We watched them go inside a little shanty, in front of which the saw’s former owner and another Lorandian sat around a campfire. Jago picked up his goods and beckoned me back to the sleigh. Away from Lorandian eyes and ears, we sat together in the dark hold and finally conversed freely. “Was he one of them?” Jago asked immediately.
“Yes—the one who hit Alan and faced me down.”
“Didn’t you face him down? Regardless, I think after seeing him just now, it’s safe to say the Icori robbers were imposters. And we’ve got the mittens as proof too.”
I’d put them on, happy to have their warmth back. “Except nobody in Constancy—besides Alan—really saw the mittens. So there’s not much in the way of evidence, aside from our word. Actually, it’ll just be your word, since I can’t go back.”
“Not sure how much my word will be worth there. The Icori would believe me—or at least seriously consider what I had to say—but that won’t matter if Grashond escalates hostilities.”
“We need to show the town’s council some item that was unquestionably taken that day, something that can’t be duplicated. If you can bring that back from the Lorandians, they’ll see that the thieves weren’t Icori. Do you think any of the other items are here?”
“I think it’s likely some are. He said he had fur and wool clothes to trade, but half the guys around here will too. Could be hard to prove something like that came from the Constancy raid.”
“Maybe the hornbook?” I mused. “I think Lev’s name was on it.”
Jago stretched back against the sleigh’s side, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, maybe in the morning, we could find him and say we need fur. That might be an opening to check out anything else he has.”
“It still won’t tell us why the Lorandians would go to so much trouble for these stunts.”
“No, but I’ll settle for simply convincing the Icori and the colonists that the other didn’t attack.”
He checked the horses and made our seed-bag beds again. As he did, I sat wrapped under a blanket and observed that a handful of Lorandians were still up and around, some in earnest conversation and others drinking and laughing.
“Are we safe out here?” I asked Jago. “Do we need to keep watch overnight?” No one had threatened us, but a few of the traders had given off a hard, mercenary vibe, and I certainly knew what the man with the blond beard was capable of.
“I don’t think we have much to worry about. I’m sure there are a few transients who’d be all for robbing a colonial trader, but some—like Marcel—value me too much as a partner. That, and half of them think you’re a witch.”
“But that one asked me for a fortune.”
“Yeah, the Lorandians see it as sorcery, but at the same time, they have a secret fascination with it.” He held out another blanket. “Want it?”
“Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever truly be warm in Adoria.”
“I like your optimism.” He set a rifle into his half of the hold and reached for the oilcloth cover.
“Why the gun? You said we don’t have much to worry about.”
“Eh, I’m just making sure we don’t have anything to worry about.”
I couldn’t fall asleep. Too many things played through my mind. Even though it had seemed less and less likely the men by the pond were Icori, having it confirmed absolutely drove up the peculiarity—and danger—of the situation. The Lorandians were purposely misleading my people and the Icori. To what end? Making life difficult for the colonists was one thing, but inciting a war was a whole other matter. I’d liked the Icori I met, and despite my harsh treatment in Constancy, I’d liked plenty of its residents too. Chester Woods, the cobbler, the children, Gideon . . .
I didn’t want anyone on either side hurt, and it was maddening to have proof of the deception appear so obvious to me . . . but not necessarily to others. Hopefully, we could find an innocent way to see the big Lorandian’s other goods. Jago’s persuasive powers weren’t foolproof, though. It was too bad I didn’t actually have mystical ones to lend him . . .
I sat up, my heart pounding rapidly. On one side of me, I could hear Jago’s steady breathing. On the other, scattered voices from the Lorandian post. Gingerly, I pushed up the oilcloth and leaned over the partition toward Jago’s side. It was too dark to see, but he inhaled and exhaled with the deepness of sleep and didn’t stir at the sound of the oilcloth rustling. Retreating to my side, I felt around for the bag of reed. Once I found it, I regretfully unwrapped my blankets and climbed out of the sleigh as quietly as I could.
