.
Talen didn’t dare move.
“They’re gone.”
Talen looked below to see if any of them were hiding.
“Talen,” Nettle hissed. “Get your Koramite arse down here. We need to put some distance between us and that pack of goat-shaggers.”
Talen looked at the ground so very far below. How in the world had he gotten this high? “I don’t know how to get down,” he said.
“Jump,” said Nettle. “I’ll catch you.”
Talen smiled. And it was enough to take the edge off his fear. He saw a branch he could let himself down to. And if he’d shinnied up, he could shinny down. And so he carefully made his way down to one of the monstrous lower limbs and then down to the ground.
Nettle held a hand to his ear. Blood stained his fingers.
“Did they cut you?”
“You owe me,” said Nettle. He pulled his hand away. The ear was bloody and sliced nearly in two.
“Goh!” said Talen. “That’s going to require sewing.”
“Just get into the wagon bed.”
Talen put a hand on the sideboard and sprang over. “We’re not going to be able to take the normal roads home.”
“Brilliant deduction,” said Nettle.
“And there’s something else.” His legs, arms, his whole body itched to move. “I’m not quite right.”
“You’ve never been right,” said Nettle. “You’re only now just figuring that out?”
“No,” said Talen. “I’m telling you, something inside is very, very wrong.”
It made no sense. Talen knew a Koramite boy in the district who had difficulty breathing and was always carrying camphor of peppermint about to clear his lungs, but this didn’t feel like he couldn’t get air. This felt like he did when he sprinted a great distance, except he hadn’t sprinted, hadn’t felt any awful exertion.
Talen fetched one of the last sweet almond small cakes and examined it. “Taste this.”
“I don’t want your nasties.”
“Taste it. I think our baker put come-backs in here.”
Nettle took the small cake, broke it, and examined the pieces. “If anything’s in here, then the baker must have ground it into powder.” He took a nibble and grimaced. “Augh,” he said. “There could be horse plop in here and it wouldn’t taste any worse.” He handed the small cake bits back to Talen.
“What do you think he put in here?”
Nettle looked up at the tree Talen had jumped into. “I don’t know. That’s quite a jump you made.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want to try something,” he said. “Take the reins. Swing the wagon round and approach the spot like we did before.”
“Don’t we need to get out of here?”
Nettle ripped a band of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around his head to cover his bleeding ear. “Just do it,” he said.
Talen climbed onto the wagon seat and took the reins. Then he turned the wagon around, and approached the tree as they had before. Nettle stood on the wagon seat as Talen had when he’d jumped. They rolled under the tree. Nettle leapt at the spot Talen had, trying for the branch, and grabbed nothing but air. He landed with a grunt and rolled.
He stood and put a hand back to his ear. Leaves clinging to his back. “How close did I come?”
He hadn’t come close at all. “Two maybe three feet away. You’re about as lively as a pile of lead.”
“I don’t think it’s lead.”
“Inferior breeding then. What are you trying to prove?”
Nettle looked at him, sober as stone. “Are you positive that girl didn’t do something to you?”
Of course he was positive. “This odd exhilaration didn’t start until we left the city gates. I’m telling you: it’s come-backs. I’ll bet your smelly little linens on it.”
“Maybe,” said Nettle. “But what herb changes a man that much?”
“Maybe I’ve got stag legs,” said Talen.
“You’ve got the legs of a scarecrow,” said Nettle.
“Then you’re a piss poor jumper,” said Talen. “Try it again.”
“I saw you up there, clinging like a bug. It wasn’t natural.”
“Try it again,” Talen said. He didn’t want to hear this. Lords, if this was sleth work, if that girl had somehow seeded some abomination into him—but it couldn’t be. She hadn’t.
Nettle climbed back up on the wagon. Talen wheeled around again.
“Concentrate,” said Talen.
Nettle crouched. He breathed deeply. He jumped. But he didn’t come close to anything except spraining his ankle.
Nettle picked himself up and dusted off his hands. He looked up at the tree then at Talen.
“Poor boy,” Talen said and made a small grunt of empathy. “All your da’s gold and cattle and you can’t out-jump a runt like me.”
Nettle pressed his hand to his ear and gave Talen the eye.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Talen.
“Maybe sleth magic is like some mushroom that takes a while to work its effects.”
“She was on my lap and then almost immediately off again,” said Talen. “She didn’t have time to do anything.”
Nettle raised his eyebrows. “She had time to kiss you.”
“Yeah, well. What’s a kiss? Nothing.”
“Right,” said Nettle.
And then Talen thought about what the girl had said about coming up from the cellar and sneaking around the house in the night. She could have worked some magic then. She’d almost admitted doing just that.
“Rot those hatchlings,” Talen said.
Talen looked at the sweet almond small cake in his hand. “What we need to do is get one of these to River. She can ferret out what the baker used.”
Nettle climbed back up on the seat. “And if it isn’t come-backs?”
“Then I’ll become a sleth toy,” said Talen. “And my first depredation will be to wring your neck.” He handed the reins to Nettle and climbed out of the wagon.
