The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Wil shook his head, set his mouth in a stubborn line. “Everyone in Dudley will tell them that. You’re the one who keeps saying time is short, and if we’re really going to Putnam, this is a waste of time.”

  Throwing himself on the ground, kicking and cursing, Dallin reflected, would likely not achieve the results he wanted here. Neither would shooting Wil.

  Dallin growled under his breath, dismounted slowly, and just as slowly, led his horse off the road and into the trees. He tossed her lead over the first low branch he came to. Leaned himself against a nice, thick pine. Waited.

  It only took a moment. Wil stared at him with a quirk of eyebrows, shoved at his horse, who had her nose buried in the nape of his neck, nuzzling, then stalked across the road, dragging the roan behind him.

  Dallin only watched him come, trying very hard to suppress the smirk that was twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t yank so hard,” he chastised mildly. “You’ll hurt her, and she’d likely follow you off a cliff anyway.”

  It was actually true of both horses—Dallin had never seen horses act so much like adoring puppies as these two did with Wil. And Wil gave no indication of anything but constant annoyance with them. It went against every animal instinct Dallin had ever witnessed—well, except maybe cats, but cats were odd and temperamental and didn’t really count—made him shake his head and snort every time Wil shrugged away their slobbering affection.

  Wil tried to look like he was ignoring the advice, but Dallin noted an obvious slackening in the lead as Wil stomped the last few steps then stopped in front of Dallin, the mare halting obediently behind him and picking up right where she’d left off with the nuzzling. Wil shrugged at her absently, peered down at Dallin with a scowl that was somewhere between suspicious and perplexed.

  Dallin decided to head him off before he got started: “We’re not going to Ríocht. I didn’t lie to you.”

  Wil’s mouth opened then closed again. He slumped down. “I didn’t think—”

  “Yes, you did. You thought I’d told you we were going to Putnam to shut you up and get you to come along quietly.”

  “The thought of going back to Putnam doesn’t exactly inspire coming along quietly,” Wil muttered to the ground.

  Dallin puffed a small snort. “Likely not. But getting you to go to Ríocht would have been a lot harder, and don’t think I don’t know it. And don’t think I’m unaware that you trust me about as far as you can throw me.”

  Wil flipped an unconscious glance over the length of Dallin, caught his gaze and flushed.

  “It’s all right,” Dallin told him. “I’d worry more about you if you did trust me. But I’ve not lied to you, and I’ve told you at least as much of the truth as you’ve told me.”

  There. Let him chew on that one for a while.

  He did. He stared down at his boots with a grimace that wanted to be outraged, but couldn’t seem to find the rationalization.

  “Now, I need you to think about this,” Dallin went on. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  That made Wil look up with a puzzled frown.

  Dallin opened a hand, palm-up. “You can withhold your trust in disclosing things you find painful or personal. You can withhold your trust in what I am and what you think I should be. But you need to trust me when it comes to strategy and tactics, because I promise you: I do know what I’m doing.”

  He had Wil’s full attention now, even if that attention was cautious and skeptical. “I never said you didn’t know—”

  “You might as well have done,” Dallin cut in. “But I’ve trained probably at least half of those who will be coming from Putnam. I know what the procedures are, and the first thing they’ll do is send at least two men after us to either try and talk me out of what I wrote in that letter, or arrest me for absconding with a prisoner and deserting.” Depending on the men, Dalin reflected, it was more likely to be the former. He’d been with the Constabulary for quite a while, and couldn’t imagine the thought of him turning traitor would sit easy with most of them. But facts were facts, and the letter he’d left was consummate to a confession. “It’s quite possible,” he went on, mouth twisting, “that by this time tomorrow or the next day, I’ll be branded an enemy spy and they’ll be hunting me even more avidly than you.”

  A confused scowl twisted Wil’s face, like he was angry and couldn’t figure out why. “But why would you—?”

  “Because it’s what I think is right, at the moment, and until I have all the pieces to this puzzle, I have to play it close. Do you know that Chief Jagger and I are the only two who know who you are and that I was sent to retrieve you for the Guild?” He shrugged a little, waved his hand when Wil snapped a wary glance at him. “I was told in no uncertain terms that no one else was to know.”

  “That…” Wil frowned, eyed Dallin steadily. “That doesn’t sound like the best idea in the world.”

  “I’m not so sure now that it was,” Dallin agreed, “but as far as any one of those men coming from Putnam knows, you’re a fugitive, a suspect in a grisly murder. And after they read my letter, they’re going to have no choice but to think I’m aiding and abetting you, or disbelieve both their superior and what’s written in black and white in my own hand. If they catch up to us, they’ll arrest us both, and I’ll have no control over what happens from there.”

  It seemed like Wil had stopped breathing. “And they’d—?”

