“But he obviously did not—”
“Perhaps he asked too many questions,” Kai snapped. “Leave it be, Lord Malcius. No good can come of dredging up his past.”
“You mean Rez—”
“You and Brandt will start clearing the area for a fire pit. Unlike your little fiasco on the beach in Port Manai, this will require some forethought. We do not wish to burn down the field with us in it.”
“But the soldiers can—”
“Stop arguing. You are not lords in a plush estate. You are mercenaries. Act like it.”
Since Farson had gone south, Rezkin headed east and then turned north. The scent of horses and unwashed bodies reached his nose as he pressed through the grasses, some of which were taller than he. Quickening his pace, he turned back toward the road. After a cautious circuit of the group, he moved to crouch within the brush at the side of the road. It was a noisy bunch of twenty-seven rough-looking men with an assortment of mismatched weapons and armor. Each wore about his waist a black sash bearing a white crescent moon at one end. Only five of the men led horses, and all but one of the mounts were loaded with equipment. Several casks and trunks were piled into a rickety mule-drawn wagon from which the company’s standard flew atop a tall pole. A few boisterous fellows trod at the front, setting the pace, while the rest dragged their feet behind. Some wore bandages, and the lone rider appeared as if he might not see the dawn.
Rezkin waited for the company to pass and then skirted back the way he had come. Upon arrival at the camp, he silently approached Farson from the rear. The striker turned too late. If Rezkin had intended it, the striker would have been dead. Farson graced him with a scowl, and Rezkin replied with a grin. The effort was rewarded by Farson’s obvious disconcert. Rezkin could not remember ever smiling at Farson, outside of an act.
“Find Kai,” he said.
Without question, Farson shouldered his bow and vanished into the grass.
Rezkin surveyed the camp and was fairly satisfied with their progress. A broad patch on the side of the road had been stamped down, and the group was huddled around a pit that had been cleared for the fire. An unoccupied perimeter separated them from the tall grasses, although it was still too narrow for Rezkin’s comfort. They would have at least a few seconds’ warning before an ambush, assuming their assailants were not carrying crossbows. Brandt crouched over the pit attempting to light the fire, and Jimson and Millins plucked a couple of unidentifiable fowl, while Yserria hovered at the far perimeter with the appearance of keeping watch. Wesson was, with crossed legs, weaving his fingers through the air over a palm-sized lump on the ground as Minder Finwy watched.
Wesson glanced up as Rezkin neared. “Can you feel it?” he asked.
“Only since entering the circle,” Rezkin said.
“You are a mage?” Finwy said, genuinely surprised.
“No,” said Rezkin.
Wesson glanced at him dubiously but did not comment. Instead, he said, “I have been working on narrowing my vimara bleed.” He dangled an object in the air that looked like a black stone carved into an intricate knot. Tiny runes were marked along each curve, and a smaller red stone was set in the center. The object hung from a leather lace strung through a hole in the knot. “This amulet should help. You are particularly sensitive to it.” He raised his head and narrowed his eyes at Rezkin. “I wonder if you use a method similar to the Purifiers …” Without finishing the thought, he went back to his ministrations.
When Farson and Kai arrived several minutes later, Rezkin said, “We will have company soon. Mercenaries are heading our way from the north.”
“Trouble?” said Kai.
Rezkin said, “They have injured and may wish to avoid conflict. That being said, we will implement the plan.” He looked to Brandt and Malcius. “Remember, do not speak. If you must, keep it short and slur your words. Neither of you sound like mercs.” He paused, giving them a once-over. “And slouch.”
“Got it. Pretend we jus’ returned from a bender,” Brandt mumbled. Malcius punched Brandt in the arm. “What? Palis would have laughed.”
“Shut up,” Malcius grumbled, but his expression softened at the thought.
Rezkin shook his head. “If you must, but stop smiling. You have a terrible hangover.”
“Well, that shucks,” Brandt said in his best drunkenese, eliciting a genuine smile from Malcius. The expression abruptly vanished behind a scowl directed at Yserria before he went back to poking at the ground with a twig.
“What about you?” he muttered. “You do not sound like a merc either.”
“I am capable,” Rezkin said as the sounds of the troop finally reached his ears. He checked his longsword that was strapped to his back, shifted the shortsword at his hip, and then plopped down on the ground practically on top of Wesson.
The mage looked up in alarm. “Wha-what are you doing?”
Rezkin drew the hood of his worn brown cloak over his head and sprawled out on the flattened grass as he lounged against Wesson’s side. “Yer too purdy to be on yer own, boy,” he said in Ashaiian with a heavy Gendishen accent. “If one of us don’t claim ya, one of them will. Best it be me.”
“B-b-but Yserria! I mean, she is a woman! Why do you not claim her?”
“Yserria’ll put ’em in their place. You can’t or ye’ll expose yerself as a demon-bound afflicted, and then we’ll have to kill ’em all.”
“Wait. You would kill them? But, they have done nothing to us. We could find another way. I could—”
“Can’t have no rumors gettin’ ’round, Wes. You show ’em, we kill ’em.”
Wesson was visibly upset, and Finwy pursed his lips in disapproval. The others said nothing as they shared a surprised and uncomfortable silence. The strikers and soldiers, who were trained for combat, did not appear to share their distaste for the brutality of war—or at least accepted it as necessary. Farson dashed into the grass while Kai, Millins, and Jimson moved to intercept the incoming company at the road. The others stared at Rezkin as if he had just grown a second head, and he supposed he had, in a manner of speaking. Wesson quickly hid the amulet he had been enchanting and then sat stiffly under Rezkin’s weight. The clink of armor, creak of wood, and snorts of men and horses were nearly upon them when a small, furry creature darted out of the grass to roll in the mat and dirt at Rezkin’s feet.
He spied the beast curiously, and Malcius blurted, “Is that your cat?”
“I s’pose …” Rezkin drawled.
“I do not remember it being in the dinghy when we rowed ashore.”
“Nor do I,” said Wesson, “and we have not seen it all day.”
Rezkin shrugged. “Cats be mysterious. Quiet now or the jig’ll be up as soon they get here.”
As the troupe came into view, Kai called out in a traditional Gendishen greeting. “Hail to the travelers. May we meet and part in peace.”
Given the Gendishen penchant for violence, Rezkin thought it sounded more like a plea. The mercenaries plodded to a halt, and the lead man, a black-haired, hefty fellow with dark eyes and a braid dangling from his chin, spat off to the side.
“Peace? You don’t look the sort is lookin’ fer peace.”
Kai grinned and shook with a hearty laugh. “We ain’t lookin’ fer trouble neither—not ’til there’s silver and gold weighin’ down our purses.”
“Then we’re of a like mind.” The man surveyed the group and added, “You lot ain’t much to look at. About eight of you, not including’ the priest? You got some hidden in the grass?”
Kai mirthlessly chuckled. “What we be lackin’ in numbers, we’re makin’ up fer in skill.”
The leader said, “Ha! Next, you’ll be tellin’ us yer all swordmasters.” His men burst into uproarious laughter, slapping their armor and jeering.