“It is a bit of carpet.” Wil snatched it, balled it clumsily and stuffed it into the pack. “When the ground is wet, it keeps me dry.”
“It’s too small to keep even your head dry.”
Wil ignored him. “And the ‘scraps of tin’ are nice and sharp and can bend about my knuckles. Comes in handy when you’re bedding in a common room, fighting with fifteen others for a spot next the fire, or making sure they keep their trousers buttoned. And the leaves are just nice, I liked them, they had nice shapes, and just, just—” He was sputtering. He was actually sputtering. “Why am I even explaining this to you?” he snarled. “I don’t owe you anything, you don’t get to say what’s worth keeping and what isn’t.”
That shut Brayden up for a moment. He only stared at Wil, mouth hanging open—annoyingly, infuriatingly perplexed—then he sighed, slumped. “You’re right,” he said with a slow nod. “I, um… I should apologize. I wasn’t trying to… I’m actually trying to help, y’know.” He cautiously took the pack from Wil’s hands; Wil was abstractly surprised when he just blinked at Brayden and let him. “You’ve nothing in here that’ll help you,” Brayden said, tone and expression both kind but not the least condescending. “Nothing to keep you warm, nothing to eat besides potatoes and apples that weigh far too much, you haven’t even got a blanket. I know you’ve managed, and likely with even less, but you don’t have to manage this time—I can help you, if you’ll let me.”
Wil stared. And then he blinked. “Um…” was all he said.
“I’ve enough to feed an entire regiment,” Brayden went on, “because I didn’t know what to expect when I finally caught up with you, and I decided to prepare in case there was no place to find provisions. I didn’t want to get stuck trying to feed two of us on twigs and berries. I’ve more than enough for the both of us—you don’t have to carry the potatoes and whatnot. You can—I won’t stop you—but I’ve seen you without a shirt and you can’t tell me you’re not still feeling those bruises.”
Wil’s eyebrows went up this time. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“You’re also going to need a change of clothes, at least one, and a bedroll. Can’t believe you’ve been going without, I’m amazed you’ve not—” He stopped, shook his head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter now.” Another sigh, heavier this time, and he rubbed at his brow. “I suppose, if you want to take all this—” His hand waved over the desk. “—it won’t make much of a difference, since the horse will be doing most of the work anyway, but I’m going to have to insist that you let me help you kit yourself a bit better.”
Well… when he put it like that… Wait. “Horse?” Wil frowned suspiciously. “You’re not expecting me to ride one of those beasts, are you?”
Brayden stopped short, slumped. “Oh, hell.” He actually groaned. “I’m afraid so, yes,” he answered tiredly.
Wil gaped. “And when were you planning on telling me that?” he wanted to know.
“Right about when I was shoving you into the saddle,” Brayden replied, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “We’re not tracking anyone this time, and time is short, riding just makes more sense. I’ve bought two sturdy mares from Rayburn who runs the livery. Both very tame and good-natured, I’ve seen them, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” Wil snapped. “I just don’t like them. They try to eat your hair and butt at you with their great heads and knock you over. The ones at Ramsford’s wouldn’t ever leave me be. I’d try to cross the paddock with a barrow full of horseshit, and they’d all jog over and— What’s so bleeding funny?”
Brayden had his head bowed, hand over his face, but his shoulders were quivering and Wil was sure he’d just heard a very distinct snort.
“No, no, it’s not…” Brayden was shaking his head and too obviously holding back real laughter. He slid his glance up with a sideways grin. “It’s only… well, you do realize that all of those things—it means they like you.”
Wil wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Brayden actually smile before. It was somewhat transforming—opened him up, lit his whole face and made his eyes spark warm and easy. Wil caught himself wondering how he’d ever believed this man had meant to harm him. Even the weapons strung about him looked completely incongruous to that smile. He shrugged it away, dismayed by the sharp discomfort. If he kept thinking like that, he’d never see the bullet coming.
