“I see a killer trying to disguise itself as a calm river. I know better, though. That water is on a journey, and it will stop for no one.”
Sorin smiled and nodded. “The power of purpose. Only a fool tries to stop a river, and only a fool underestimates one.”
“I thought I had seen a river,” Krea said as they approached a small dock guarded by a bent and wrinkled old man. “I thought that’s what I bathed in. A river.”
“Well, now you know what a proper river looks like. Here is our ferryman.”
Krea regarded the gray-haired man with a critical eye and then glanced over to Sorin. “And what does this ferryman do?” She was afraid she wouldn’t like the answer.
“He provides us with a way across the river.”
She was right.
“Good day, kind sir,” said Sorin, once they were up on the dock. “May we gain passage?”
The old man grinned up with only one tooth showing, and squinted at the sun. “Ah, milord! ’Tis a good day for it. My son is yon with a empty plank. Does ya want the both of you to go?”
“I do.”
“That’ll be a even shol for you and the horses,” the man said, hobbling up to accept the coin.
“An even shol?” Sorin said with a companionable smile. “That makes it hard to split the trip, doesn’t it? Is it not customary to pay half upon leaving and half upon arriving?”
The old man drew himself up as tall as years of pushing a river ferry would allow and shoved out his chin. “If that be yer concern, milord, I’ll ask ya to hold yer coin till ya be safe on yonder brim.”
Sorin dismounted and dug a shol and a dalman out of his money purse. “With a bond such as that, how can I not pay my debt?”
The man took the coin with grumbled instruction to wait and hobbled away to prepare for the approaching ferry, but Krea could see from the way he held himself that he wasn’t really angry. “Why did you go through all that when you were going to pay him the shol anyway?” Krea asked when the man was at the far end of the dock.
“To make him feel good.”
Krea looked back at the old man. He was working on a docking rope that had probably been loose for ages, but suddenly required his immediate expert attention. Krea smiled.
The ferry turned out to be a large, square piece of wood that floated. Nothing more. Just that. A tall pole rose from its center, but was bare of a sail in the calm afternoon air. The only semblance of sides that it offered was a small railing that hit Krea about chest high and would be of little use should things go wrong.
“Is this one of your jokes?” Krea asked as she watched the river push and shove at the tethered pad.
Sorin frowned and shook his head. ‘It’s a good, solid ferry,” he whispered, leading his horse past her. “Don’t disrespect our ride. The next crossing isn’t for another two hours.”
“Oh goddess, I may be soon to die,” Krea began as she took her horse’s reins and started after Sorin, but not before scratching the triple spiral in the air.
“Not that again.” Sorin turned to her. “You know, you should try doing that some time when you’re not in trouble.”
Krea sent him a scathing glare, but received only a dismissive wave for her trouble.
To her utter shock, both horses agreed to get on the ferry. Why, Krea couldn’t imagine. Had she been big enough to have a say in the matter, she was quite sure she would have never boarded. But faced with the shame of balking when the mighty horses agreed to brave the floating barge of death, Krea reluctantly joined Caldir. She did refuse to open her eyes, though, until the ferryman’s stout son had them well onto the river.
The ride was oddly fluid and much faster than she had anticipated. Three strong men worked the ferry, but other than dipping an ore or stick to keep the platform straight and moving forward, they mostly just chatted quietly with Sorin while Krea clung for her life to the center mast. By the time she was willing to loosen her grip, the men were using their poles to maneuver the ferry toward the Ryth side dock.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Krea said, still not brave enough to peer over the railing.
The ferryman’s son held out his hand to help her off. “That was since it were the downstream trip, sweet lady. Ya coulda let go the mast.”
Krea blushed so hot she was sure her skin would melt. She had never been helped anywhere before, and she had certainly never been called anything so nice. The only response she could manage was a mumbled thank you before she grabbed Caldir’s reins and trotted him off the dock.
