Easy. Easy. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let this whole damned trip wear down your nerves.
Without a word Tarrant walked to the room’s small table and pulled out a chair for himself. Damien nodded to Hesseth, who followed suit, disentangling herself from Jenseny’s embrace with gentle care. When they all were seated, Damien pulled over the table lamp and lit it; light sputtered resentfully into being behind tinted glass, etching human and rakhene features in hard yellow highlights. The color made Tarrant’s eyes look feral, inhuman. More like his true self, Damien thought. It was a disquieting vision.
Sensing that the Hunter was about to make some deprecating comment about their lodgings, Damien said quickly, “It was safe. The first safe place we found.”
“The girl was having trouble-” Hesseth began.
“Ah, yes. The girl.” The pale eyes narrowed, fixed on that sleeping form. A thin frown of distaste curled the Hunter’s lips. “Do we know what she is yet? Has she chosen to share her precious knowledge with us? Or is she still just a parasitic cipher—”
“Don’t,” Damien warned. He felt his hand edging up toward his shoulder, toward where his sword would normally be harnessed; an instinctive gesture. “Don’t make it worse than it has to be.”
The Neocount’s expression was unusually cold, even for him. In recent days he had avoided the young girl’s company entirely, cutting short any discussion which centered on her. Now the hostility in him seemed more intense than Damien remembered from before, and the priest didn’t quite know how to account for it. When they’d first rescued the girl, Tarrant had been angry, yes, and justifiably suspicious, but not this openly hostile. Not this much like a snake with its fangs bared, ready to strike. It had all changed that night in the woods, he thought. The night Tarrant had dared to attack the girl, and Something had intervened. Could one brief incident change a man so drastically?
She saw his God, he reminded himself. He knew that instinctively for the truth, though he and the girl had never discussed it. And Tarrant knew it, too. He must. What a terrible thing that must be for him, to watch a stranger be granted the ultimate Vision while he was forbidden communion. And jealousy could spawn hatred, Damien thought. A uniquely vicious hatred. No wonder he had been on edge since then.
He forced himself not to address that issue, tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “The city has a safe harbor—”
“Closely guarded, no doubt.”
“You think the Matrias are looking for us this far south?” Hesseth asked.
“Without question,” Tarrant assured her. “I can see it in the currents. I can smell it in the winds. The whole city stinks of ambush.”
Damien felt his heart sinking in his chest as the words hit home. Not until this moment had he realized how much he’d been hoping that Tarrant would prove his suspicions wrong. “What, then? You have a suggestion?”
“We need to move quickly. Book passage across the water before the local Matria realizes we’re here. With a good enough Obscuring we might be able to hire a ship before—”
“Hold on,” Damien said sharply. “Just a minute. We were talking about collecting information when we got here, weren’t we? Trying to take the enemy’s measure before we decided what to do next. Wasn’t that the idea? I don’t like the concept of rushing over to the enemy’s turf before we even know—”
“Time is a luxury here,” the Hunter snapped. “And one we can’t afford. Do you think that the soldiers of the Matria will sit back and indulge us while we gather our maps and our notes and our courage? There’s a price on your heads—”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do,” he said coldly. “I know it for a fact. And I know the amount that’s been offered, as well, and it’s high enough to make every local contact suspect. Do you really want to stay here, under those circumstances? Do you really think you can accomplish so much here that it’s worth throwing your lives away?”
“The alternative doesn’t sound much better,” Hesseth challenged. “Blind flight . . . toward what? For what?”
“We need to get off this continent. We need to get beyond the reach of the Matrias’ network before it finds us. I understand that you’re uncomfortable with such a move—”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“—But I assure you, remaining in this city is the most dangerous thing we could do right now. Or in any city on this coast, for that matter.”
Damien shook his head. “The Matrias’ lands don’t trade with the southern kingdom, did you know that? They may not be technically at war, but they’re hostile enough. Travel between the two is strictly forbidden.”
“Yes,” the Hunter said dryly. “All commerce with the southern kingdom is forbidden.” His smooth voice dripped with disdain. “Do you think that stops it? Rule one of history is that trade goes on, priest. Always. It may give way for a time, say during a war—if a strong enough blockade is established—but as soon as there is a crack in one’s defenses, even a tiny flaw, traders will smell it out. Profit is every bit as powerful a motivator as patriotism, Vryce. Perhaps more so.”
“You’re saying there’ll be transportation.”
He nodded. “Without question.”
“Any suggestions on how to find it?”
“As a matter of fact, I have a name for you.” He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over; Damien unfolded it carefully, angling it so it would catch the light. Ran Moskovan, it said. Licensed port Angela Duro, #346-298-J. Beneath that was the name of a local bar, a street address, and a time. “Free merchanter by day, black marketeer by night. He’s got his own ship—streamlined and swift—and it’s got enough secret cubbyholes to make any smuggler green with envy. According to my Divining, he’s the safest bet we’ve got in this town. You’ll have to meet with him tomorrow and talk price.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suggest you be generous. Gold’s the only master such men pay heed to.”
“Easier said than done,” Damien muttered. He looked at Hesseth, who caught his meaning and reached into her pocket. A thin handful of coins was all she had, and she scattered them across the table. “I have about fifty left, that was on me when my horse went down. The rest is with my supplies—wherever the hell they are.”
“And it’s all northern coin, or foreign.” Hesseth pointed out. “A dead giveaway, if anyone knows to watch for it.”
The Hunter seemed undisturbed by the news. “Which is why I collected these.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small silken pouch. Mud-stained, Damien noted, or perhaps crusted with something worse. Wordlessly the Hunter pulled open the mouth of the pouch and spilled out a stream of gems across the tabletop, mud-covered and blood-splattered but undeniably precious.
“Where-” Hesseth gasped.
It took Damien a moment to make the obvious connection. “Terata?”
Tarrant nodded. “It occurred to me then that we might need capital. I must admit that the thought of using Calesta’s offerings—”
There was a moan from the couch. Low, barely voiced, but so resonant with pain that even Tarrant fell suddenly silent, and twisted about to look that way. It was the girl. She was awake now, and her eyes were wide, her body trembling. It was hard to read her expression. Fear? Surprise? Confusion?