The man shook his head. “Polecake is three kopeks.”
“Fine.” March had no idea what polecake was and he was surprised to see the man reach up and pull a black disk from a pole that hung above the bar. He threw it over to March, who caught it. It was like a hard, thick biscuit.
“Break it onto the soup,” the barman said.
March did as instructed. The polecake was dry but absorbed the soup and added flavor. “Good,” he said.
The man watched him eat, then took the bowl and brought him a huge chicken pie and asked where he was from, to which March replied, “Abask.” The barman had never heard of it, so he told March about his knees. His knees ached. Then the barman told March that the man in the trading post would rip him off, and March nodded and said, “And the woman at the stables.”
March paid and remembered he was supposed to ask about the sheriff’s men. It was hardly subtle, but he felt increasingly confident that the people of Pravont knew how to be discreet.
The barman nodded. “Sheriff’s men were here a few days ago. They wanted us to set up a roadblock on the bridge over the river. We told them where they could put their roadblock, and it wasn’t on the bridge.”
March laughed and thanked the man, and a short time later he was leading his mountain pony out of Pravont and back to where Holywell and Edyon were waiting.
“That horse has shrunk,” said Holywell. “And where are the others?”
“Too steep and cold for horses where we’re going,” replied March, bristling slightly.
Holywell grunted and started checking the provisions strapped to the pony.
Edyon smiled and said, “Your new outfit suits you, March.”
March tugged at his jacket awkwardly. Edyon paid him compliments all the time, and even though it made March feel self-conscious, he realized he didn’t want him to stop. He said, “I’ve got new clothes for us all.”
As Edyon put on his warm jacket, he asked, “What are the clothes like in Calidor?”
“Um, similar. But different.”
Edyon laughed. “Not the most helpful description. But maybe you can tell me about more important things. You know my father. Can you tell me about him, his friends, his court? What should I expect?”
March knew Edyon would be hopeless in the prince’s court. He was too unguarded, showed his feelings too quickly and too easily. But then Edyon wasn’t going to court. He was going to a dungeon in Brigant. Possibly he’d be tortured. Probably. He’d certainly never see Calidor or his father. Nor his mother either. March imagined her waiting for a letter from her son that would never arrive.
March forced a smile onto his face. “Of course, Your Highness. Let me tell you about your father . . .”
TASH
PRAVONT, PITORIA
TASH ORDERED the polecake and soup, and the pie and a large beer for Gravell. Then Gravell added another pie for himself.
“Best food in the world here,” Gravell said, as happy as Tash had seen him in weeks. “We’ll get our smoke back and hunt a few more demons while we’re at it.”
“Have you told Flint that you’ll have to pay him later?”
They’d used the last of the money the day before and hadn’t eaten since.
Gravell sighed. “Money, money, money. That’s all you talk about.”
“It’s not money that I’m talking about but the lack of it.”
“And whose fault is it that we have no money?”
Tash wasn’t sure it was totally her fault that the demon smoke had been stolen, and she had done her best to get it back, but she didn’t want to argue about that again. It didn’t solve the basic problem of having no money anyway.
Flint brought the food over and stood by the table as Tash broke her polecake over the dish and stirred it into her soup.
“How’s it going, Gravell?”
“Ups and downs, but it’s good to be here, Flint,” Gravell said. “Good to get some decent food.”
“Where’ve you come from just now then?”
“Dornan. Full of fucking thieves.”
“Ay, that’s true. You had a problem, huh?”
“Someone stole my goods. We think he—they—might have come north. Come through Pravont as it happens.”
“Stole your stuff? Bastards.”
“That is exactly the right word, Flint. Exactly the right word.”
Tash pulled out a poster of Edyon that she’d taken from one of the roadblocks. She handed it to Flint, saying, “This is one of them.”
Flint shook his head. “Murdered one of the red tops, eh? Well, I’ve not seen him here.”
“He’s with two other men: one young, the other your age. They’re foreign.”
Flint dragged over a stool and sat, his voice low. “There was a young fella came in two days ago. Spoke Pitorian but so bad I could hardly follow him. He had the strangest accent. And weird eyes. Foreign for sure. But he was alone.”
Flint dropped his voice even lower and continued, “Then two other men came through yesterday. Red tops. From Dornan, they said, but I know southerners when I see them. They headed over the bridge, I hear. Hope the demons get them.” Flint turned and spat on the floor. “Scarlet-haired bastards.”
“They’re following the youngster?” Gravell asked.
“That’s my guess.” Flint stood. “They stayed the night and left at dawn with an early breakfast they insisted I make ’em. That was this morning. You’ll track ’em easy enough. Stomping around like all bloody southerners do.”
“Thanks, Flint,” Gravell said. “I owe you. And . . . I’ll have to owe you for the food too.”
Flint put his hand on Gravell’s shoulder. “Not a problem, my friend. You can have a room too if you want. Pay me next time. I know you’re good for it.”
Tash looked out of the window. It would be dark soon. Flint was right that it was too late to set off now, but she knew Gravell would be moving at full speed at dawn.
* * *
The day was clear and bright, and the tracks were easy enough to follow. After his cheerfulness the day before, Gravell was in a serious mood. It was clear that the sheriff’s men were following the tracks of what looked like two or three people and a pony. Tash was uneasy: hunting demons was one thing, chasing down Edyon and Holywell was another, but following the sheriff’s men into forbidden territory didn’t feel right.
“What do we do if we catch them up?” she asked. “The sheriff’s men, I mean.”
“What do you mean, if?”
“When, then?”
“Then we go past them, without them noticing, which’ll be a doddle as they’re southerners and not familiar with this territory, and then we’ll catch up with Edyon and his friends.”
“And what if the sheriff’s men catch up with Edyon first? I mean, I know they’re southerners and stupid and all that, but they have got a head start.”
“Edyon and his friends have already done for one sheriff’s man; I doubt they’ll worry about doing for a couple more. With any luck, the red tops will take at least one of them out, so the survivors will be easier pickings. And if the sheriff’s men kill them . . . well, at least I’ll get to spit on Edyon’s grave.”
EDYON
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
“I’D LIKE to see a demon,” Holywell said.
Edyon didn’t want to see a demon. He wanted to see a building, a warm fire, a blanket, and a soft bed. Or he’d like to see the sun and, most importantly, feel its warmth. They were marching on fast, and he was struggling to keep up. He was tired, cold, and hungry, but mostly he was cold. He was glad of the fur-lined jacket March had bought, and the woolen shirt and the hat, but Edyon wished he had bought thick socks too. His feet hadn’t been warm for two days. At night he warmed them by the fire and hugged the bottle of demon smoke for further warmth. He would have liked to have hugged March instead—he was sure they could find ways to keep each other warm—but his handsome man had gone cold in a different way, keeping his distance and glancing at Holywell whenever Edyon found an excuse to touch him.
“What do they look like, Your Highness? Do you know?”
Edyon shrugged. “There are lots of stories. Some say they’re like humans, only bigger and faster. And redder.”