Ryth was at least twice as large as Trasdaak. Carts creaked up and down the central road as they entered the village proper, and peasants and merchants alike dodged in and out of the paths of the burdened beasts pulling them. The lingering aroma of roasting meats and baked bread still drifted through the air, giving way to the biting musk of the animals laboring under their loads.
Sorin headed down the main road, paused, started again and then stopped. After glancing around, he frowned and turned Drindoc down a side road mumbling something about the goddess’s wicked sense of humor.
Krea’s sharp eye surveyed the villagers, marking each one’s station as she went. A young nobleman crossed the road in front of them with a woman on his arm, both assuming an air of importance that their rank did not give them.
Another woman crossed the road farther ahead, and unlike her younger noble counterparts, she attempted to play down her station, a rank neither of the earlier nobles would ever reach. Krea watched the woman’s purposeful, confident stride and noted her guard, trailing as far behind as his will would permit, but no doubt much closer than his lady preferred.
Two merchants held to the shadows of a miller’s cottage, negotiating the details of a contract that would never be put to parchment. Farther ahead, a young boy ducked behind a cart that lumbered toward them. He never reappeared on the other side. Krea grinned. She knew his station well.
Sure enough, just before the cart rolled past them, the boy dropped off the back, nearly finding himself under Drindoc’s angry hooves. Why Sorin was there in the first place, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t been there a second ago.
The boy tried to run backward, but only managed to slip on the loose gravel. He threw his hands up to protect his head as Drindoc reared again, and barely rolled clear of the horse before hooves rained down on him. When he finally got his feet under him, the young thief tried to run, but Sorin had Drindoc under control, and in one quick movement, he hoisted the child up onto the front of his saddle. In his shock, the boy dropped the small bag he had been clutching.
“Sir,” Sorin called to the farmer who had only just managed to bring his mules back under control. The woman beside him turned to answer the address. “I believe some of your supplies have shaken loose.”
Sorin no sooner had the words out of his mouth before the farmer was on the ground checking his ropes. His eyes fell on the dark green cloth, traveled up Drindoc’s leg, and finally fell on the wide-eyed boy who had finally stopped squirming, more from lack of air than good thinking. The man’s face turned to stone and Krea was actually afraid for the child, but a soft voice stalled any action the man may have taken.
“My thanks, milord, for stopping us,” said the woman in the cart, gracing Sorin with a kind yet weathered smile. “Thal, I’m sure the ropes will hold now. Please, let’s go, or we won't see home before the night falls.”
Thal watched the boy for another second, looked over at Krea, marked her bare feet, and then finally turned to Sorin. “Aye,” he said, sucking in another slow breath. “My thanks to you.”
Sorin simply nodded, waited for the cart to start on its path again, and then turned his attention to the boy half lying, half hanging from his saddle.
The child couldn’t have had more than seven years, but from the look of him, all seven had been spent on the street. Blond hair kept short by cutting out the mats with a knife fell in haphazard chunks against a dirt-smudged face. One of his eyes shone as blue a
s a jay and the other was the same deep brown of well-tanned hide, but they were both ringed with dark, black circles that spoke of little sleep and a poor diet.
“You would do well to stop calling attention to yourself, pelt,” Krea hissed.
He snapped his head around and stared at Krea. “Pelt! How do you…,” he stammered, but Krea cut him off with a flip of her hand.
“Because I do,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “Now stop thrashing about like a stuck pig.”
As she had hoped it would, her comment stopped his struggle. He watched her for another moment and then suffered himself to be pulled upright onto Sorin’s horse. “I ain’t no pelt,” he muttered as Sorin reined Drindoc off of the main road.
“You’re sitting on a noble’s horse, and your shill is rolling away with your mark.” Krea graced the boy with the most contemptuous look she could muster. It was hard to look stern where the child was concerned, because he was so unbelievably pathetic, but she knew bright and well that pathetic would only work for another year, maybe two. He was going to have to get better at being a thief, or he was going to get killed. “That makes you a pelt.”
“Hush, both of you,” Sorin said once they found a place to stop in the shadows of a small tavern. “Boy, what is your name?”
