“I value loyalty and someone who speaks the truth.”
“Yes, but even the best men grow weary of my stories,” he said with a smile free of self-consciousness. “As I recall, you settled those complaints fairly, if a bit ignorantly. At least you were equal in your treatment of Pry-rian claims and those of your own countrymen, who lied and tried to deceive you as much as we did. It was never clear which side you would favor, but you did gain a reputation for fairness, my lady.” His eyes narrowed. “When your father . . . when he did what he did, those border disputes became tangled again. I pitied you. I grew sick of the whole business and ventured away.”
“This is quite far from Pry-Ree, Jon Tayt. Why did you come?”
“I told you I am a blunt man. I wanted nothing to do with intrigues or broken oaths. I traveled about as far away as I could imagine going and ended up in the hinterlands of the civilized world. Welcome to Argus hamlet, Lady Maia! I named it after my hound over there. The lazy cur.”
“After your hound?” Maia asked, a smile beginning to stir on her lips. He was a gruff and opinionated fellow, but already she liked him.
“Seemed a suitable name at the time since we were the first ever to live here. I built this hovel and most of the others when others chose to join me.” He leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. “You realize that Dahomey is not a safe haven for one of your blood. Your kingdom is at war with every other nation that upholds the doctrines of the Dochte Mandar.”
“I am very aware of that fact, yes.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Yes. Here I am.”
“How can I serve you, Lady Maia?” He leaned forward and the chair squealed under his weight.
“I am not looking for a servant, Jon Tayt. You said yourself you want nothing to do with kings and intrigues.”
“Where are you bound, lass?”
Somehow, Maia felt she could trust the hazel eyes that stared down at her. The Medium had brought her to Argus. It had led her to this man.
She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. “Can I trust you, Jon Tayt?”
He stroked his pointed beard and then scratched the fleshy underside of his chin. It made a raspy sound. His eyes turned stormy as he rested his hands on his belly. “I have no love for your father. I have no love for any man. Whether or not you choose to trust me is entirely up to you.”
She wanted to look at the kishion, to read the expression in his eyes, but she worried it would be interpreted as a sign of weakness.
“I will ask again. How can I serve you, Lady Maia?” the hunter repeated, his voice sincere.
“I need you to bring me safely through Dahomey. It would be best if we traveled through roads less frequently used by others.”
“Easily done. Dahomey is a large, broken kingdom. You want me to take you back to Comoros?”
Maia shook her head. “Just to the borders of Paeiz or Mon. That is all I will ask of you.”
“Ack,” he chuckled gruffly. “If we are going to travel that far, you will need some new clothes to survive these mountains. It is my trade to guide folk through these mountains safely. I have the gear and plenty to spare. The mountains do not care figs whether you were born of noble parents or what kind of fancy boots you wear. They only respect those who come prepared. And right now, you are not.” He eased up from the chair. “Better come with me. Bring the tray. Argus. Chut.”
The boarhound rose from its position and sidled up next to the hunter. As Jon Tayt shoved the door open, the wind bustled in and made the fires all leap and dance. Excitement burned inside of Maia. She was grateful for finding the hamlet, grateful for the knowledge and expertise that might make the challenge before her possible. She held the door for the kishion, who exited silently behind her and followed them.
Jon Tayt stopped them on the other side of the massive boulder. He raised his arm and pointed toward the jagged cliff face silhouetted against the sky. Stars painted the sky with their profusion of jewels, but as Maia followed his arm, she saw other spots of light descending slowly down the mountainside.
“You did not mention, my lady, that you were being followed.” His expression hardened.
“I am. By the Dochte Mandar,” she said softly.
Jon Tayt cursed under his breath. “Ack, that is a fine kettle of fish,” he muttered. “They are not easy men to kill. Best we hurry then.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mountain Storm