  “Yeah, they would,” Dallin told him. “All of this…” He waved his hand about. “…it isn’t just because I don’t like the idea of handing you over to Siofra, but because I’m hoping that this bit of misdirection will mislead not only those from Putnam, but any of the Brethren who I’ve no doubt will try and follow, as well. We travel north—on the road, in plain sight—and we stop at the first inn we come to, make ourselves seen, then we head back on the road north and disappear at the first opportunity. We’ll turn west for a while, likely double back once or twice, and then angle south before we head east. That’s the plan, and it’s our best chance of getting back intact. Now—will you please get back on your horse?”

  Lesson Three, Dallin reflected as he watched Wil scowl, slump then remount reluctantly, was going to come in awfully handy on this trip.

  ***

  They came upon the inn, as Dallin had hoped, just before the kitchen closed, so they were able to manage a hot supper of ham and boiled potatoes, along with stale black bread and something they said was split-pea soup but looked and smelled more like congealed pond scum. Dallin pushed his aside with a dubious pinch of his lips, but Wil slurped up all of his, sopped up the leavings with the bread, and then asked Dallin for his portion. The man could definitely eat, and apparently wasn’t picky. Anyway, he could certainly use any little bit of bulk he could get. Dallin slid the bowl over without expression or comment.

  The inn was bigger than Garson’s but not as busy. Shabbier and without even the barest hint of hominess. Not surprising. It was set on the road between New Bridgeford and Penley, more frequently traveled, so the patronage was transient; not a majority of locals, like the more secluded Garson’s. There were at least two-dozen customers in the common room when they arrived. Dallin made sure he and Wil sat in the middle of the room, made his voice louder than usual, and when anyone glanced their way, he met their eyes and made sure they got a good look.

  No coffee here, either. In fact, by the way the innkeep had looked at him when he’d asked, Dallin was beginning to wonder if it was just a figment of his imagination. How could an inn that, if it wasn’t precisely in civilization, was at least on the road to it, not have coffee? Honestly.

  Despite the inn’s faults, it did boast indoor plumbing, and for an extra two gilders, they’d fill a small tub with hot water in your room. Dallin noted the spark of interest in Wil’s eye with that information, decided he could use a warm wash himself, and so handed over four gilders and ordered two beers while they waited for their room to be prepared and the tubs filled. The inn
keep eyed them speculatively, and with a knowing little smirk; Dallin merely rolled his eyes a little and took the beers back to the table. If he only knew. Dallin could just imagine the skewed tale the innkeep was going to tell the men who came asking after them.

  It took him ‘til halfway through his beer to notice how quiet Wil had gone. Silence in Wil wasn’t exactly remarkable, but he’d at least been somewhat amiable all afternoon, and downright contented through supper. Dallin was in the process of toying with making the guideline—If you want a pleasant Wil, keep his stomach full—an actual Lesson, when Lesson Four just about dropped on his head: Think about how what you’re saying might sound to a man who takes almost every word literally, and never—ever—assume you’ve not said anything that could have been taken very, very wrong.

  They’d been shown to their room, their packs already brought up and lain on the bed, two tubs—larger than Dallin had assumed—steaming away in front of the fire, taking up almost every bit of space in the room not occupied by the bed and rickety little cupboard, when the Lesson started to tap lightly at Dallin’s consciousness, but in small ways that he only saw in hindsight. He had to actually push Wil, who stood stiff and pinch-lipped on the threshold, through the door. Dallin tried not to be obvious about locking it and pocketing the key, but there was only so much activity in the room, and none of it coming from Wil. Considering the way Wil had been living, Dallin couldn’t imagine he was put out with the shabbiness of the place. Maybe he was one of those who disliked baths, but Dallin didn’t think so. He’d been tidy and kept the first time Dallin had seen him back in Putnam, and when he’d caught up to him in Dudley, Wil had been scrubbed beneath the blood and bruises, and that was after a hard journey.

  Perhaps he was worried that Dallin was going to hammer him with questions about Old Bridge, as he’d implied. Perhaps Dallin had said something thoughtless. Perhaps he was just tired. Perhaps the saddle-soreness Dallin had deliberately not mentioned was kicking in before morning, as Dallin anticipated.

  Perhaps he was just a moody little pain in the arse.

  It could have been any one of those things, or something else entirely, who could tell? Dallin decided he didn’t care. He was tired, he was sore, and he wanted his bath, and he couldn’t climb into his and leave Wil wandering about the room with Dallin’s weapons lying about. He’d checked the crossbow with the innkeep—it was rather awkward to tote about indoors—but that still left the handguns, the rifle, the sword, and the knife, none of which Dallin could exactly take into the tub with him. So, he tried to chivvy Wil into his first. Which was right about when Lesson Four dropped on his head like a load of bricks.

  He piled his weapons beside the tub nearest the door, turned to Wil—innocently enough, Dallin was convinced, even in retrospect—told him, “All right, why don’t you get undressed and hop in that one, while I dig out some clean clothes?” And then he stepped around the tub, intending to make a path for Wil between the tub and the foot of the bed.

  Except Wil didn’t move. He looked from the bed, to the tub, back to the bed again, then slid a slow, narrow glare up to Dallin. And still didn’t move.