“What are you doing?” asked Nettle.
“Getting away from your stink,” Talen said.
Now that Talen had said it, he realized that he did smell more than before. Or that what he did smell was stronger. The smell of Iron Boy, the road dust, the woods, Nettle’s clothes that had sat in a cedar chest—the scents all lay heavily in the air.
What’s more, the itch in his limbs was building, almost compelling him to move. “I’m going to jog a bit,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is work these come-backs through my system. A few hours and I’ll be right as rain.”
* * *
Hunger stood in a grove of trees smelling the dead hanging about him, smelling the burning boy on the breeze. The boy had been here. Been here recently.
He looked up at the bodies slowly twisting. A trio of magpies stood on the shoulders of one carcass that had a rope punched through its ribs. The birds jostled each other, flapped about, and pecked at the old flesh on the head.
Hunger knew this place, but the name slipped away.
He walked to the road. The scent lay here like a river. It took him a few moments walking up and back to discover the direction the boy had traveled.
He tried to guess how far behind he was. Not far. Perhaps no more than an hour.
The smell of horses and men drew his attention. Hunger looked up the road. He couldn’t see them, but he could see the haze of dust they kicked up. Riders were coming fast.
He did not want to draw attention, did not want to delay reaching the boy, so he slipped off the trail
and squatted behind a thick clump of brush.
The riders soon crested the hill. Six of them wearing Shoka colors, two wearing Fir-Noy. He watched them gallop by, watched them fade in the distance.
Hunger stepped out of his hiding place and suddenly knew where he was: this was Gallow’s Grove. A piece of the map in his mind locked into place. He knew where this road led, knew it would take him back to the hills where the boy lived.
Hunger checked once more in both directions, then began to lope down the road after his prey.
27
The Glass Master’s Daughters
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the crossroads, Talen decided he’d jogged far enough. His legs didn’t feel tired, but Talen’s thirst had steadily grown since the run-in with the riders, and it felt like the back of his throat was going to cleave to the font.
He dipped the water ladle into the small barrel lashed to the side of the wagon and drank. He’d drawn this fresh from the well this morning. It was warm and clean and tasted of the oak barrel, but it did not quench his thirst. He took another drink and then a third.
This was an unnatural thirst. “That baker should be hung,” he said. “These come-backs are killing me.”
Nettle gave him a look that said they both knew this wasn’t come-backs. “I’m worried about more search parties,” said Nettle. “If Shoka were looking for us, then you know the Fir-Noy are. They’ve probably sent riders to search the roads from Whitecliff to your farmstead.”
“Fabbis,” Talen said with disgust. He pointed at the crossroads. “So which path do we risk?”
The crossroads sat at the juncture of five roads. It was a large oval that often was the place for gatherings or a small market. Usually a Shoka tinsmith camped here. His rat dog would lie in the shade under the wagon while he sat with his tin goods and tools under a blue awning that folded out of the side. Today there was nothing here but grasshoppers and the rutted and dry roads stretching out from the place like spidery fingers.
“Why risk any of them?” asked Nettle. “We should leave the wagon and set out on foot through the woods.”
“That’s reasonable,” said Talen. “Except the woods are most likely already full of sleth hunters who have set a multitude of snares and traps. Besides, we can’t leave Iron Boy tied to a post, which means we’ll have him clomping along with us. I’d dare say the woods are more dangerous than the roads. Besides, it makes us look guilty.”
“It makes you look guilty. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Thanks,” said Talen, “you’re always such a tremendous pillar of support.”
Nettle sighed with exaggerated humility. “I suppose I am. Especially when I’ve been promised a throttling.”
Talen waved Nettle off. “Look, I’ve got a better idea—what we need is an escort.”
Nettle looked at Talen as if he’d just sprouted a cabbage out his ear. “An escort?” He asked, then motioned at the empty field. “Who are you going to get? The grasshoppers?”
“If we were close to your home, we’d get a number of your father’s men to go with us. But we’re not. So we get someone who is a friend of your father’s.”
“And who would that be? I say we go through the woods. If we run into anyone, we tell them we were hunting sleth. We just don’t tell them we’ve found them already.”
“We don’t have any black cloth for armbands. And even if we did, we have no tokens. Anybody we came across would spot us in a minute. And Da will kill me if I leave the wagon and all the good are pilfered.” Talen pointed to the road at the far end of the crossroads. “We’re going to the glass master’s.” A powerful man with many men in his employ.
Talen would not have considered this, but Uncle Argoth had recommended Talen to a number of respectable Mokaddian families, including Bartem the glass master. Furthermore, the glass master had expressed some interest should Talen get his Shoka clan wrist.
Uncle Argoth had once told Talen that his mother’s Shoka blood would eventually overpower the Koramite blood he’d gotten from Da. This, of course, had incited Da, but then that’s why Uncle Argoth had said it in the first place. The two of them liked to dig each other as much as he and Nettle did. But lately, Da had come around to Uncle Argoth’s arguments that what Koramites needed was some binding to the Clans. Talen was almost too old to apprentice himself out, but there were other ways Uncle Argoth might find a place for him among the Shoka. It wouldn’t be a powerful position, but it would be better than being an unconnected Koramite.
