“Or perhaps you just know less than a dead gnat,” Arlie said, stepping in front of Jeff. His elegant bow revealed a dancing master somewhere in his past. ‘Trooper Arlis of the King’s Road Patrol, South, Horse. Stay with me, Fair Rose, and I will show you the treasures of the world—”
“At least those housed at the Copper Pig,” I said, naming a notorious tavern just outside the town walls. I thrust both of them back and stood in front of the two lowly troopers, spread eagle. “Lieutenant Lord Chause, at your service.” I smiled at Rosea, ignoring the cold tingle that coursed down my spine. “My friends call me Rabbit.”
“What friends?” Arlie muttered, while Jeff blew a muted raspberry.
Rosea pretended not to hear them as she gave another gurgle, eyeing the butterflies. “Rabbit? Such a funny name, my lord.” She started as her companion thumped her side. “But so charming!” she added quickly.
“And I, my lord, gracious sirs, am her brother, Rodolfo,” the skinny man said. He gave a flourish of his many-colored cape as he bowed again and, for a moment, his dark brown eyes seemed to flash blue in the autumn sunlight. I blinked at how suddenly familiar the master player looked.
“Have we met?” I asked, frowning.
“I don’t believe so, my lord,” Rodolfo said. “Perhaps you’ve seen us perform before. This is my traveling troupe, Rodolfo’s Players. I bear full blame for our choice of play.”
I doubted that I’d seen any play he’d mounted—I would’ve remembered Rosea. “There’s no blame to you, Master Rodolfo. However, as two important visitors from the Border are in Freston, maybe we should discuss what material would be appropriate.” I smiled at his sister. “The Hart’s Leap sets an excellent morning table.”
Rodolfo gave a sigh of regret. “I cannot at present, my lord, due to my press of duties. But my sister knows our book as well as I. Perhaps you could take her?”
Grinning in triumph, I offered my arm. “With pleasure—” There was a cold touch on the back of my neck. Scowling, I straightened.
“My lord?” Rosea asked, her hand hovering where my arm was a moment ago.
I bowed once more. “Beg pardon—”
There was another touch and my hand shot up to my nape, catching a hint of fingers. That was too much. I glared over my shoulder.
“What?” Jeff asked as Arlie innocently blinked at me.
“Is everything all right, my lord?” Rodolfo asked.
I pasted a smile on my face and turned back to the players. “Yes, of course—”
This time the touch ran down my spine, and I spun completely around. “Not funny, lads.”
“What’d we do?” Arlie asked, his hands tucked into his cloak against the nipping autumnal chill. Jeff shrugged at me, his own hands resting on his sword belt.
“Truly, my lord,” Rodolfo said, puzzled, “they’ve not moved.”
Wondering if one of the butterflies had managed to fall down my tabard, I squinted down at them on my shoulder. However, all were present and accounted for, and they looked back at me, also puzzled. Deciding that maybe it was just the itch of my new winter woolens, I took a deep breath—and let it out again in a whoosh as I felt the touch again, a cold lingering brush that started at my neck and once more followed my spine. At the same time, the truth rune on my palm went numb again.
“Pox-rotted damnation!” I jerked away from the unwanted caress. Snatching off my glove, I traced fire as the wind began to swirl around me, lifting the butterflies’ wings.
“Bones and bloody ashes, Rabbit!” Jeff said, dancing back as Arlie made shocked noises. “What the sodding hell are you doing?”
“If this isn’t convenient, my lord,” Rodolfo said, “we can meet another day.” He grabbed Rosea by the arm and started edging away. “Perhaps tomorrow. Or even next time we come through town.”
I felt the touch return even through the fire and wind, and I batted at it but it flitted away, only to return again. The butterflies leapt up and began fluttering in agitation about my head as the wind swirled faster, starting to howl. At the same time, dark clouds rapidly filled the sky and thunder boomed. Lightning crackled, grounding itself in my staff and then arcing into the fire tracery around me, turning into sheets of flame in the sudden downpour. The deadness in my rune began to creep up my arm.
“Damn it, Rabbit, stop!” shouted Arlis over the howling wind, pounding rain, and the screams and shrieks of the people in the square. Another bolt of lightning split the sky, drowning out the rest of his words.
The touch evaded my attempt to knock it away, and moved to my forehead, paused, then slipped over my eyes, nose and mouth, to stroke down my throat and rest over my pounding heart. Snarling, I feinted and then, coming back the other way, managed to grab hold of what felt like a hand. I squeezed, twisting, and in the middle of my private storm heard the crack of bones and a faint cry of pain. Immediately, the phantom hand dissolved in my grip. Teeth still bared, I waited a moment or two, but whoever was making free with my person did not return. The numbness faded and my own hand was suddenly filled with prickling heat.
Breathing as if I’d just gone fifteen rounds with the village strongman, I let the wind, rain and fire die, and looked around. And winced. Jeff, Arlis and I stood in the middle of an almost empty square, with no trace of Rodolfo or Rosea anywhere. What Harvest decorations remained were torn and dripping, branches were ripped off of trees, windows broken. And among the dropped packages, baskets, cloaks and other soggy belongings, were people who’d been knocked down and trampled by the fleeing.
“Don’t stop now,” Arlis said, his voice acid as he wiped the rain from his eyes. “You left out earthquakes, lava flows and tidal waves.”
Jeff said nothing, glowering through the wet hair plastered against his face. Beyond him, down one of the streets, I could see several of the town Watch moving towards us at a fast trot, their faces grim. Off in the distance another trumpet blare sounded as the dark clouds scudded away. More aristos arriving to add to the crowding of both Freston proper and its garrison.
I, though, wouldn’t have to worry about sharing my bunk with some snooty lord’s armsman. I closed my eyes as the watchmen surrounded us, the wind gently murmuring as the butterflies settled down on my shoulder. I was going to new quarters—the town’s jail.
Chapter Two
Freston is a small town nestled in a bowl-like valley at the junction of the King’s Road and two mountain trade routes. Its garrison’s official duty is to protect merchants’ caravans from those desperate enough to descend to banditry in the northern marches. Which was why several units patrolled the King’s Road, but only one patrolled the mountains, even though it was in the mountains that the bandits had their strongholds. (One of the lads at the garrison called this army intelligence. Remembering my da’s experience with our Weald, I told him governing councils had the same disease.)
Only the hardiest and most determined of merchants came as far as Freston, as our sister town, Cosdale, was the more favored stop. South and east of us, Cosdale sat lower in the mountain ranges and so its winters weren’t as harsh and long. It was also larger, with more shops, inns, taverns and a Theater Square with two playhouses, all of which the troopers garrisoned there never failed to point out whenever we couldn’t avoid them.
However, both Freston and Cosdale were cast into deep shade by Gresh, to the southwest. Gresh was a true city, sprawling at the nexus of six trade routes, one of which was the Banson River that flowed the length of Iversterre down to the sea. Trade traffic converged on Gresh to ride the river boats to the Royal City of Iversly and its port, allowing Gresh to bill itself as the gateway to civilization.