Tzsayn took her hand again. “You and your maids are my guests. You have risked and sacrificed much to tell me this, Catherine, and in return I offer you my protection. I will ensure you are all safe, no matter what happens.”
He turned and strode from the room.
Catherine felt light-headed. Whatever else she had done, right or wrong, she was certain she had brought about her own ruin. She could not stay in Pitoria; Tzsayn could never marry the daughter of his enemy. She could never go back to Brigant, to the father who’d betrayed her and whom she had betrayed in turn. She had set herself adrift. And she’d be adrift in a country at war with her own: hated, not loved.
She had never felt more alone. The only comfort she had was the thought that Ambrose had risked his life to help her.
MARCH
PRAVONT, PITORIA
MARCH WAS first aware that they were close to Pravont from the sounds of voices and someone chopping wood and, behind it all, the roaring of the river. The noises carried a long distance, which was a reminder to be as quiet as possible. They approached through a small thicket of trees, and as they got nearer, they saw roofs and woodsmoke and then houses and a few people.
“I can’t see any sheriff’s men,” Edyon said.
“Maybe not,” Holywell said. “But if they had a poster of you at some remote inn, they’ll have one here.”
“Possibly,” Edyon said. “But this is the north. They hate interference and being told what to do by southerners. They hate sheriffs. They hate everything that isn’t northern.”
“We’re not northern,” March said.
Edyon grinned at him. “No, you’re foreign, which is even worse. But here being wanted for murder might not be such a black mark.”
“Well, I don’t think we should go in there bragging about it, Your Highness,” Holywell replied. All the time he was peering through the trees.
“Maybe it’s best to go in at dawn, when it’s quieter,” Edyon suggested. “Or maybe evening, when people are tired and not so curious.”
“Or lunch, when they’re all eating?” Holywell added.
Edyon nodded. “That’s a good point.” And March wasn’t sure who was being more sarcastic.
“So?” March asked. “Which will it be?”
“The time is right,” Holywell said, looking at March. “But it’s your turn. Take the horses to the stables first, get them fed, and see if you can buy another one to carry provisions. We need food to last a week; that should get us to Rossarb. And find out anything else you can.”
“But why me?” March complained. “My Pitorian is the worst. I’m clearly not from around here.”
Holywell’s eyes flicked from Edyon to March. “If we see you’re in trouble, we’ll come and get you out of it.”
March knew Holywell would, but still it seemed the wrong plan.
“Unless you’ve got another idea?” Holywell added.
“You or Edyon could do it better.”
Holywell nodded. “I could do it better, but could you rescue me better?”
“So you think I’ll need rescuing?”
Holywell sighed. “No, March. I think Edyon will be too southern for these folks, but I have a feeling they’ll take to you. You’re a man from the mountains, like them.”
March swore in Abask.
“Excellent. I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Holywell smiled mirthlessly and turned away.
March’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Ever since the inn, Holywell had been behaving oddly. He seemed to have lost patience with Edyon and was shorter with him now, less courteous and deferential. And he seemed irritated by March as well, since the night with the midges when March and Edyon had shared the smoke.
Now March felt as if there was another reason why he was being sent into the village. It was almost as if Holywell didn’t want to leave him and Edyon alone together, which was ridiculous. He was perfectly capable of looking after the prince and keeping up their deception. If anyone was risking that, it was Holywell by not hiding his feelings better. He was sure Edyon had noticed the change in his demeanor too but not said anything. How long until he did?
Nevertheless, March left them both under the trees and led the horses down to the village. Pravont was the biggest settlement they’d seen since Dornan, but it was still a village, not quite a town. A woman stared at him as he approached. He nodded once as a greeting and she returned a similar nod and then turned away.
“Wait, please!” said March in his best Pitorian. “Where are the stables?”
The woman looked at him and said, “Eh?”
“The stables?”
The woman shook her head. March wasn’t sure if she couldn’t understand his accent or was just being difficult. He indicated the horses and said “stable” louder. The woman nodded and pointed to her left.
March led the horses down the lane the woman had indicated. He passed a few more people, and there was a bit more nodding, but no one spoke.
He followed the trail of hay and smell of manure to the stables, which were large and not just for horses. In fact, there were a few horses, a few more cows, and a lot of goats. A woman was sweeping. She didn’t stop as March approached.
“Good day. My horses need food and water.”
The woman looked up, saying, “What?”
March repeated his request, pointing at the horses. What did she think he’d want!
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Abask.”
“Never heard of it. They all got eyes like that there?”
March couldn’t be bothered. He said, “No, everyone else’s are shit brown.”
The woman smiled. “You can leave your horses.”
“Thank you. I’ll come back for them later.”
“Horses ain’t no good on the plateau. It’s too cold and too steep.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I’m not going up to the plateau.”
“No? You have another reason for being here?”
March shrugged but then smiled. Holywell was right. These people did remind him of home.
“In Abask we ride horses in the mountains. Even in winter they cope.”
“This isn’t Abask. Though I admit most of the men here have shit-brown eyes, and shit for brains too. Anyway, you’ll need a mountain pony to carry your provisions. And you go on foot.”
The woman told him where to buy provisions and that she had a pony he could buy for five kroners, less a kroner for each of his horses. March knew that their horses were worth more and suspected the pony was worth far less, but he wasn’t in a position to argue. Besides, he liked the woman. And it was Holywell’s money.
At the trading post he bought food and blankets, a thick coat, a jacket, a woolen shirt, and some trousers. It was good to have clean clothes. But Holywell and Edyon also needed clothes. He added two more of everything to the pile. The man who made out his bill didn’t comment, at least not about that. He said, “You’ll be needing harpoons?”
“Harpoons?” March didn’t understand the word.
“You’re going over the river?”
March hesitated. Holywell had given Edyon lots of grief for saying where they were going, but it seemed fairly obvious. He didn’t have time for a reply anyway.
“Across the river’s demon territory. You’ll be needing harpoons.”
March shrugged. “Sure. Three harpoons.”
The man nodded and went through a door behind the counter and returned with three long wooden harpoons with barbed metal tips. On seeing what they were, March said, “I’m not going hunting.”
The man laughed. “No, but the demons will be hunting you.”
“Oh, right. Is three enough?”
“If it’s not, you’ll be dead anyway.”
March looked around the store. It was small but well stocked. “Do many people go up to the Northern Plateau from here?”
The man shook his head meaningfully. “No one ever does. Not as far as I know.”
March smiled.
He headed back to the stables and on the way stopped at a small inn. Inside was one room with tables and a bar, which was so small that the man behind it filled it. He asked, “Beer?”
March sat down. “And food.”
“There’s soup and there might be a pie ready, if you’re lucky. If you order both, you’ll save six kopeks.”
“Both then.”
The man stuck his head through the door and said something that sounded like it could be his order.
March sipped his beer and soon got his soup. “Is there bread?”