“Tie him up. Guard him. Wait till the captain’s back in the morning.”
Ambrose was dragged through the sand. He pretended to be unconscious as they tied his wrists and ankles. They were on the outskirts of a bigger circle of boys sitting around a fire. Ambrose recognized the voice of Rashford telling the story of his capture.
“He was riding fast. Good control of his horse, like the captain says the enemy will have. But, fuck me, Kellen was on to him, spotted him running for it, flipped his sword round to hold it by the sharp end . . . though as Fitz constantly points out”—and here everyone chimed in—“it’s wood; we can’t splinter them to death!”
There was much laughter, and when it died down Rashford took up his story again. “So, as I was saying, Kellen braved the splinters and threw his sword, and . . . it was poetry in motion . . . The soldier rode away, the sword whirled up, over and down, ending with a precise coming-together . . . a perfect smack on the back of his head. Bang! Our friend over there rolled off his horse like he’d fallen asleep.”
There was much cheering and laughter.
“Lucky you had Kellen with you. Most of you Reds can’t throw for shit.”
Ambrose opened his eyes a sliver to see that another boy, probably about fifteen or sixteen, had come into the circle around the fire.
“Stop your whinging, Gaskett. We won the last trials fair and square.”
“You cheated, Rashford, like you Reds always do.”
Rashford rose and marched over to Gaskett. Ambrose couldn’t hear what was said, but it ended with Gaskett pushing Rashford backward. Rashford shook his head and said, “You need to relax. After the invasion we’ll all have plenty.”
Gaskett shoved Rashford again, muttered something to him, and turned and walked away.
Rashford stuck a finger up at his retreating figure. “And fuck all of you Blues too. Dickhead.”
Ambrose tried to make sense of their words, but his head was throbbing, and for now all he knew was that he had to get away before the captain returned. He closed his eyes and concentrated on loosening the rope round his wrists. Fortunately the boys weren’t as good at tying knots as they were at throwing wooden swords, and by the time most of them had fallen asleep he had worked his hands free of the ropes and untied his feet.
The last boys awake were paying him no attention. He slipped into the bushes and crept away. He had his weapons but no horse. Skirting the camp, he saw that it was tethered with some others, but the boys guarding the horses were awake and talking to each other. It was too risky: he didn’t want another sword to the back of the head. Ambrose turned away. He’d have to walk.
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
THE SUEDE boots that Tash had seen a month earlier were, according to the cobbler, “sold to a charming young lady weeks ago.” Tash’s disappointment lasted only a moment as the cobbler said, “But I have these. Only just finished them yesterday.” And he lifted from the highest shelf a pair of delicate boots, pale gray, almost silver, suede, similar to the other boots but with finer ties, which ended in fur tassels, and instead of the top rims having an embroidered edge they were trimmed in fur.
Tash gasped. They were the most beautiful boots she’d ever seen.
The cobbler held the gray suede boots on the palm of his hand, stroking them like two baby rabbits. Tash stretched out her own hand to touch them. The cobbler half turned, holding the boots to his chest, saying, “Not with those.”
Tash looked at her hands. She had washed them that morning, but now she saw they perhaps weren’t perfectly clean. She’d wanted to try the boots on but now she wasn’t sure about the state of her stockings or feet either.
“How much are they?” she asked instead.
“Four kroners.”
“What? The others were three!”
And that was already an absurd sum for a pair of boots when most cost no more than two.
“There’s more work and more fur in these. They’re lined with fur too. Four kroners is the price. They’ll sell soon enough with all these people here for the fair. But I understand if you can’t afford them.”
“I can afford them. I just haven’t got the money with me. Can you keep them for me? I’ll be back later.”
“Keep them? As in, not sell them until you come back to try them on, cover them with your grubby fingermarks, and then say you don’t like them? Or more likely you won’t come back at all.”
“But I will be back. I love them!”
“Well, I’ll see you later then, when you have the money.”
Tash and Gravell had only arrived in Dornan the night before, but Gravell had already let it be known to his contacts that he had some good smoke: it wouldn’t be long before he struck a deal.
Tash folded her arms. “I’ll get paid today or tomorrow, and when I do come back I’ll expect a good price.”
“You can expect a clip round the ear. You’ll pay the right price, the fair price—that’s the good price. Do you know how much work went into making these? I don’t think so. You youngsters have everything so easy. So easy. No idea about craftsmanship or hard work.” The cobbler put the boots back into the display case, high out of Tash’s reach, and turned back to face her, folding his arms. “Anything else?”
Tash wanted to tell the cobbler where to shove his boots, but words always failed her when she was angry and now, just when they weren’t wanted, tears of frustration filled her eyes. She walked out, letting the door slam behind her, and marched back to find Gravell and demand her pay.
The roads through Dornan were dusty and dry, and everywhere was noise and people and smells. It was all the sort of thing Tash normally enjoyed: seeing people come together to sell, play, laugh, drink, eat, and party. It was fun to watch and Tash always felt pleasantly inconspicuous. Wherever she traveled with Gravell, people always stared. Gravell was so huge and hairy that he seemed like a giant, while people were always asking Tash if they could touch her dreadlocks. Here at the fair, where folk from all corners of Pitoria and even beyond came together, she didn’t stand out.
Gravell had made good use of his size yesterday, though, and of the smoke. He’d taken a room at the best inn, a small amount of smoke decanted into the innkeeper’s bottle ensuring that miraculously a room had become available by the time she and Gravell had eaten their evening meal.
It was still early. Gravell wouldn’t have traded the smoke yet. But even so he must have some money and surely he could give her a bit of what he owed her. Money was key. The cobbler wouldn’t have cared that she was young and dirty if she’d had money. If she’d had money he’d have been nice as pie. She should have asked Gravell for a loan for the boots and he could have taken it out of her cut for the demon smoke. Well, she’d ask him now.
Tash ran up the stairs of the inn and unlocked the door to their room. Gravell’s large pack and furs were there, as were his harpoons and Tash’s small bundle of furs and clothes. Gravell was not. Tash frowned. Gravell would not leave money or the demon smoke here unattended. He would keep it close by him at all times.
Tash asked the maid, “You seen Gravell? Tall guy. Big. Black hair. Beard . . . Big.” Tash held her arms up to indicate Gravell’s height, but the woman shook her head.
“Never mind,” Tash said, and she walked out and up the road. “He can’t be far. And he’s easy to spot after all.” She smiled at her own joke and began her search.