“We’ve no need for her. They can let her be stolen at some point, make a nice gift to some young warrior.”
She’d only nodded. He hadn’t added that he thought the reminder of the marshal’s death would be an extra burden on shoulders that already bore too many.
No one saw them off as they rode back through the gates, the judge having made awkward farewells immediately after the American had been handed over. It was just as well, Gabriel supposed. “Lovely to have visited; sorry about the dead marshal and shredded bodies we left behind” wasn’t the best repayment for hospitality, and if only Gabriel understood how close they had come to a potential border incident with a foreign power . . .
He didn’t regret agreeing to carry the marshal’s message. Tousey’s family deserved that much peace. But Gabriel wasn’t sure how he would word it, who he would send it to, without explaining how he came to be there?—without making himself seem more useful to them than he had a desire to be.
And they would see him as useful; there was no escaping it any longer.
As preoccupied with his thoughts as he was, Isobel was worse. She had been stiff as they saddled the animals, and even now her fingers were too tight on the reins, making Uvnee tense as well; her shoulders were stiff, and she didn’t look around, taking in any last memories of the town the way she had every other place they’d left, but stared ahead, her expression grim.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as they rode down the dusty trail away from the palisades gate. Slowly, her shoulders eased a bit, the reins lowering, but her expression remained somber, her eyes distant. He breathed the warm air, feeling the weight of blood and too-close quarters washed away by the smell of grass and water, the sun warm overhead, the distant feel of water sliding through stone deep below them, and waited.
He waited until her legs softened around the mare’s sides and her mouth eased, and she smiled when a gold-and-blue butterfly chased itself around the mare’s ears before flitting off into the grass.
“You killed the magicians, didn’t you.”
He had chosen not to watch her as he spoke, keeping his gaze between Steady’s ears, watching the soft brown flesh twitch back and forth, pleased to be back on the road as well. Her laughter might have sounded true to someone who did not know her.
“You can’t kill a magician. They just . . . come back. Remember?”
He had almost missed her impudence, in all this, and chose to consider its return a good thing. He took two breaths, waited four soft clops of Steady’s hooves, before he looked over. Her fingers hadn’t tightened on the reins, and her body remained open and calm. Her braid was curled over her shoulder, the feathers braided into it fluttering as she moved with her mare, the two of them practically one beast, the way a proper rider should be. Her profile, shadowed under the brim of her hat, showed no hint of a smile, but neither was she frowning, and when she felt his gaze on her, she turned and met it, square and unafraid.
She had spent her childhood at the devil’s knee; he couldn’t bluff his way past her. So, he took a different approach. “You were not pleased with the judge’s decision to let them go free.”
“Neither were you.”
“No. I wasn’t. But I had no ability to prevent it. To prevent them from doing as they would once they were free.” His throat was dry, and he reached for the canteen slung at his saddle, taking a long swig before going on. “You stopped them.”
“Were you the one who told the Americans to approach magicians?”
Her question was so quiet, he almost didn’t understand the words, or the intent behind it. “What? I—”
“That letter that was in the waystation box for you. It came across the river. Good paper, ink that didn’t fade. The boss uses ink like that, and pays well for it. So, someone with money. Over there, you said, money means power.” He saw her shoulders rise in a slight shrug. “I’m guessing that people with that kind of power aren’t that different from magicians. They want more. And . . .”
“And the Territory, to certain people, reeks of power, both the money kind and . . . other,” he finished for her. “Yes.” He could lie to her, but he would not.
“Why?”
That hadn’t been the question he’d half-expected. The devil understood power, manipulated the desire for it to match his own intentions, whatever they were. But then, the devil stayed in his town, at the center of his web, and wove the strands he needed. His Hand strayed further, saw more.
Gabriel knew from experience that more was often confusing.
“Back in Patch Junction, you said that people who wanted things from the States, who tried to bring what was there here, that they were fools. You said that April was a fool for yearning after those things.”