“That’s what Ramsford and Mistress Sunny said,” he muttered awkwardly. “And it’s all well and good, but I don’t like horse breath down my neck all the time, and they’re… well, they’re very tall and you have to sit rather high off the ground, and I’ve never actually saddled one, just curried and bridled them, and I don’t know—”
“I’ll show you everything you need to know,” Brayden cut in.
“And they’ll want all the apples.”
Still grinning, Brayden rolled his eyes, dipped a little half-bow in acquiescence. “If I must, I shall protect your apples with my life,” he said, affably resigned. “Fine. I won’t argue about all of your… stuff, if you won’t argue about the horses.”
He said it like he wasn’t getting exactly what he wanted anyway. Still, Brayden had been right. Wil was still horribly sore and carrying his heavy pack on a cross-country trip would likely sap him for at least the first few days. And this way, he wouldn’t have to fear that the pack would just disappear, or ‘accidentally’ get kicked over a cliff or something. It’s what he’d’ve done, after all.
“Fine,” Wil agreed with a sigh. “But if it does one of those things where it rears up on its hind legs and throws me off it, that’s it, and I get to shoot it. If I live.” He tried a sour grimace, but only ended up with an annoyed twitch. “Now, where am I supposed to get a change of clothes?” He held up the bandaged hand. “And if I don’t get this disgusting thing off soon, I’m going to steal one of your five-hundred extra shirts and shred it for new bandages.”
Brayden snorted. Likely because he didn’t think Wil was serious. Ha.
***
They were both kitted and ready by the time Kenton came back, Wil’s pack stuffed with what he’d arrived with, plus clothes; Mistress Afton had been even more generous than he’d thought. Brayden had shoved in soap and some of the food-tins and dried fruits from his own pack—“In case we get separated,” Brayden had said; Wil decided he couldn’t decide if that thought made him hopeful or apprehensive. A bedroll made up of three of the blankets from the cupboard in the bathroom behind Locke’s office was strapped to the bottom of Wil’s pack. Wil had been working himself up to a healthy snit that Brayden and Locke had had indoor plumbing all this time, and there he’d been with his bucket, but Brayden had distracted him with the discovery of two pairs of clean wool stockings, stuffing them into Wil’s pack and saying Locke would have approved.
Brayden did end up changing the bandage for Wil, saying he doubted Mistress Slade had forgotten, but that she was just likely very busy, as he went about nicking more provisions from Locke’s cupboard. He’d had a bit of a happy seizure when he found the stash of medical supplies, and spent a few minutes shoving some things he said they might need into his pack before he sat himself in Locke’s chair to rewrap the hand. Wil was sort of wincing preemptively before he realized Brayden’s touch was surprisingly deft and gentle; he only hissed once when Brayden had to spread the first two fingers to get the linen between them. They looked… really bad. Fat as sausages and mottled a disgusting black-blue-green. Even the ones that weren’t broken made him curl his lip, and the way the wrist was swollen made it look misshapen and crooked. Well, he supposed he had at least some idea now what his face must look like.
They were both sort of pacing about impatiently, trying not to accidentally knock into each other, Wil trying not to look in the cell, when Kenton finally got back.
“What’s happened to this one?” he asked immediately, staring into the cell with a dubious frown. He turned to Brayden, twitched a short nod over to Wil. “Y
e didn’t let that one at him, did you?”
And Wil had had just about enough—that one. Honestly. “My name’s Wil.” He’d rather barked it, and he hadn’t really meant to, but… well, Kenton had been treating him like he was some kind of mangy mutt, and it was grating on him. Wil shot a quick glance to Brayden, looking for reaction, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw against it.
But Brayden merely tipped him a little nod; Wil wasn’t sure, but he thought he even caught the faint tic of a smile.
He was absurdly encouraged. He looked straight at Kenton. “I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that was not the least apologetic, “but you keep talking over me like I can’t understand what you’re saying, and it…” He shrugged, floundered a little. “Well, it’s rude.”
