The last time they’d had to pretend Jonas was dead, the answer had been simple: kill him.

But this time there was no Ajnai tree nearby to bring him back without killing a swathe of flora, fauna and, more than likely in the heart of Turhmos, people. Even if there had been, Llew wasn’t carrying his child; she could no longer bring him back with a mere touch. If she could, he would have been up walking beside her, not dragging along the road with her fingertips dug in his armpits. He would have been fighting beside her. They would have had to fight their way out of Duffirk.

Instead of being a one-man army, Jonas was topless in the tail-end of winter so his foes could easily recognize the huge, sweeping gryphon tattoo that dominated his flesh; he carried injuries from the exhibit fight in which he’d just been used; and a micro-organism – some sort of tiny bug – was ravaging his body, destroying whatever it was that had made him so powerful.

Despite the cold and pain he must have been in, he was playing dead. And all Llew could do was play along. And hope.

Thankfully, most of the lingering people were more interested in comparing notes on the magic and technology on display than paying Jonas any mind. Enough still did to be a nuisance, though.

“Stay dead this time!” A gob of spit landed on Jonas’ rib. It oozed across the black lines of the tattoo, leaving a shiny trail of filth.

Jonas didn’t flinch.

“Looks dead to me.” Another voice from the gathered crowd.

“He’s dead,” Llew muttered through teeth gritted at the strain firing through her arms, shoulders and back.

“Yeah, but he was meant to be dead months ago.” The spitter.

“Just a rumor, though, wasn’t it? I mean, we saw the fight and here’s his body. It’s gotta be real this time, eh?” A booted toe jabbed Jonas’ side.

Llew clamped her lips. Unlike Jonas, she looked local. All she had to do was act like it.

“Good riddance to him, I say. Filthy Quaven.”

“Where you taking him?” Spitty, again.

Illusions held best when you let people decide for themselves what it was they saw. Llew had lived most of her life across the seas in Aghacia. To her, these people had an accent. To them, so would she.

Llew kept her mouth shut.

“Oi!” Spitty shoved her.

Llew lost her grip with one hand and Jonas lolled, convincing in his performance of death yet to rigor. Llew lurched, reaching for his shoulder before he hit the ground, but her other arm trembled in her efforts, threatening to fail, and she settled for easing his descent only. Liberated of his weight, she straightened and glared at the gathering crowd while she caught her breath.

“Where you—?”

Llew turned her fury on the man.

“… taking him?” Spitty’s voice trailed off.

Llew blinked and swept her gaze across every member of her audience. Some took a self-conscious step back. Some looked vexed. Most looked confused.

She stretched one arm behind her, then the other, loosening her muscles some. She rolled her shoulders, shook them out. Then she bent, slipped her fingers under Jonas’ shoulders, curled them into his armpits, took a deep breath to prepare her already fatigued muscles and hoisted him. His head fell back. It had to hurt. She couldn’t imagine how it couldn’t, but still his body hung limp. He didn’t tense, uttered no sound. He didn’t even open his eyes, even though she would likely be the only one who would see. Don’t be dead.

Surrounded as they were, she couldn’t afford to lift his head or make any attempt at improving his comfort. And so, she simply took one back step at a time, his hair dragging on the ground, his head swinging. Don’t you dare abandon me now, you bastard.

Not a bastard. Unless you’re dead. So don’t be.

The small crowd lingered, watching her go. Spitty looked from one of his supporters to another before stepping forward, following Llew. At first he paced himself so he was always a few steps behind, but after a while he lengthened his gait, closing the gap.

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“I asked where you were taking him. ’S’fair question.”

As much as she didn’t want to, Llew had to agree with him. Jonas’ death had been rumored once before. And these people had either just seen or just heard about a fight involving Jonas, the Immortal Aris and Braph with his magical device. Llew counted herself lucky enough not to have witnessed it, but she had seen Jonas and Braph fight before, and Jonas and Aris had faced each other at her tree. And Llew had heard Braph’s thundersticks just before she’d entered the arena herself. It must have looked so mystical and magical to these folk who had probably never seen the like. If she wanted them off her back, she would have to tell them something. And so she spoke, concentrating on the slight lilt they had. They would hate to hear it, but to Llew they sounded little different to Quavens, only having a greater tendency to pronounce their G’s. She also forced her voice down in pitch. She’d passed as a boy for years and always found it simpler.

