Ewen was not good with new places. He had lived in New London all of his life, but several times he had gotten lost in strange sections of the city. Da said Ewen had no compass inside. But after two weeks in Gin Reach, Ewen thought that even Da would be satisfied. He knew every inch of the town’s four streets, and could even recognize who lived in some of the houses.
He and Bradshaw had caused a stir when they arrived; Bradshaw said it was because they had money to spend. This confused Ewen, for Gin Reach held very little to spend money on. Once a week, a sour-looking man drove a covered wagon down the main track and stopped in front of the pub. While the publican and his assistant removed bottles and barrels from the wagon, the townspeople came out of their houses to bargain with the sour man for food, clothing, or a few novelties such as paper or fabric or medicine. The town had a small, grim farming patch out behind the southern stretch of houses, protected from the desert with fencing and canvas tarp, and most of what people seemed to barter was the food they grew: root vegetables, leeks, and potatoes, things that needed little light. But the only places to spend actual coin in Gin Reach were the pub and the inn.
When Ewen saw the witch, he almost didn’t recognize her. The woman Ewen remembered had been white as bone, ageless, with eyes like daggers. She might have been twenty years old, or fifty. But the woman he saw now was red-cheeked and looked to be in the prime of youth. Her hair, which had been the color of sun-faded straw when Ewen last saw her, was a rich, healthy gold. She was much changed, yes, but he still recognized the witch beneath, standing in the doorway of the inn. She didn’t see him, for at the sight of her Ewen dove for cover into a narrow alley between two houses.
That night, he and Bradshaw had a long talk about what to do. Bradshaw said that Brenna’s powers were well known, that she could control even strong men with a glance. Neither of them felt comfortable about trying to capture her, not even the two of them against one. But Bradshaw insisted that the Mace must be told, that one of them must stay in Gin Reach while the other took the message.
Ewen did not want to stay here. Every moment that day, trailing her from the inn, he had felt as though Brenna would turn around and spear him with her eyes. He had not dared to follow her as she wandered into the desert, for there was no cover out there, and anyway, even Ewen knew about the Dry Lands. Da used to say that the desert liked to show a man hidden pictures, things that weren’t there, draw him away and get him lost. Men would die of thirst, simply chasing the pictures in their heads. Ewen waited in front of the inn until Brenna returned at sunset and disappeared inside, and then he fled back to the basement room he shared with Bradshaw, feeling like a mouse dismissed by a hawk. No, he did not want to stay here, keeping an eye on Brenna.
But the alternative was worse. They had been in Gin Reach for two weeks, and by now General Hall might have been forced to move. If the regiment was not where they had left it in the southern Almont, Bradshaw said, then the messenger would have to go all the way to Mortmesne and make contact with the Mace.
Mortmesne! The most terrible of all lands, a place of darkness and fire and cruelty. He did not want to stay alone in Gin Reach, but even less did he want to visit an evil kingdom. Bradshaw insisted that Mortmesne was not so bad as all that, but Ewen did not want to find out. Even the mention of the journey was enough to make him sick to his stomach.
“Well, one of us has to go,” Bradshaw said firmly. “And if it has to be me, then you’ll need to be very careful here, Ewen. The witch can’t spot you, or you’re cooked. Understand?”