There. No kicked puppy and no vicious cur—he’d chosen something in the middle, and now he intended to stick with it. Unless it didn’t work, and then all bets were off and Brayden could take his supercilious advice and shove it.
Kenton turned those intense blue eyes on him, really looked at him for probably the first time since Wil had run headlong into the man’s chest on his way out the door. He gave a slight nod, said, “All right, Wil—what happened to him?”
Wil blinked. Damn. It appeared the consequence to demanding to be addressed like an actual person was that you were then expected to provide half of an actual conversation.
“We don’t know what happened to him,” Brayden put in, apparently perfectly comfortable this time with lying through his teeth. “I was attempting to question him when he threw some kind of fit, and…” He shrugged. “Well, you can see. Mistress Slade was supposed to come by anyway, so you may want to have her give him a look, and Brother Millard when he’s through. He’s going to have to be fed and watered at least, eventually. It’s all in the report I’ve left for you. You can ink yourself a copy, if you like—sorry, I didn’t have time to do it—but the men from Putnam are going to need the original with my signature. I’ve left all of my reports, plus a letter addressed to my superior, Chief Jagger, detailing my plans and the reasons for them.” He stuck out his hand. “I thank you, Sheriff Kenton, for all of your assistance.”
Wil wondered if Kenton’s head was spinning with all the information like his was.
But Kenton merely took up Brayden’s offered hand with obvious reluctance. “And you really mean to head to Ríocht?”
“I’m afraid our options are limited,” Brayden returned. He let go of Kenton’s hand, shrugged into his pack and shouldered the rifle, slung the crossbow across his back. “You’ve seen what these men can do.”
“I have, but… Well, you know my objections.” Kenton shook his head, turned his scarred face toward Wil. “The Mother’s blessings upon your path,” he said—pointedly to both of them. “You’ll surely need it.”
He saw them politely to the ruined doors. Wil shot one more look over his shoulder at the man slumped on the cot in the cell, staring vacantly at the wall. He spared a tiny shudder then, with one last curl of his lip, let Brayden push him out the door.
Despite the fact that he was actually walking willingly to the livery with the intention of riding a horse, and despite what waited at the end of this journey, Wil couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so glad to cross a threshold.
Chapter Seven
Lesson One was simple: Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to remove a personal possession from Wil. It was Dallin’s fault, really. He’d handled it badly, bungled a sincere attempt to help into what could easily have been—and very definitely was—interpreted as an attempt to bully and demean. A man who owned so little would of course defend what was his with rabid insistence, and Dallin should have thought of that before he’d opened his mouth. If nothing else, the truncated row over the boots should have clued him in. Nevertheless, when Locke had snorted over the pack that first night when she’d searched it, told Dallin he ought to have a look, he’d had no idea—and when he’d actually seen the… possessions inside it, he’d… well, he’d boggled.
Even now, it was hard for him to believe Wil had survived all this time carrying that sort of… all right, he might as well think it if he couldn’t actually say it—that sort of rubbish. Dallin wasn’t even sure he could survive with those kinds of ‘provisions,’ and to think Wil had been doing it for years… truly—it boggled the mind. He was caught between a sad sort of horror and profound respect.
Wil was a vicious little shit who never bloody quit, and that pack was proof all by itself. And the way he held onto it, defended it, defended himself for demanding to keep it—it only drove Dallin’s respect up a couple of notches. Before he’d seen the proof of how much the meager possessions meant to Wil, Dallin might have acquiesced then made sure the thing got lost somewhere along the way, or even ‘accidentally’ kicked it off a cliff or something; now, he thought he’d likely defend it as intensely as Wil would, if it came to it.