“Kadesh— Ah, I mean, the president—” Thank you, Braph. First-name basis with the elite never hurt anyone. “—wants you all to have plenty of time to celebrate the Syakaran’s death. But he’ll stink up the place in a couple of days if he’s not embalmed first.” She could thank the late Cassidy for teaching her about that one. “So I’m taking him to the embalmer. And he doesn’t want to have to work with a body covered in your filth.”

Several of the rabble had the decency to look sheepish.

Spitty held his ground a few more strides, but sensing the others no longer backing him up, he relented.

Llew looked like them. That helped her lie hold.

Well, she shared their pale skin tone, anyway.

She was lankier, longer in the leg and, thanks to her lack of discernible breasts or hips, looked like a young lad of about fifteen. Just the kind of person that would find themselves with the task of dragging a body to its final resting place. Her shirt and trousers enforced the illusion. They were prisoner’s garb, but few would have seen a prisoner from Turhmos’ Aenuk camps.

Llew was counting on it.

“Now, my arms and back are already killing me, and I’ve got miles more to go.”

She stepped back, stepped back, stepped back. No one followed.

One obstacle down. Onto the next.

If she could find some clothes, then hopefully she and Jonas would be able to move through Turhmos anonymously. Her gaze lingered on his huge tattoo. Such a comfort to her at times, right now it was likely to get them both killed. Everyone knew Jonas had it. Everyone knew only Jonas had it.

Of course it would matter none if he was already dead.

She wished she could ask some sign of him, but it was too great a risk while he was so clearly him and they were still in the heart of Duffirk. Their only saving grace for now was that most of the city’s population seemed far more interested in Braph, which left Llew and Jonas largely unmolested once they cleared most of the crowd.

Despite her own opinion of the man, Llew found herself thanking Braph again. Never again.

Back and back and back she trudged, Jonas’ boots scraping across the ground, her body aching. The farther they left the fight behind, the fewer people there were in the streets.

A shudder jolted through Jonas. After all this, had he just died? But the muscles beneath her grip tensed and released, and he grimaced. Not dead, then. Just cold.

A few stray Duffirk locals forced the pair to continue their charade well into the outer suburbs, where strings of damp laundry offered promise of disguise. Outside an isolated house on the outskirts of the city, Llew dragged Jonas up to a low fence.

“Sit,” she commanded as she eased him back. Now somewhat safe, his eyes opened and he took the weight of his own head. He also shivered.

She checked the narrow lane in both directions, looked across the field over the road. All clear. She stepped over the fence, keeping the hanging clothes between her and the house. Peering around a sheet, she made sure the yard was empty and she wouldn’t be seen from the house. All clear. Small mercies.

Llew commandeered a damp, loose green and white striped shirt and a long black coat and returned to Jonas.

“Are you still with me?”

He nodded, although he looked like he was about to pass out. She pulled him forward and slid the shirt across his shoulders.

“You’re going to have to walk. Can you walk?” She pulled one arm and then the other into the sleeves, fighting all the way, the damp material clinging to Jonas’s skin at every opportunity.

He nodded again, tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Don’t know if I can run, though.”

“Hopefully we won’t have to.” She passed the coat behind him. “But we’ve got to put some distance between us and Duffirk before Kadesh realizes I’m gone. All this with Braph and Aris will give us a start, but I’d hate to have to count on it.”

Gripping his arm, she hauled him to his feet.

Jonas took a tentative step and it was clear his right leg could barely take his weight. Llew slipped her arm behind him, hefting his across her shoulders. She still ached all over, but she would be using a new posture and set of muscles now. Let the mercies continue.

Few people were about this far from Duffirk’s center, so while Jonas’ darker skin drew the occasional dubious look they were few and far between and soon non-existent.

If they just kept going, everything would be all right.