Outside, I smoothed the oilskin cover back and stood very still, waiting to see if I’d disturbed Jago. I hadn’t. Closing my eyes, I took a moment to steel myself and then strode boldly forward, back to the camp.
I walked through it with purpose, barely sparing a glance for the Lorandians still awake. They looked at me, though—most with simple curiosity, others with apprehension. Chin up and eyes fixed ahead of me, I made my way toward the shanty that the boy and bearded man had gone into earlier. They were still up, sitting around the fire with two others—including the man who’d traded Jago the saw.
The group’s conversation stopped at my approach. I stood before them and kept my face expressionless as I let my gaze sweep each face. After a bit of suspense, I focused on the man who’d asked Jago if I told fortunes. Never taking my eyes from his, I reached into my burlap bag and produced one of the silvery black rocks. I held it up and pointed at him.
He flinched, nearly dropping a brown bottle he’d been drinking from. I stayed motionless and just waited. Swallowing, he asked in Lorandian why I was here. The young trader told him in a loud whisper that I didn’t know Lorandian, so the man switched. “What—that is, will you read my fortune?”
I nodded and waited again. “What do you want?” he asked uneasily. The group’s fourth man gave a Lorandian suggestion I understood perfectly: “Pay her.”
My “client” stood up and fumbled with his money bag. When he set a copper coin in my palm, I gave it a scathing look and then locked gazes with him. One of the others snickered. With a sigh, the man exchanged the copper for a silver, and I slipped it into my coat pocket. It was kind of amazing how much you could say without speaking a word.
I pointed at the shanty. Ordinarily, I’d expect to fear going off alone with a rough stranger like this, but it was clear I was the one who made him nervous. Nonetheless, he opened the door and gestured me in. As he followed, I heard one of the others murmur an angelic benediction.
Loud snoring promptly told me we were not, in fact, alone. My companion lit a lantern, revealing a small room crammed with dirty pallets and piles of boxes, bags, and furs. It smelled like sweat and rotting food. He shook a blanket-wrapped form on one of the pallets, and another man jumped up, swearing in Lorandian. After a brief argument, the sleeper left, grumbling, his steps quickening when he caught sight of me.
Once alone with me, my companion haphazardly shoved items aside to clear a spot. We knelt down opposite one another, and I spread my hands out, making a gesture that was half shrug and half Well? Go ahead.
He licked his lips a few times. “Eh, what now?”
I repeated the motion.
“Do I . . . that is, can I ask you a question? Will your spirits answer it?”
I nodded.
“Okay.” Looking away, he turned contemplative. His face appeared troubled, but by his own thoughts now, not me. After a long drink from the brown bottle he’d carried in, he lifted his eyes. “Will she ever love me?”
It was hard to keep my face straight. I hadn’t expected that sort of question from a man like him, certainly not spoken with such intensity and emotion. Hastily, I motioned for him to continue. I was going to need more to work with to understand him and accomplish my original goal. Fortunately, he was more than happy to elaborate.
His scarred face crumpled. “I
know I’m not good enough for her. I’ve seen the way her family looks at me. They see me come through on my trips and criticize how I won’t stay put. I think it bothers them more than where I’m from. They want her to marry a farmer like her father, but she still hasn’t. And she always seems glad to see me.” He took another drink and looked at me beseechingly. “Can you ask your spirits? Is there a chance? Will she love me one day?”
I took the black stones and rolled them over the dirty floor. When they stopped moving, I leaned close and scrutinized them, acting as though I was receiving all sorts of information. After almost five tension-filled minutes, he exclaimed in Lorandian, “Angels’ mercy!” Then in Osfridian: “What do they say, witch? Will Gwen love me?”
Slowly, cruelly, I lifted my face toward his. After a few more beats, I nodded.
He fell forward, burying his face in his hands and rattling off Lorandian prayers of thanks. When he’d recovered, he looked at me again and asked, “What do I have to do?”