The content itself was interesting, and worthy of thought and study. The bits of tin, a little bit of non-lethal self-defense for someone who probably needed to practice it daily, nestled right next to leaves selected and stored because they were ‘pretty’. If there was a starker contrast to lay bare what a man lived as opposed to what a man was, Dallin didn’t know of it. He’d guessed it fairly quickly and early on, but those two items put it in plain terms in a tangible way: this was a man who took hold of every bit of life that passed within his desperate grasp, and if you left him to it, you’d likely get a timid smile and a polite nod of the head before he harmlessly skirted about you and scuttled off; but if you fucked with him, he’d tear your throat out for it.
He’d shown no remorse or discomfort at having turned a man’s head into porridge, but Dallin believed him when he’d said he would have prevented Lind. He’d nearly wept relieved tears when Dallin had told him they would stop at Garson’s for lunch so he could see Miri, that she was fine, no attacks out this way. Yet Dallin knew Wil had used those scraps of tin before, could easily see the metal wound about those long fingers, curled into a tight fist. There was a line somewhere, between using brutality to survive, and just brutality, and Wil walked it according to his own moral compass—stepped back and forth across that line easily and without so much as blinking.
Dallin shook his head, leaned back against the paddock fence.
Lesson Two, he thought, as he watched Miri straighten Wil’s collar and lay a light kiss to his cheek, you get more flies with honey than a threatening look and a stern command. In truth, this last visit to the inn had been twofold, but Dallin didn’t see any reason to fill Wil in on his ulterior motive. Let him think Dallin was doing something nice for him. Wil didn’t need to know that Dallin hadn’t been talking to Tom about the care of horses when he’d dallied at the little stable after they’d arrived, and he didn’t need to know that he’d been planting the story of their supposed destination and pumping the ostler for information on what had gone on at the inn over the last two days. Dallin had known of course that nothing had gone on, save for better than usual business last night and plenty of talk about the doings in town this morning—he’d had it from Rayburn before they’d even left the village-proper—but hearing it from Tom and seeing it for himself was still a relief.
It had been frustrating, this morning, not having the power to be two places at once. The two lads he’d spoken with back at the Office had been unable to say exactly what the Brethren’s numbers were—‘a score’ could have been just as much an exaggeration as an underestimate—and Dallin didn’t like to think there were still some of them skulking about. Everyone in the entire village was now alert to strangers, and he didn’t think they’d dare another attack, but he also didn’t think they’d give up.
And he’d very much like to know how those men this morning had known to find them in Dudley, and more specifically, in the Sheriff’s Office itself. He was sure there were only six of them at the inn the other night, none of them had escaped, and the men from this morning ha
dn’t been following Wil’s trail from Putnam. Dallin would have had to be blind as well as brainless to have missed that trail. So, how had they known to head to Dudley from wherever they’d been before, and how had they known to center their attack on the jail?
His mind had raced all through the hearty lunch Garson himself had served them, but no promising theory presented itself. For the moment, it was going to have to remain a mystery. Dallin hated mysteries.
Between Wil’s tale yesterday, the shaman this morning and the little performance in the cell, Dallin had no idea what to think anymore. In his experience, real magic was a rare occurrence and he was a rational man whose job it was to find rational explanations. None of that mattered now. It made no difference whatsoever to this circumstance what Dallin believed, because the men he was dealing with believed all of it—enough to kill and die for it. If he kept trying to think about this reasonably, he was going to remain on the defensive, relegated to reacting; no one ever won anything playing perpetual defense.
“The quick-mud of reason,” he snorted to himself, then let a heavy sigh wind from his chest as he spotted Tom leading the horses out to the yard. He straightened from his slouch against the fence, whistled a bit to get Wil’s attention, then nodded at the horses when Wil flicked a look over his shoulder. He was standing on the back porch with Miri—right beneath the new charms engraved on the lintel, Dallin was pleased to note—carrying on a conversation on which Dallin was dying to eavesdrop, but it couldn’t be anything terribly informative, so he didn’t. Honey, he told himself, and waited patiently.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 28
