“As much as you need.” He put his back against the sleigh and followed my gaze upward. “I’ll get the drawing when I go back to Constancy.”
I shook my head. “It’s just a picture. It’s not them, and they’re the ones I’m working for.”
“I’ll get the picture,” he repeated. He swung up into the sleigh and held out a hand to help me.
As he did, I heard one of the horses neigh. I turned in their direction, even though I couldn’t see them. “Could I . . . could I drive them tomorrow?”
“Do you know how to?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll show you how. Do you know how to ride?”
“No.”
“I’ll show you that too when we get some downtime.”
I accepted his hand and laughed for what felt like the first time in ages. “You really think we’ll have a lot of that?”
“For this, I’ll make it.”
CHAPTER 19
“LEAVE US BLOODY ALONE, JAGO! WE’RE DOING JUST FINE!”
“They’ll get away from you. The weight in a sleigh is distributed so that—”
“Hush!”
Seeing him reach for the reins, I elbowed him away and leaned forward. Dove and Pebble immediately responded with more speed, and I whooped with joy. We flew over the snow, the wind whipping loose pieces of my hair around as it rushed by. Eventually, satisfied I’d keep control, Jago settled back and stopped his insistence on caution. No obstacle stood in front of us, nothing to block our way. Just wide-open land, waiting and beckoning.
It wasn’t until Jago yelled that we were going the wrong way that I pulled back, gradually bringing the horses to a stop.
I returned the reins to him and said, “We should just keep going and going. Why all the hassle with everyone else? We can just fly to Denham in this.”
“Two problems.” He urged the horses into a turn, putting us back on course. “One: We won’t do much flying if we run into a blizzard. Two: Those red barns will never get emptied out if I take off in this.”
“And here I thought you were the fun one. Why did you paint them red anyway? One walk through that town should’ve made you reconsider.”
“I don’t know.” He crooked me a grin. “I guess just to see what would happen.”
It was the end of our third day of travel, and when we stopped for dinner, Jago told me we’d be reaching the Lorandian trading post, Lo Canne, soon. “Not sure if we’ll learn anything about the so-called Icori attack,” he said. “But I’m still banking on some of that stolen stuff working its way into trade circulation by now. If we’re lucky, we’ll see some.” He wrapped up our leftover bread and put it back in our bag of food. “And I forgot to mention this, but you’ve got to have a wardrobe change before we go.”
“You ‘forgot,’ huh?” I asked suspiciously. “What did you have in mind?”
After shuffling around in the wagon’s hold, he returned with a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots. I examined them, noting the green-and-black plaid.
“Icori clothes?”
“Yes, ma’am. It might be suspicious if I show up with a well-dressed, proper Osfridian lady. But Icori come through all the time. That, and if any of the men who robbed you are at the camp, they’re less likely to recognize you. People see what they’re expecting to see.”
That got through to me, and I changed while Jago discreetly packed up the back of the sleigh. When I finished, I wasn’t sure what to think. The ensemble consisted of a thigh-length plaid tunic worn over chestnut-colored leather pants. A matching fleece-lined jacket came down to my hip and was belted with a black sash. The heavy, sturdy boots were far more masculine than any I’d ever worn, but they were also more practical than my shoes in the snow. Jago crossed his arms and looked me over.
“What are you thinking, Tamsin? Because I can tell you’re thinking something. Is it the pants?”
I ran my hands along the sides of my legs, trying to formulate a diplomatic response. “This leather’s wonderfully soft. And warmer than a skirt. But . . . they show a lot.”
“They cover everything up,” he said, but he knew exactly what I meant. “Balanquan and Icori women wear them all the time.”
“That’s well and good for them, but I’ve worn skirts my whole life! I’m not used to strangers seeing the shape of my legs.”
“It’ll be dark there,” he said helpfully.
“It’s not dark now.”
“Yes, but I’m not a stranger. And I’m a gentleman. I’m not going to brazenly stare at your legs, even if those pants do make them look extremely . . .”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Jago?”