I stood up and walked around, trying to make sense of the cluttered shanty. Although not obvious at first, the clutter did seem to be divided four ways. I pointed at one pile and looked at him. He shook his head, puzzled. “What? That’s not mine.” I repeated this act until he indicated his belongings, which seemed to be composed of hides, felt, and more brown bottles.
Ignoring it, I turned my attention to the other traders’ heaps, unclear which might belong to the large man with the tawny hair and beard. I began rifling through the items, eliciting surprise from my Lorandian companion, though he was too afraid to stop me. I knew when I at last came across the bearded man’s things because they contained Lev’s hornbook, Gideon’s belt buckle, and a few other notable trinkets. But I didn’t stop or call attention to them. Instead, I finished my sweep of all the piles and then returned to the watching man.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Please, what do I have to do?”
I held up five fingers, and after a little deduction, he gathered that I had five orders. First, I pointed at his belongings and made a sweeping gesture, like I was gathering it all up. I hid my fist away and took out the silver coin.
“Sell it?” he asked uncertainly. “Trade?”
I nodded, letting him interpret that as he wished. Next, I picked up a plate from one of his shanty-mate’s items, displaying a painted pastoral scene. I tapped the house, and after a few tries, he guessed that he was to get a house. For my third instruction, I picked up a potato from a bag of food, and he immediately guessed, “I should grow potatoes.” It confirmed what I’d thought by the name Gwen. It was an Osfridian name, almost exclusively used by those from the Flatlands region. I knew many had settled in Archerwood and grew potatoes and other root vegetables. His beloved was the daughter of a Flatlander farmer.
The golden ring I pointed to in someone’s trunk had an unmistakable meaning. After returning it, I left the jumble of objects alone and stood over him with my hands on my hips.
“That was four,” he said. “What’s the fifth thing I have to do to win her love?”
I picked up the brown bottle, getting a strong whiff of whiskey, and poured it into a chamber pot.
“Hey!” He sprang up in shock but didn’t touch me. He watched the last of the whiskey drip away and sighed. When I put the pot’s lid back on and stared at him, he gave a weak nod. “Yes. I understand.” He took the empty bottle from me, and even though I’d put back the plate, potato, and ring, his eyes traveled to where they’d come from. “And when I do these things, when I have the money to buy a house and farm, then I can marry her, and she’ll love me?”
I pointed at the whiskey bottle.
“I’ll stop. I’ll stop if it’ll get me Gwen. Will it? Do your gods swear it?”
I didn’t feel guilty when I nodded once more. Would it win her? Maybe. He’d claimed she liked him. I couldn’t know the whole story, but I felt mostly confident that, one way or another, his life would improve for the better if he stopped drinking and moved out of this place. Sniffling, he covered his face with his great hands and tried to muffle his sobs. I gathered my rocks and retreated over to a corner to give him space. When he settled down a few minutes later, he wiped his face and stood up. He regarded me calmly, his cheeks red and blotchy but his eyes remarkably serene. “G-gormat. Gormat.”
I smiled, recognizing the Icori word for “thank you.” Job done, I headed for the door, pausing to give him back the silver coin. “It’s your payment,” he said. “Why are you returning it?”
“Gwen,” I answered. I left him there gaping, and it was hard to say if he was more astonished that I’d broken my silence or contributed toward his house fund. There was no way I could have kept that coin, though.
I stepped outside, just in time to see Jago tearing through the camp with the rifle, his face ablaze. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Where is—” Both his words and his feet stopped abruptly when he saw me. Outrage turned to confusion. He looked me over, checking for distress, and then studied those nearby. “What’s . . . going on?”
No one answered. I smiled and glided forward, linking my arm through his. He allowed me to lead him away, and we walked out of the silent camp, Lorandian gazes following us.