“It ain’t pelt,” he said, and then made an impressive attempt at flying. Sorin was way ahead of him, though, and before the child’s feet could figure out where they needed to be, his arm was twisted behind his back. In less than a second, the thief was once again sitting quietly across the caller’s saddle.
“Your name?” Sorin asked again.
“Hawk,” he said with a thrust of his chin.
Krea just rolled her eyes.
“Your other name,” the caller prompted, giving his arm a tiny nudge.
“Dane,” the boy squeaked. “It’s Dane.”
“Dane.” Sorin glanced over at Krea and she nodded. As best she could tell, the boy was telling the truth this time. Goddess help him. He was such a pelt. “Okay, Dane, how well do you know this village?”
Dane started to answer, but just then a man appeared at the edge of the tavern wall. “This lad be giving ya trouble, milord?” drawled the man who was as wide as he was tall. “Trouble, ’tis what that one be. Give him over, and I’ll see to it ’e won’t be no more bother to ya.”
The man wiped at his scruffy beard with the back of his hand, but Krea caught the murderous glance he gave the boy before settling his amiable gaze back on Sorin. She also heard Dane suck in his breath. So the man was a runner. She had always managed to stay clear of men like him, but then she had been fortunate. Dane wasn’t so lucky. Once a thief was being used by a runner, there was no getting away from him.
“My thanks, tavern keeper, but I’ll take care of this myself.”
“Awww! Ya don't want to trouble yerself with vermin like ’im,” the tavern keeper said, waving his hand at the boy as if he were shooing away flies. “I’m sure ya got business to tend to. I’ll take care o’ that one.”
“We’re fine,” Sorin said in a cool tone. “My thanks.”
“No problem, no problem,” the man hurried. “Can I ready a room for ya and yer…” He let the sentence hang, obviously looking for information, but Sorin was loath to give it.
“No, we have other arrangements,” Sorin said, still bracing the runner with an icy stare.
“Fair ’nough,” the keeper said as he turned to leave. “Yer welcome back, if ya be changin’ yer mind.”
The caller simply nodded. When the man was gone, Sorin gave Dane a gentle shake. “You can breathe now.”
The man was perceptive; she had to give him that much.
“Do you know this town?” Sorin asked.
Dane nodded. He wasn’t willing to speak, probably because the runner might be listening, and Krea couldn’t blame him. Runners were a nasty lot. The worst sorts of people. She would have been dead silent, too.
“Okay.” The caller lowered his voice to such a whisper that Krea barely heard him. “We need a stable, a clothier, and a cobbler. Can you show us where to go?”
Again, the boy nodded. Sorin had already released his arm, but Dane remained as still as stone.
“Good. Now climb over there behind Krea, and if you touch her money bag, she’ll break your fingers.”
Sorin nudged his horse over toward Caldir and waited, but the boy never moved. “I can’t ride no horse,” he protested, clinging to Sorin’s arm.
“What’s with you people?” Sorin demanded as he maneuvered the boy over to sit behind Krea. “Why don’t any of you know how to ride?”
“Well, horses aren’t the sorts of things a person usually steals,” Krea said, pushing Dane’s legs over. “They're hard to hide and the penalty is a little on the severe side.”
At that, Sorin laughed. “You have a point. Where do we go, Dane?”
“That way,” the boy said, indicating the direction with a nudge of his chin. He apparently wasn’t willing to let go of Krea in order to use his arms.
For all the world, Krea wished she knew how to make Caldir drop into a turn the way Drindoc had done the day she was clinging to Sorin for her life. It would have felt so good. As it was, she would probably end up on the ground right along with Dane if she tried it. Instead, she nudged him into a walk and fell in beside Sorin. “He’s not kidding about the money bag,” she whispered as they rode. “I will break your fingers if you even so much as bump it.”
“I know it,” Dane assured her. “Where is you going first?”
“The cobbler?” Krea asked Sorin, unsure of his intentions.
He nodded. “Aye. Then the stable.” He looked over at his newest charge. “A reputable stable. Don’t take us to a rat hole like that tavern just because you have connections.”