  “Is this part of the ‘plan,’ too?” he wanted to know, voice quiet but with a dangerous edge beneath it. His whole body was rigid: shoulders thrown back, chin set, and jaw clamped tight. Challenging. Tensed for battle.

  Except Dallin had no idea where the battle-line was. “Um…” he said slowly, eyebrows beetling in wary confusion. “Sorry?”

  Wil’s lip twitched. Dallin didn’t know why, even when he thought about it later, but that little tic nudged the tumble—right down a slippery slope and into a canyon.

  I do not sleep with men for

  money!

  I am no doxy.

  …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.

  Dallin, once again, for probably the fiftieth time that day, boggled.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Now he looked from the bed, to the tub, back to the bed… the one bed, behind a locked door, in a room with a six-inch slit for a window, with two steaming tubs. “Well, shit.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, couldn’t help the growl. “You think I’d—? Of all the—” He was caught between absurd embarrassment, sincere contrition, and profound, indignant outrage. What sort of person did that kind of thing, and what had Dallin ever done to make Wil think he was one of them? And what sorts of people had Wil been exposed to that the idea had come so easily, and with no apparent surprise? “I cannot believe that you would think—” He couldn’t seem to finish a sentence. The offence was so acute it was blocking the path from his brain to his mouth.

  Wil seemed to twig to his mistake with a bit of a jerk and a whole lot of blinking. He deflated, expression going all at once apologetic, posture once again curling in on itself. Dallin didn’t know if he was more angry about the insulting assumptions, or to see that timidity leach back into Wil’s stance.

  “I’m sorry,” Wil offered, eyes wide and voice just a touch uneven. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, yes you did,” Dallin growled. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to pretend this never happened.”

  Wil’s mouth flapped for a moment—he really did look sorry, Dallin had to give him that, but sorry wasn’t the point. The point was… The point was…

  Well, if he knew what the point was, perhaps he wouldn’t be so damned angry, but he thought perhaps it was either the experience that must have been behind the implied accusation, or the ensuing cringing when it proved unjust.

  “Look.” Wil held his hands up, placating. “I really am sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

  “Did you not understand the part where we pretend it never happened?” Dallin wanted to know.

  “Yes, but…” Wil huffed, waved his hand toward the bed.

  Dallin’s mouth set in a grim line. “I intended to bed down on the floor in front of the door—to keep others out and you in.”

  “So, I am a prisoner.”

  Something inside Dallin’s brain… popped. He actually heard it. He took a step toward Wil, made himself stop then just stood there, hands clenched into fists so tight his palms were tingling. “You are un-bloody-believable.” Livid—shoved out from between clenched teeth. “I have a pretty nice life, y’know. I’ve got a brilliant house that I love, with a nice, comfortable chair by the fire I like to sit in and read at night, a job I’m damned good at, friends that think I’m a fairly good person and who like my company—have I got any of that here? No! Instead I’ve got the images of burnt-up little children behind my eyelids every time I close my eyes, bullets flying at my head from every point of the bloody compass, and a traveling companion who spends his time whinging and griping, when he’s not busy dreaming up all the ways I might kill him.

  “And now, after I’ve just spent the last two weeks of my life tracking you down then risking it trying to save yours, risking my job, the regard of my men, my friends, my country, everything about my life I love—yes, we monsters are capable of love—after all that, you just assume—” He couldn’t even say it. He sputtered. “Did you think I did all that to impress you? Did you think that when you didn’t throw yourself at me, I just decided to make you? Believe me—you’re not that bloody special! And, and, and… you know, you know—” His finger was pointing at the ceiling, like some indignant old woman. “In case you’d forgotten, you’ve made several rather crude offers, so now’s a hell of a time to come over all frightened rabbit and prudish!”

  He shouldn’t have said that last, but he was angry—really bloody angry—and anyway, Wil didn’t seem ready to go to pieces because of it; he only dropped his gaze to the floor, sucked in a long, shaky breath.

  “Yes,” he said softly, disconcerted. “I did think… you’re right, I’m sorry.” He lifted his eyes—no anger, no defeat, just a steady contrition, unfeigned. “I think…” An uneasy huff of br
eath. “I think perhaps you’re a good man—a truly good man—and… well, I don’t…” He frowned, dipped an awkward shrug. “I know what to do with monsters. This is new.”

  That… Dallin blinked. That had rather taken the wind out of his sails. The heat and rage from two seconds ago left him in one long, confused rush. And then he didn’t know what to do with himself. He just shook his head, ran a hand through his hair then waved it toward the tubs. He thought he muttered, “Bath,” and he must’ve done, because Wil sidled slowly past him and over to the tub. Dallin made it a point to keep his eyes on the floor, on his own buttons, on his feet, on the bottom of the tub, on the soap—anywhere but Wil. Wil probably needed help, what with his bandaged hand and all, but there didn’t seem to be any helpless splashing coming from the other tub, so Dallin didn’t offer. The bathing was carried out in tense silence and as quickly as possible. They were both dressed in clean shirts and linens, Wil settled stiffly on the bed—alone—less than thirty minutes later, waiting, in complete and utter silence, for someone to come and get the tubs.