As soon as we were back in the privacy of the sleigh, the expected outburst came. What I didn’t expect was to be wrapped up in a fierce embrace. “Tamsin! Are you okay? Do you have any idea how much you scared me?”
“I’m sorry, Jago.” I rested my head against him a few more moments before gently pulling away. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about how we need to give the council hard proof. And then I had an idea for what to do—how to check out that man’s possessions.”
Jago lit a lantern, and there was not even the slightest whisper of amusement in his typically carefree face as he helped me into the sleigh. “I’m not surprised you had some flash of inspiration. It’s what you do. Just please make sure the next time you do it, you bring me along! Six. I thought one of them had carried you off.”
“I mean it, I’m sorry.” He didn’t look mad as we settled across from one another, but he didn’t look happy either. “Drained” was probably the best description. “I didn’t want to wake you because I wasn’t sure you’d let me go.”
“Like I could let or not let you do anything. At most, I’d just strongly protest.”
“Well, I didn’t want that either. And I think it was better I was alone. They’re more afraid of me than of you, you know.”
Some of the tension had faded from his features, and although he was still wound up from the scare, I could detect a glimmer of amusement—grim amusement, perhaps—in him. “What did you do?”
“Strangely enough, I counseled someone on how to find love and happiness. Oh, and I also encouraged him to take up potato farming.”
Jago’s smile returned, but it had a rueful quality. “Tamsin, don’t tease me. I’ve gone through enough tonight.”
I reached for the bag of stones and, with a flourish worthy of him, pulled out a fur-lined child’s coat. “Does this look like teasing?”
Jago took it and held it near the lantern, where we could just barely read AJM lovingly handstitched in the back of the collar.
“The coat Alan Morwell’s mother made for him,” Jago said in awe. “Tamsin, how do you do these things?”
I scooted over to him so that we could sit side by side against the hold’s edge. “I haven’t really done anything outlandish since I broke out of captivity. I didn’t want you to get bored.”
He lifted the coat up one more time, shook his head, and carefully placed the garment into another bag. “There was no danger of that, but thank you for thinking of me. Besides, you’re forgetting that you nearly poked my eye out the other night.”
“I did forget about that, didn’t I? Oh, and I suppose that’s not the only thing.”
I reached out and took his hand, entwining
my fingers with his. Looking down in momentary surprise, he shifted so that our hands were linked a little tighter. With a half-smile playing at his lips, he leaned his head back against the hold in contentment.
“No commentary?” I asked, not entirely faking my astonishment.
The smile twitched. “I’m afraid I’ll lose this if I say something. Safer to stay quiet.”
“Have you ever said that before?”
“Hush, and let me enjoy this.”
I leaned back with him, basking in the buzz of unexpected warmth inside me. Turning, I studied his profile in the lantern’s glow, intrigued by how the light picked out so many different shades of gold, everything from a deep bronze to a few strands that had been bleached almost platinum by the sun. Gideon might never have been a legitimate romantic option, but like everyone else, I’d admired his classic good looks. Jago was a jumble of contradictions by comparison. Nothing matched or stayed consistent, be it his eyes or his hair or even the lopsided way he smiled when particularly amused. I liked the contradictions, though. The sum of his imperfections seemed to create a special type of perfection that I found myself increasingly taken in by.
Sensing my scrutiny, he turned his head so we looked each other in the eye. “Yes, Tamsin?”
“We’re the same height,” I mused. “Not sure I ever noticed that before.”
“Most women notice it right away.”
“I like it. It seems . . . convenient.”
He rested his free hand on my cheek, lightly running his fingertips along it before he leaned in and brought his face toward mine. My heart beat so heavily, it was impossible he couldn’t hear it. And the sleigh’s snug hold suddenly seemed smaller than ever because the intensity of his presence filled up every space. I was starting to close my eyes when he stopped, our mouths a few inches apart.
He stroked the side of my face again, sighed, and let his hand drop. “I’ve taken a lot of risks in my days of deal making, but there are some even I’m afraid of.”