He cleared his throat and glanced away. “Fit.”
“Is that really what you were thinking?”
“It’s one of the things I was thinking.” He pulled a plain, dark-brown cloak from the hold and tossed it to me. “Wear this if it’ll make you feel better.”
I fastened it on, pleased with the way the cloak’s folds wrapped around me. “Do I look the part?”
“You do, especially if you braid your hair. We’ll pass you off as a fair Icori maiden from an isolated shrine by Kerniall. They don’t have much contact with outsiders, so no one will expect you to know Lorandian. Hopefully, someone’ll let something slip in front of you.”
“I hope I can catch enough. I’m not fluent.” I shook my hair forward and began to braid. “And what do I do if one of them tries to talk to me in Icori?”
“Not a problem. Because there’s, ah, something else I forgot to mention.”
I looked up. “Yes, Jago?”
He was trying to act chagrined, but the smile in his eyes betrayed him as usual. “You’re a fair Icori maiden from a holy shrine . . . who’s under a vow of silence.”
“Does that really happen?”
“Sure does. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s a great way to keep our cover. You think you can pull it off?”
I rolled my eyes and returned to my hair. “Six, Jago. Of course I can pull it off. I’m not you.”
We reached Lo Canne in early evening, though the dark clouds made it feel later. The Lorandian trading post was a motley collection of tents and shanties not far from a tiny tributary of the massive Heart’s Blood River. It had a thrown-together feel to it, despite being a few years old. I’d felt bright and alive after driving the sleigh, but now, as we walked into the home of Osfrid’s longtime rival and possibly the men who’d accosted me, my old wariness had returned.
A couple of men in leather and fur walked out to greet us, their faces hard and lined from so much outdoor living. They immediately started speaking Lorandian, and we quickly made it clear that we didn’t. Neither of them knew Osfridian, but after a few minutes, they found someone who did—and someone who knew Jago too.
“Jacob Robinson!”
“Hello, Marcel.” Jago shook hands with a short, barrel-chested man in a beaver fur cap. Messy black hair grazed his shoulders, and his accent sounded exactly like my old neighbor’s.
Marcel cast an eager look at the sleigh. “You’ve come just in time. Do you have any nails or bacon?”
“No, but I have twine and cornmeal.”
The Lorandian snorted. “How is that the same? Especially the twine?”
“I’m trying to offload them both, so you can buy them at a really low price now and then sell them later when someone shows up with nails and bacon.”
“Pfft. I’m not the usual fool you deal with, Robinson.” Marcel turned contemplative. “But show me that twine later.”
“Absolutely.” Jago rested a hand on my back to bring me forward. “Marcel, this is Breia Ipaeron. She’s one of the servers at the Well, under a vow of silence.”
Marcel bowed and rattled off a greeting in Icori. I smiled and responded with a nod. “We’re always happy to see our friends
from the Well,” Marcel said, though his demeanor shifted slightly. Jago had told me the Lorandians were extremely superstitious about the Well. “What brings you—”
Another Lorandian man sidled over, his heavy brow giving the impression he was squinting. He spoke to Marcel in rapid Lorandian, challenging my rusty skills. One word I did distinctly pick out was “Constancy,” though Jago could have spotted that one on his own. Marcel nodded when the man finished and turned back to us.
“You’re a long ways out, Robinson. Haven’t you been based farther east this winter? Constancy?”
“Yup, though I haven’t been there in a couple of weeks. Got my watchman keeping an eye on everything. I’m going south soon on the East Sister and have to sell off the surplus I don’t want to bring. Visited a couple of other towns and a Balanquan post, plus the Well—which is where I crossed paths with Breia.”
Marcel nodded along and smiled, then held up a hand for Jago to pause. Leaning over, Marcel said something to the other Lorandian. Most sounded like a direct translation of what Jago had said, though I also picked up a Lorandian expression that meant “no problem.”