Just at that moment, a Shoka boy of about ten emerged from one of the roads into the clearing. He was holding a throwing stick in one hand and two dead ducks in the other. He was a little short and wide for his age.
“Lords,” said Talen. All they needed was someone to see them.
“Keep calm,” Nettle said and hailed the boy.
The boy acknowledged them by waving his throwing stick then headed toward them. When he came close, he said, “There are men looking for you. Hunters.”
“Oh?” Nettle asked.
“A group of about ten Fir-Noy,” said the boy. He pointed up one of the roads. “They accosted me. Asked me what I’d seen.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I hadn’t seen nothing but ducks.”
“You keep telling them that,” said Nettle.
“They accused you of slethery, but I spoke up, told them Captain Argoth was worth all ten of them.”
Talen doubted the boy had said any such thing. He was currying favor, which meant he might be thinking the exact opposite.
“Fir-Noy rot,” said Nettle. “Always blaming their troubles on someone else. This whole sleth madness started in one of their own villages. Not ours.”
“Aye,” said the boy. “They may start it, but we’ll finish it. My Da and I, we’ve got ourselves half-a-dozen traps set in the woods. We’re going to catch those hatchlings. The Shoka will win the day as we always do.”
“You’re a brave one,” said Nettle, “walking out here on your own.”
The boy puffed up a bit.
“If enough Shoka take the initiative like you and your da,” Nettle said, “we’ll have the sleth for sure. And if any other Fir-Noy come by, you’ve seen nothing but ducks.”
“Aye,” said the boy and raised the end of his throwing stick to the side of his nose.
Nettle flicked the reins and directed Iron Boy toward the glass master’s road.
Talen considered his cousin: he’d handled that situation well. Of course, the boy was still a risk. He could be planning to run to the Fir-Noy or Shoka as soon as he and Nettle were out of sight.
When the boy was out of earshot, Nettle said, “I hope your glass master is willing.”
“Of course, he’ll be willing. He trusts your father. Your father trusts me.”
Nettle nodded. “Well, then let’s get out of here before that Fir-Noy troop comes riding down the road.”
* * *
The road to the glass master’s home was broad, but it wasn’t straight, and they were constantly worrying they’d turn a bend and run into some vigilante patrol. When they came to the part of the road that crested a hill and gave them a view of the glass master’s vale, Talen heaved a sigh of relief for there were no Fir-Noy to be seen. Just the fields, the glass master’s house, and the glasshouse itself belching smoke out two of its five chimneys.
Talen had walked the whole way from the tree trying to work the baker’s criminality through his system. But he was thirstier than ever. And the itch in his legs had grown. He told Nettle to stop, then drank deeply from the water barrel, dumping a good quantity over his head.
He hadn’t worked anything out of his system, and he began to doubt he would—slethery wasn’t something that could be sweated through the skin. “You know the stories of people bewitched to dance until they starved,” Talen asked, “until their very bones turned to dust? Do you think it’s possible to curse someone like that?”
“So now
our hatchling wasn’t just a post when she kissed you?” asked Nettle.
“She was a post,” said Talen. “It’s just my legs have put me to thinking what could have happened in the night.”
“Who knows?” said Nettle. “If you wake up tomorrow and find yourself dancing some chicken trot with Prince Conroy, then I’d be leaning toward curse.”
“Gah,” Talen said.
“We could take you back to the Skir Master,” Nettle said. “I’m sure he could ferret it out.”
“Yeah, after a little torture, I’m sure he’ll have it all set right.” Talen shook his head and began down the slope. He needed to take his mind off his troubles. He was just going to get worked up, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. So he began to think about what he was going to say to the glass master. And his daughter.
Atra, the glass master’s daughter, had expressed an interest in him at the last harvest dance. Or at least it had seemed she had, and he’d thought about her ever since. He knew it was nothing more than a fancy, but such an arrangement would be good for everyone: Da would get a family member into a clan; Uncle Argoth would keep his promise to his sister; the glass master would be able to tie his interests with a man close to a Warlord of the Nine; and Talen, if she accepted him, would be able to serve and ponder and love one of the most stunning creatures he’d ever beheld.
Talen said, “If Atra comes to the door, I need to have something to say. Otherwise, I’ll be staring at her like a great ox.”
He remembered that River had told him once the key to conversation is good humor, maybe a little banter, and a few helpful questions. Questions. Not the stupid lines men came up with after a few pints of ale.
“Helpful?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” said River. “A question that makes it easy for the other person to talk.”
“Well, how’s a question going to do that? Either they have something to say or they don’t.”
“No,” River said. “Everyone has something to say. There are some people that are like an irrigation ditch. You pull the stop up, and they’ll go on until you shut them off. But others aren’t like that. Other people are like a pond or lake. You’ve first got to make an outlet for them; only then will they flow.”
Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Page 29
