That did not mean he was unarmed, nor harmless—but he lacked the hair-prickling sense about him of a magician, either. Gabriel was thankful for small blessings. One magician in his experience had been one more than he’d ever wished for.
“Ho the Road,” he called back in return, when the stranger paused a decent distance away, careful of the lines Gabriel had marked in the grass when he made camp. “What brings you to this turn?” They were on no true Road, merely a wide path leading from La Ramée to nowhere, and little cause for a rider to be passing through, much less one on foot. And he did not have the look of a man who had lost his cattle: his knees were straight, his shoulders curved, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his coat rather than hanging loose and visible.
“I’ve nowhere else to be until my master whistles my call,” the man said. “And so nowhere seemed a good place to be.”
Not a magician, no, but that did not mean the man was not mad. Still, madness alone was no reason to refuse hospitality. “Enter and be welcome at our fire.”
“The offer is as good as the action,” he responded, ignoring the fact that the fire was barely large enough to heat the kettle over it, not much welcome at all. Keeping to tradition and ritual was safer than not, on the Road: ritual became such for a reason, and most of those reasons for a traveler’s safe-keeping.
“I’m Gabriel,” he said as the man stepped carefully over the soot-marked line. No cattle, no companions, just the man and his pack as battered as himself.
“Jack,” the man said, and Gabriel’s hand stuttered as he secured the knife in its sheath, remnants of a dream surfacing.
He stood in the middle of a creek, the water rushing over his ankles, blood-warm and filled with long, slender fish glinting silver and green in schools thick enough to look solid. He bent to scoop one out, holding it gently in cupped hands, and it looked back at him with eyes too human, set ’round with scales.
“The net comes for us all,” the fish told him. “The only question is who eats you.”
Not every dream was sent to tell him something; only a fool would think that, and fools died early and often in the Territory. But the morning’s unease splashed over him anew nonetheless, and his thumb pushed the sheath’s clasp out of the way for easier drawing, should it be necessary after all.
But he’d already invited the man in; there was no help for it but to brazen his way through.
“I’ve breakfast, if you’re hungry.”
The man shook his head. “Wouldn’t say no to some coffee if you have it, though.” His smile showed teeth yellowed but flat, and when he removed his hat, his gaze stayed steady on Gabriel, no flickering motion to indicate someone watching or traps—or waiting for someone coming in from the other side. But Gabriel had met men in his time who could smile and shake your hand without ever hinting at the knife aimed at your gut, and he fetched the other mug from his kit without turning his back on the newcomer, hospitality be damned.
The handful of silver half-coins weighted his pocket, but he wasn’t so rude as to check them now, to see if they’d tarnished in the man’s company, and the silver buckle at his boot shone the same as it had the night before. Odds were the man was just a Road loner, sheer coincidence his name triggered a memory of the night’s dream.
Odds were.
Jack took the coffee, drained half the cup without care for its heat. Or, for that matter, its taste: it was yesterday’s grinds, down to the dregs and gone bitter beyond any sweetener’s fixing. If Isobel had been here, she would have made him toss it and start fresh. But she wasn’t: four days, and a day late in returning.
The net comes for us all.
“You’ve his hand on you,” Jack said, finishing the coffee and handing him back the empty tin cup.
“Beg pardon?” The stranger might be good at hiding his intent, but Gabriel had played cards at the devil’s own table, not to mention with a handful of would-be Eastern politicians. His own face showed nothing he did not wish it to.
“Like calls to like,” Jack said, and now his mouth twisted in either bitterness or humor. “I could smell it on you, like a whore’s perfume.”
Not a name, Jack. A title. No wonder the man had refused food and not cared for the taste of the coffee; a Jack tasted none of those things, not so long as he was under the devil’s jurisdiction.
But a Jack was also no threat to him.
No threat, but possibly a warning.
“You come down the north trail,” he said, turning to place the cup down and pour himself another dose. “Might you have encountered someone else along the way?”
The Jack did not linger long after that, and Gabriel did not make pretense at regret.
The effort of repacking their belongings onto the mule and throwing the saddle on the gelding left him sweaty, but his knees held and his ribs didn’t hurt, so Gabriel decided he would be fine to ride.
And even if he wasn’t, he would have anyway, after what little the Jack had told him.
Thankfully, Steady lived up to his name, standing patiently while he hauled back into the saddle.