When Marcel was ready, Jago continued: “The Icori need reed for one of the Well’s sanctuaries, so she wanted to see if you had any close by before trekking to the Balanquans.”
“Some, I think.” Marcel scratched at his chin as he pondered. “Philbert was west of the river and just got back. He’s got a lot of Balanquan goods—come see.”
We followed Marcel farther into the camp, receiving scrutiny from the various traders. I noted two women as we passed, one as weathered and roughly dressed as Marcel, and the other looking as though she might be a lady of questionable repute.
A few others knew Jago, and when word got around about how extensive a trader he was, business turned serious. Traders began displaying their wares, bartering with Jago in a mix of Osfridian, Lorandian, and gestures. He in turn brought out goods from the sleigh, and before long, I felt like I was back in the market district. The Lorandians smiled at me in passing but otherwise showed the same unease around me Marcel had.
Philbert, the man with Balanquan goods, showed off all sorts of curious treasures, and it drove me crazy not being able to ask about them. He had several pieces of reed, a silvery black rock, that Jago haggled for on my behalf. The Icori believed it was sacred and used it for divination by scattering pieces and interpreting where they landed. Once my alleged business was concluded, I mostly just stood and observed, trying to understand what I could in the scraps of Lorandian conversation around me.
One of the traders had a saw that Jago was keenly interested in, but he wouldn’t budge on the monetary cost. Jago thought it was too high but couldn’t interest the man in an exchange.
“What about this?” Jago held up a small blue glass bottle. “A Balanquan waking elixir. What do you usually drink in the morning? Coffee? Tea? Add a few drops of this into your cup, and wow. You’ll have a real eye opener there.”
“I know those,” the Lorandian said with a scowl. “They wake you up—day and night! I already have problems falling asleep.”
Jago brightened. “Why didn’t you say so?” He opened a crate and found a nearly identical blue bottle. “Balanquan sleeping elixir. One drop of this . . .”
“Your glove, danna. You ripped it.”
It took me a moment to realize the Icori title was being directed at me. I turned away from Jago’s pitch and found a very young Lorandian trader, certainly no older than me, standing nearby. Having my full attention now, he pointed at my hand.
“You ripped your glove.”
I nodded, having noticed it earlier. The only Icori ones Jago had were old and worn so thin that they’d torn after snagging on one of the rein buckles. It was a minor nuisance, and I couldn’t very well replace them with the pink mittens.
“She’s under a vow of silence, friend.” Jago, still holding a blue bottle, stepped away from his negotiations and moved to my side. He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes were watchful. “No need to worry, though. We’ll fix it up later. I’ve got needle and thread in my sleigh—extra, actually, if you need any.”
The boy shook his head emphatically. “No, no. Why bother fixing those? They’re falling apart everywhere. The danna should have something nice and new. Take a look at these.”
Bursting with excitement, he presented his prize for our examination: a pair of soft black mittens, edged with silver beads.
I didn’t have to fake a vow of silence just then, because the sight of those mittens rendered me speechless.
“Well, how about that,” said Jago, leaning closer. “They look just your size, Breia.”
“Feel them,” urged the boy, eager for a potential win. “Like silk.”
Jago picked one up. “Cashmere, I’d say. Are these Balanquan made?”
“Real Evarian import. You won’t find anything like these in Adoria outside of Cape Triumph.” The boy thrust a mitten toward me. “Beautiful mittens for a beautiful lady.”
“But this beautiful lady’s a humble servant of the Well,” said Jago. He made a great show of examining the mitten’s construction, turning it inside out, and finally handing it back. “Not much need for high Evarian fashion there—if these are even genuine. Come on, Breia. Let’s settle those elixirs and get some sleep.”
The boy cast me a nervous look but then steeled his courage to scurry along with us. “Wait! They’re genuine! Did you see the beads? You can have them for one gold.”
