Obligingly, now that he understood her purpose, Dag followed Fawn’s gaze. One would not, presumably, carry food to a farm. The cloth and clothing for sale, new and used, likewise would seem foolish. His eye ran over the more permanent shops lining the square. “Tools? Scissors, needles? Something for her weaving or sewing?”
“She has a lot of those.” Fawn sighed.
“Something that gets used up, then. Dyes?” His voice faded in doubt. “Ah.
Likely not.”
“Mama did most of the coloring, though I do it nowadays. Wish I could get her something just for her.” Her gaze narrowed. “Furs… ?”
“Well, let’s look.” They dismounted, and Fawn looked over the tarp where a farmwoman offered some, in Dag’s expert view, rather inferior pelts; all common local beasts, raccoon and possum and deerhide.
“I can get her something much better, later,” Dag murmured, and with a grimace of agreement Fawn gave over poking through the sad piles. They strolled onward side by side, leading their horses.
Fawn stopped and wheeled, lips pursing, as they passed a narrow medicine shop tucked between a shoemaker and a barber-toothdrawer-scribe—it was unclear if the latter was all one man. The medicine shop had a broad window, with small square glass panes set in a bowed-out wooden frame to make a larger view. “I wonder if they sell scent water like what your patroller girls found in Glassforge?”
Or oil, Dag could not help wondering. They could stand to restock for future use, although the likelihood of immediate future use at the Bluefield homestead seemed remote. Whatever gratitude her family might feel for his bringing their only daughter back alive was unlikely to extend to letting them sleep together there. In any case, they tied their horses to one of the hitching rails conveniently lining the cobblestone sidewalk and went inside.
The shop had four kinds of scent water but only plain oil, which made Dag’s selection immediate. He occupied himself looking over the shop’s actually impressive stock of herbals, several of which he recognized as of high quality and coming from Lakewalker sources, while Fawn made herself redolent with happy indecision. Her choice finally made, they waited while their small purchases were wrapped. Or not so small in proportion to Fawn’s thin purse, Dag noted as she braced herself to trade out some of her few coins for the little luxury.
Outside, Dag tucked the packets away in his saddlebags and turned to give Fawn a leg up on the bay mare. She was standing staring at her saddle in dismay.
“My bedroll’s gone!” Her hand went to the dangling rawhide strings behind her cantle. “Did it drop on the road? I know I tied it on better than…”
His hand followed hers, and his voice tightened. “These are cut. See, the knots are still tied. Sneak thief.”
“Dag, the knife was in my bedroll!” she gasped.
He snapped open his groundsense, flinching as it was battered by the uproar pouring from all the people nearby. He searched through the noise for a faint, familiar chime. Just… there. His head came up, and he looked along the square to where a slight figure was disappearing between two buildings, the roll cast casually over his shoulder as though he owned it.
“I see it,” he said thickly. “Wait here!” His legs stretched as he followed after, not quite running. Behind him, he could hear Fawn demanding of passersby, Did you see anyone fooling around by our horses?
Dag tamped outrage down to annoyance, mostly at himself. If he’d been traveling through here with a group of patrollers, someone would always have been left with the horses as a routine precaution. So what had made him drop his guard?
Some misplaced sense of anonymity? The fact that if only he’d bothered to glance out the window, he could have kept an eye on the horses himself? If he’d left his groundsense more open, he might have picked up some restive response from Copperhead as a stranger came too near. Too late, never mind.
In an alley in back of the buildings he closed with his quarry. The boy was crouched behind a woodpile, and not alone; a much larger and older companion—brother, friend, thief-boss?—knelt with him as they spread open the bedroll to examine their prize.
The big man was saying disgustedly, “This is just some girl’s clothes. Why didn’t you pinch those saddlebags, you fool?”
“That red brute of a horse tried to kick me, and people were looking,” the boy replied in a surly tone. “Wait, what’s that?”
The big man lifted the sharing knife sheath by its broken strap; the pouch swung, and his hand went toward the bone hilt.
“Your death, if you touch it,” Dag snarled, coming up on them. “I’ll see to that.”
The boy took one look at him, yelped, and sprang away, casting a panicked glance over his shoulder as he ran. The big man, his eyes widening, shoved to his feet, hand closing on a stout log from the pile. It was plain that they were far past the point of lame explanations and apologies, sir, about mistaken ownership, even if the burly thief had possessed the wits and nerve to try to escape that way. He came around already swinging.
Dag flung up his arm to protect his face from a blow that would have caved it in. As it was, the oak log connected with his forearm with a sickening thud, and he was bashed by his own arm-plus-log so hard as to be knocked half off his feet. Hot agony burst in his forearm. No chance to go for his knife, but the hook-and-spring presently attached to his left arm cuff doubled as a weapon of no small menace; the big man ducked back in fright as Dag’s return swing grazed his throat. Rapidly revising his chances against this unexpected unhanded reprisal—brighter than he looked?—the would-be thief dropped both knife pouch and log and galloped after his smaller partner.
Fawn and a party of three or four Lumpton locals rounded the corner as Dag staggered upright again. Quietly, he flipped a corner of the blanket over the leather pouch with a booted toe.
“Dag, are you all right?” Fawn cried in alarm. “Your nose is bleeding!”
Dag could feel a wet trickle over his lip, and licked at it, unmistakable iron tang. He tried to raise his hand to touch his throbbing face but found it would not work properly. Drawing breath through his teeth in a long hiss at the flaring pain, he searched his mind for curses and found none strong enough.
His groundsense, turned in upon himself, left him in no doubt. He wheeled away, bent over, and spat blood and fury on the ground before turning back to her. “Nose is all right,” he mumbled in frustrated wrath. “Right arm’s broken. Blight it!”
Chapter 13
Their hostelry in Lumpton Market turned out to be an elderly inn just off the straight road north from town. Fawn thought it a sad comedown from the fine hotel in Glassforge, for it was small and grubby, if not without a certain air of shabby comfort. Further, it demanded cash money even from patrollers. In summer, however, patrons were sent out back of the kitchen to eat their dinners on plank tables and benches under some graceful old black walnut trees overlooking the side road, much better than the dank common room. Looking around curiously, Fawn saw no other Lakewalkers here tonight, just a quartet of teamsters at one table intent on their beer and, beyond them, a farm couple busy with a pack of noisy young children. Even with his height, striking looks, and splinted arm in a sling, Dag drew only brief stares, and Fawn felt reassuringly unnoticed in his shadow.
Dag slumped onto his bench with an understandably tired grunt, and Fawn slid in at his right. She plucked loose the ties of the lumpy leather wrap he’d directed she bring from his saddlebag, unrolling it to find it contained an array of extra devices for his wrist cuff. “Goodness, what are all these?”