“You hurt?”
“Why are you shouting?” the other one, Armin, asked him.
Chard glanced up and shrugged. “She went down like a one-bit whore, I thought she was hurt.”
“But why,” Armin sighed, “were you shouting?”
“In case she doesn’t speak Imperial.”
“She speaks Imperial.”
Chard moved away as the officer, Captain Reiter, came to stand over her. Mirian didn’t look up. She wasn’t entirely certain she could; her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“How do you know, Cap? She hasn’t said nothing.”
“She’s been listening too intently for someone who doesn’t understand what’s being said.”
Mirian heard Chard and Armin move away and the captain move closer. She couldn’t stop herself from crying out as he cupped her jaw and lifted her head.
“I’m not hurting you, I…”
Blinking away tears, she gritted her teeth as he tilted her head to better see the bruising under her chin.
“Chard.”
“It wasn’t while we had her, Cap. Must’ve happened in the river.”
“If I find out…”
“It happened in the river.” Chard hadn’t exactly been kind, and he’d had his hand on her bottom as often as the terrain made the excuse plausible, but he hadn’t needed to wait for an excuse and he hadn’t been cruel and he hadn’t looked at her like Best had. Like she was something he’d found on his shoe in the gutter. When the captain frowned, she added, “The current pulled the oar from my hand and it hit me.”
“You speak Imperial very well.”
“My father is a banker.” She paused to wet dry lips. “He says money doesn’t stop at borders.”
He was studying her face, so she studied his. Late twenties, maybe early thirties—he had the look of a life lived hard. Pock marks on one cheek and the thin white line of an old scar through an eyebrow and across his temple—old enough he must’ve been a boy when he got it. His eyes were a sort of mix of blue and gray and his hair a sort of mix of blond and brown. Not mixed the way Pack hair was mixed but lighter where it had been longer in the sun. His face was narrow with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, his stubble darker and redder than his hair. There was a newer scar just visible above the collar of his uniform. His eyelashes were absurdly long and thick and his lower lip had a sort of dimple in the middle of it.
Objectively, he wasn’t unattractive.
Except that he was an enemy who’d taken her captive along with five members of the Mage-pack, killed at least one coachman and two Pack, and it was impossible for her to be objective regarding him. Given a chance, she’d push him off a cliff and laugh as he hit the ground. Well, maybe not laugh, but she’d definitely see it as justice served.
“You saw us take the others on the road,” he said at last. “So you know this has nothing to do with you personally.”
A part of her wanted to tell him that he’d made a mistake, that she wasn’t the mage he’d been searching for. A larger part of her realized that he’d have no reason to leave her alive if he knew his mistake. A very small part looked forward to the amount of trouble the captain was going to be in if he showed up with her instead of a sixth member of the Mage-pack. Her lip dragged as she bared her teeth. “And yet, I’m taking it personally. Funny that.”
Chard snickered.
“Chard, get wood for a fire. A small one. We don’t want to attract attention. Are you thirsty?”
It took Mirian a moment to realize the last question had been directed at her. Pride warred with thirst and, finally, she nodded.
“Armin. Tie her hands around this tree and leave her with a canteen. You’ll eat what we eat later,” he added.
She whimpered as Armin pulled her arms out in front of her body, unable to move them herself. When the captain turned away, a muscle jumping in his jaw, she whimpered again. She wouldn’t be her mother’s daughter if she didn’t know how to use guilt as a weapon.
The water was warm and tasted of the inside of the canteen. It was awkward drinking it around the sapling, but it was still the best water she’d ever tasted.
By the time the soldiers had the fire going, it was full dark. Heavy cloud covered the moon, so even had the captain wanted to keep going, they couldn’t. From the way he kept glancing up at the sky, then back the way they’d come, Mirian suspected he wanted to. Smart man. The Pack Leader couldn’t cross the border, but Jaspyr Hagen could, and once he got her scent he’d be able to follow her to the ends of…
“Captain.” Best had his musket in his hand. “There’s something out there.”
All four of them froze and over the crackling of the fire and the beating of her own heart, Mirian could hear a crashing through the underbrush, a yelp of pain, more crashing, and a big black dog limped into the circle of light on three legs, the broken end of a rope trailing from around his neck. When it…no, when he saw the men, he dropped to his belly and crept forward, tail sweeping the ground.
The gunshot nearly stopped her heart, and she shrieked.
Branches broke. The dog yelped and ran.
Over by the fire, Chard held the end of Best’s musket and glared at him. “It’s a dog, you stupid prick! It had a rope around its neck. Probably some farm dog abandoned when the army rolled past. It broke free and it’s frightened and it came to the fire to find people and you tried to shoot it!”
Best yanked his weapon free. “It could’ve been one of the beastmen!”
“We’re in Pyrahn, and it had a rope around its neck!”
“I didn’t see the fucking rope!”
“I did!”
“You wouldn’t know the difference between a beastman and a dog if it licked your ass!”
Breath coming shallow and fast, Mirian fought with the confining weight of her skirts to put the sapling between herself and the soldiers. The captain turned toward her, noted her reaction to the gunshot, nodded, and turned away. He wouldn’t ask, he’d assume she’d lie, but he thought he could read the truth in her reaction.
“Sit down. Both of you.”
“Captain…”
“It had a rope around its neck, Best.”
“Sir, the size…”
“This close to the Aydori border, I expect large dogs are the rule.”
“You think the beastmen bred with…”
The captain raised a hand. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“No, sir. Me, either,” Best agreed, smirking.
Food kept them quiet. Mirian was nodding off, stretched out by the tree, her head against her arm, when she heard Chard murmur, “Who’s a good dog, then? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Come on, I won’t hurt you.”
The dog was a shadow against the ground, creeping forward toward Chard’s outstretched hand. His eyes locked on the Imperial soldier, he stretched out his neck and took the dried meat from Chard’s fingers. The next thing Mirian knew, he was on his back, three feet in the air, dark lines against the firelight, with Chard rubbing his belly.
“Who’s a good boy, eh? Who’s a good…” He paused when the dog yelped, bending forward. “He’s been shot, Cap. Wound’s up high on his shoulder. Feels like there might still be something there.”
“Leave it.”
Chard paused, his knife already in his hand. “But, Cap…”
“It’s a black dog on a dark night; you try to clear the wound by firelight and you’ll end up cutting off his leg. You can do it at dawn before you send him on his way.”
“But, Cap…”
“You’re not keeping him.”
Mirian laid her head back down again and closed her eyes. She’d need her strength later. She was dreaming about the opera, Captain Reiter singing the tenor role, when a cold nose stuffed into her ear woke her. Best snickered as she jerked and squeaked.