Jago eyed the mittens a few seconds, seemed to waver, and then shook his head. “Too much, and I’ve got to finish this deal. Now, you, sir—sorry I stepped away. Are you still interested in that elixir?”
He resumed his negotiations for the saw, and it looked as though the sleeping potion was almost enough to do it. Noticing me, the saw owner asked hesitantly, “She’s from the Well, right? Does she tell fortunes? Is that why she wanted the black stones?”
“She doesn’t talk,” Jago said brusquely. “But I see that the sides of your toolbox there are loose. You need to bind those up before it falls apart.”
The boy with the mittens shifted from foot to foot as Jago bartered. As soon as he finished the deal—getting the saw in exchange for the sleeping elixir and a spool of twine—the young trader was ready to try again.
“Fifteen silver,” he said. “That’s a steal.”
Jago knelt down to pack up one of his boxes. “I’m not parting with any coin.”
“Ten silver.”
“I mean it. I need to downsize. I’m only trading.”
“Look how much your lady friend loves these! She can’t stop looking at them.”
“Oh, that I can believe,” said Jago drily. Hoisting a bag over his shoulder, he rose. “How do you feel about cornmeal?”
“Cornmeal?”
“One bag for the mittens.”
The young trader’s brow furrowed. “Why would I want cornmeal for them?”
“Well, you’ve got to eat, don’t you? Cornmeal’s more valuable than flour out here. Doesn’t spoil as much, less messy . . . and you don’t need a bunch of extra ingredients to make something decent like you do with flour. I’ll have to give you my grandma’s corn bread recipe before I go. Easy to make, tastes like fine Evarian cuisine.”
I could tell the boy had never considered trading for cornmeal, but he was considering it now. Such was Jago’s magic.
“Okay then. I’ll give you the mittens for . . . five bags.”
“Five? Didn’t you just hear me say it’s worth more than flour? I’d give you five bags of that if I had it, maybe. But for this . . . I’ll do two bags, and that’s just because Breia wants those mittens so badly.” Jago set the bag down and added another on top of it.
Just as the young trader looked like he was about to crack, a sharp rebuke in Lorandian made him wince. The boy jumped, spinnin
g around as an older man with a dark-blond beard came striding over. Tall and barrel chested, he wore the same rugged, practical clothing as the other traders, but his long wool coat was much better quality than his peers’.
Firelight caught the side of his face as he launched into a lecture in Lorandian, and I nearly gasped. Fear flooded me, and I took a few hasty steps back, bumping into Jago. He put a hand on my shoulder and murmured in my ear, “What’s wrong? Do you recognize him?”
Yes, I’d seen him before, but the circumstances had been very different. It had been far from this place, and he hadn’t worn a finely cut wool coat then. He’d been clad in woad and worn tartan, bearing down on me as I stood in defense of Alan Morwell.
CHAPTER 20
I QUICKLY LOWERED MY GAZE, PRETENDING TO BE interested in the Balanquan rocks. In hoping we’d find some evidence of the men who’d robbed us, I hadn’t expected to actually find one of them! And certainly not the one I’d been up close and personal with.
Fortunately for me, the big Lorandian’s attention was focused elsewhere. From what I could follow, the boy was frantically explaining how cornmeal was more valuable than flour. The man cuffed him and called him a fool. Corn, flour, and fool were words I’d heard regularly from my Lorandian baker neighbor.
The bearded man looked right over me, recognizing that Jago was the deal maker. “Forget the cornmeal,” he said in accented Osfridian. “Do you have any lard?”
“I have tallow.”
“Let’s see it.”
While the two negotiated, I hovered in the shadows as much as possible, still fearful of recognition. The man’s Osfridian was as good as Marcel’s and not the stunted speech of our previous encounter. As the negotiations proceeded, Jago made subtle inquiries about anything else the man might have for sale, and eventually, they settled on two jars of tallow and a silver coin in exchange for the beaded mittens. Jago handed them to me, and the Lorandians departed, the older still scolding the younger as they walked.
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