The boy shook his head emphatically. “I won’t. I know just the place. And there’s a inn what’s owned by the same lady right next door, ’cause I know you was lying to Bel…to the tavern keeper back there.”
“Sounds like it’ll work,” Sorin said without another backward glance.
They walked in silence. Krea wanted to ask the boy about the town and about his life here, but she knew that he wouldn’t tell her. If he did, only half of what he said would be believable. Instead, she kept every sense alert to her surroundings, especially to where Dane’s hands were, and continued to take stock in the bounty that Ryth held.
She also couldn’t help but wonder if she had been here. She didn’t remember any of it, but how could she have made it to Trasdaak without going through such a major thoroughfare? And if she did go through Ryth, why didn’t she stop here? It was a wonderful village, with far more merchant trade than Trasdaak. At the same time, she was glad that she hadn’t stayed. Staying out of the grip of a runner was nearly impossible if you were a child, and as fate would have it, the local runner in Trasdaak had been imprisoned only weeks after she got there. The guards picked off the four or five kids the woman was running for bait, and that left the town wide open for Krea to start her own business, so to speak. No other runners ever tried to move in.
“The cobbler’s there where that sign hangs down,” Dane said, breaking into her thoughts. “And the stable’s right up that hill. You’d have to fall on your head to miss it. The clothmaker’s up there, too. The good one. He got real nice stuff up there. You’ll like it.” With that, Dane started to push himself off the back of the still-moving horse.
“Where are you going?“ Krea asked, catching him by his tunic and pulling him back on.
The boy jerked free. “No way I can go up there. I done showed you where to go, now leave off.”
Before Krea could get a second hold on the boy, Sorin was beside her and Dane was once again dangling across his saddle. At least this time, he had the sense not to fight it.
“You’re staying with us, young man,” Sorin said. “At least until supper, maybe until tomorrow.”
The boy looked up at the caller, decided against it
, and then turned his plea onto Krea. “Tell him,” he said. “You caught me lifting them clothes, fair ’nough. And you didn’t give me over to Belt, so I brung you up here for nothing back, but I can’t take you no further. I ain’t allowed up there. Not for no reason. Explain it to him.”
“Territory?” Krea asked, not sure what was staying the boy’s chance to make some money.
“Not up there,” he assured her. “Ain’t no one working the hill streets. That’s the regent’s manor there on the very top, and the witch lives up there, too. You get caught on the hill, ain’t no finding even bones to prove you was living. Them hill guards got a magic eye, same way as he got a magic hand.”
Krea looked over at Sorin in shock. With his gloves on, his wood hand looked just like the other. How could the boy have known?
Sorin acted as if he had expected Dane's comment— as if it were as normal as noting the weather. His confusion was still over the boy's refusal to go with them up the hill. “I don't understand,“ he said, looking at Krea for his answers.
Krea nudged Caldir up and took first one, then the other, of the boy’s hands in hers. “You marked?” she asked, looking for the customary symbol that the courts left on an accused thief’s palm. The boy yanked his hands away, but not before she saw the scar where the mark had been.
“Leave off,” he demanded again, with a baleful glance up the road.
“They know him,” Krea explained to the caller. “If he goes up there, they’ll know him on sight. He already got his warning, so if he gets caught again, he’ll lose a hand. How did he know about your hand?”
The caller dismissed her question. He was quiet for a moment, looking from Dane's hands, now well hidden beneath his ragged tunic, to Krea, and then back to the boy.
“We can get along without a guide,” Krea said, unsure why Sorin hesitated.
“It’s not that.”
Suddenly Krea took another look at the child propped across the front of Sorin’s saddle. “Tell me he isn’t a…”
Sorin waved his hand, causing the boy to jerk back. “No. I just have a feeling, and my feelings aren’t often wrong.” The noble patted the boy on the shoulder. “Being a guide isn’t a crime, Dane. As long as you keep it to just being a guide, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re staying with us.”
Hand and Talon (World of Kyrni Book 1) Page 14
