“And in what direction do you think Sicktree is?”
William stopped. The stream had turned at least half a dozen times. He knew the swamp settlement sat somewhere upstream, but where exactly he had no idea. The Mirror had no maps of this part of the Edge, but the parts that they did map looked like a labyrinth of tiny streams, ponds, and mud banks.
“I take it, you know the way to Sicktree.”
She smiled. “I do. You should hire me to be your guide. Or you can spend the next couple of weeks blundering around the Mire.”
She had him. William pretended to consider it. “Hire you? I think the privilege of riding in my new boat should be enough.”
“Deal.” She started toward the water.
“There are some conditions attached to my offer.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“One, if you’re thinking of slitting my throat, don’t. I’m faster and stronger than you, and I sleep light.”
She shrugged. “Fine.”
“Two, you bathe the first chance you get.”
“Anything else?”
William thought about it. “No, that covers it.”
The girl waded through the water, pulled herself into the boat, and dug in the bow compartment.
William watched her.
She pulled a large canvas bundle and dragged it to the side.
“What is that?”
“An inflatable boat. All runners carry them just in case.” She patted the larger boat. “This bad boy is meant to be drawn by rolpies. It’s heavy. The inflatable is light and we can carry it if we have to.”
She pulled the cords, securing the canvas, dug in it, and swore. “Cheapskate. No inflatable—he’s got his sleeping bag stuffed in there.” She rose, stared at the cabin for a long moment, and tugged at the canvas covering its roof. “Are you going to help, Lord Weird? You can, of course, sit on your behind while I sweat, but it will take twice as long.”
He grasped his end of the canvas and jerked. The camo fabric fell away, revealing a shallow, square-nose boat strapped to the cabin.
“A punt.” The hobo girl sighed. “We’ll have to pole it like a bateau.”
William had no idea what a bateau or a punt was, but he didn’t care. It was a boat and it could float, which meant it could get him to Sicktree to the Mirror’s agent who waited for him there. He cut at the line securing the small vessel to the roof.
“Call me William.”
“Cerise,” the hobo girl said. “I’ve got a rule, too.”
He glanced at her.
“No questions,” she said.
Now that was interesting. William nodded. “I can work with that.”
FIVE
THE punt boat glided over the deceptively calm stream. Small speckled frogs perched on the wide queenscrown leaves. Somewhere to the left among the growth, a reed-walker traveled on long legs, emitting a staccato of clicks from his throat to ward off rival birds.
Cerise leaned into the pole, discreetly clamping her jacket tighter to herself. The stiff plastic packet hidden in the lining dug into her ribs. Still there. Tracking down Uncle Hugh took longer than planned—he’d moved and she had wasted two days trying to find his new house. Only four days separated her from the court date. She had to hurry. If she didn’t show up with the documents on time, the family would be ruined. She had to move fast, and fast wasn’t easy with a punt boat and some Weird knuckleheaded drylander who thought he owned it.
Lord William sat at the stern. Muscular, fit, wrapped in black leather, and more handsome than a man had a right to be. The first time she saw him, she almost did a double take. He had the whole tall, dark, and lethal thing going. Except at the moment he wore the expression of a man who’d just got a mouth full of soggy spinach. Maybe he was upset that his pretty leather pants got wet.
Lord William was bad news. That he was a blueblood from the Weird was plain as day: expensive clothes, well-groomed hair, and excellent weapons. She’d felt a spark of magic when that little crossbow went off. And he fired it fast, didn’t even pause to take aim, and still hit that cursed fish in the gills. The man had training, the kind of training bluebloods from the Weird got when they wanted to play soldier. Excellent balance—he walked on the boat as if it were solid ground. Light on his feet. Very fast. Probably very strong, if the muscle on his arms was any indication. Bad news.
Why couldn’t she have gotten another Edger or some dimwit from the Broken for a passenger? No, she got Lord Leather Pants here. In the Weird, nobles specialized. Some went into academics like her grandfather. Some devoted themselves to civil service. And some became killers. For all she knew, he was one of those multi-talented bluebloods, who cut down trees with their magic and sprouted weapons all over the place at the slightest hint of danger.
Cerise stole another look. The blueblood was surveying the Mire, and she let herself linger. He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he’d do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her. Or at least try. Not that she had any intention of letting him win that fight. Talented or no, he wouldn’t stop her sword or her magic.
She scrutinized his face. Strong chin. Narrow face without a trace of softness in it, square jaw, smart hazel eyes under black eyebrows. Interesting eyes, almost amber-yellow. That’s what you looked at in an opponent—the eyes. The eyes told you what sort of person you faced. When she looked into William’s eyes, she saw a predator. There he sat, all calm, but something behind those eyes promised violence. She sensed it the way one killer sensed another.
Bad news.
He caught her looking and scowled. “Give me that damn thing.”
Cerise leaned into the pole. “Don’t worry, you will get your chance when we hit a stronger current. For now, sit pretty and enjoy the scenery. Look, there is a cute Mire gator to keep you entertained.”