22 – 2
There are guards at the gate. Two men wearing city watch tabards under thick winter cloaks slump against their grounded spears and peer listlessly out into the swirling snowfall. They come out of their slouches at the sight of me trudging through the ankle-deep drifts, Peanut following behind me.
“Stop!” cries the guard on the left, his voice thick with snotty congestion and a deep, abiding boredom. I stop. Peanut bumps into me. “Iden'ify your–” He interrupts himself with a fit of coughing that leaves him hacking and spitting into the snow. “Moonlit hell,” he scrubs his mouth with the back of his glove, then straightens, clears his throat, “Iden'ify yourself an' your business in th' Port.”
“I'm a traveler,” I answer, “and I want to sleep somewhere warm for once before I ride south.”
The guards trade a look when they hear me, though I was careful to remove what little Royah remained from my words. “Are you alone, miss?” The guard on the right steps towards me, gilding his face and voice with dutiful concern. I find the truth in his eyes; he looks at me the same way Connall did. I've no doubt that, given even half a chance, he'd act the same as well.
I wrap my cold, aching fingers around the hilt of my knife and strangle it. “I have him,” I answer, tilting my head at Peanut. The huge horse snorts, stomps a crescent-moon crater into the hard packed snow on the road.
The guard on the right shakes his head. “What a beast.” He says it like it's a compliment for the horse, but it's me he won't stop staring at. I'm as shapeless and snow-stained in my winter cloak as they are in theirs, but that doesn't seem to discourage them. If anything, it's given them something to imagine. “What I meant was, though, was 'is – someone – with you?', y' father or 'usband, like.”
I shake my head.
The guard on the left whistles nasally, trailing into a spitting cough. He meant to sound impressed, I think. The guard on the right frowns, his truthful eyes glittering with a predatory anticipation. “S'not safe t'be travelin' alone,” he admonishes, “S'not safe t'be travelin' a'tall, bein' honest; there's word of bandits on the road.” He comes closer, now within arm's reach. He hasn't looked me in the eye, not once.
Just like Connall. Where does Merigold find these people?!
More importantly: how do I get past them without drawing attention to myself, when all they seem to want is to give me theirs?
“You're the first people I've seen in days,” I end up saying.
The guard on the right smiles, somehow hearing a compliment in that. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come an' 'ave a drink with us,” he invites. His breath is sour, like stale beer and horse-chewed grass. He smells like rancid sweat and unwashed boy, and he hasn't stopped touching me.
I pour every last ounce of the crawling disgust I feel into the stranglehold I have on my knife. Don't draw attention, I tell myself, don't draw attention. I peel my lips away from my teeth to put their curve into my voice. “I'd love to,” It's not a smile. It just sounds like one. The guard on the right's eyes brighten, his grin widening to a leer. “but I've got to get this one to a stable, and me to a bed. I ride south in the morning, and I need a clear head.”
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He doesn't like that, does the guard on the right. I hurt his pride. It's a wound deepened by his snotty brother's bark of laughter. The leer falls away, anger twisting it into a snarl, but only for a moment; he forces it into a smile as fake as mine. “Come on,” he pleads. Pleads. “just a quick drink! My mate Lewis'll see y'beast t' th' stable,” He turns back to glare at the guard on the left, “won't you, Lewis?”
Snotty Lewis snorts. “Nope.” The guard on the right gapes at him in angry disbelief. To me, he says, “It's a silver to go through the gate. You'll have t'pay another to leave, so count your coppers.”
Just like that: my way past, given to me by one of the people responsible for me needing it in the first place. He's doing his job – finally – but not for any reason beyond finding it funny.
The guard on the right's grip tightens on my shoulder as he hisses something foul at Snotty Lewis, who laughs at him. I pull free of it and go dig an ice-cold silver piece from Peanut's saddlebag. I hold it out to him for a long moment before he finally, sullenly, takes it, waving me through the gate without a word.
Peanut clops through beside me, his reins wrapped around my fist. It's not his hindquarters they're staring at, though. Bastards. Pricks.
- - -
The stable's warm, its damp air stinking of a dozen horses confined to stables that haven't been mucked in a while. Peanut's is clean, I made sure of that before I led him in. He deserved it, seven days straight without reprieve from bit, bridle, or saddle being the least of reasons why. I saw to his care myself, brushing him down and cleaning his hooves; rubbing his jaw while he put down a truly enormous amount of feed. The groom had offered to do it all for me, but I wanted some time alone. My skin still crawled.
“What gives them the right, eh?” I ask Peanut, softly into his tufted ear, which flicks at the sound of my voice. I feel his jaw work beneath my palm, the crunch of feed between large, flat teeth. “Who told them they could go around doing that? Didn't their fathers raise them better?”
Probably, their fathers wouldn't see anything wrong in it. I wonder if mine would. I hope mine would.
I lean against Peanut, my face in his neck. Breathe in deep, let it out slow. Think of something else.
I don't think I care for Merigold's Port Viara. Terrible welcome aside, there's a wrongness to it: the same breed of fearful and suspicious tension that I saw that day in Amberdusk town's market square, only everywhere and worse. This is the seat of her power – her throne, if she had her way – so I suppose it's not surprising to see.
It is sad, though. Children should be allowed out to play in the snow, not kept inside to watch it fall. We were; I remember. We spent hours building forts and having fights, waging wars over dessert or who was the favorite child. We dug holes in deep drifts and pretended they were caves filled with elvish treasures. I remember laughing with my brother Djan while we hid from our parents, listening as their calls for us grew louder and louder. We thought it was funny to make them look, to scare them.
We thought there was only one kind of scary: the kind we felt when our father would toss us into the river or catch us when we jumped from something tall. The safe kind. We didn't know better. I didn't, not until the road taught me. Maybe it has a purpose after all.
Peanut tosses his head, dislodging me from my thoughts and my face from his neck.
Right. I've much to do, and I can't do any of it here. I pause to check my things before I go; once I start, I doubt I'll have any time to stop until – one way or the other – it's done.
My knife's still good, as clean and sharp as when I checked it this morning. The cold sticks it to its sheath, so I have to wiggle it a little before I can draw it. I'll remember that.
I don't know enough about crossbows to tell if mine's in good condition. Nothing's visibly broken or fallen off, the string hasn't frayed or snapped, and the trigger still works, so it should fire when I need it to. I'll find out for certain before I turn it on Merigold or Pike.
The bolts – all five remaining – are not in as good condition. I wrapped them in a rag and stuffed them deep in Peanut's saddlebag, and it would seem that the days of cold unending have gotten to them. A large crack has split one down the middle, and the nock has fallen off the end of another. They're still whole enough to fire, I think, but I shouldn't rely on them to fly straight. Or at all.
“I think that's it,” I tell Peanut, who snorts agreeably. I pat his neck, feel his hide twitch beneath my hand. “I'll be back for you, and – if I'm not...” I swallow the knot in my throat. “you're a good horse. My thanks, for listening to me.”
I pause outside his stall to pull my cloak-hood back up and my gloves back on. I make sure my cloak hides everything – knife, crossbow, and bolts – before taking one last breath of the stable's warm, damp air. I let it out slow. A half-dozen steps and I'm back out in the snow, soon swallowed by the falling swirl.
Find Pike. Find Merigold. Make them pay.