observations #1

observations #1

would that i could give

my ears for rain or heart

for mists my eyes for pink

painted in the cloud-

gaps with aimless strokes; watercolor

spilling over the brims onto

dry, whispering lips

Miguel

     Miguel Salazar, if pressed to describe himself, would ask you to kindly leave him alone. He wasn't given over to thinking about that because there was no need to. He would be himself whether he meditated on it or not. What needed his sharp mind's attention was the world around him, which had the tendency to twitch about in a million directions at once. If he was not constantly watching, it would shake itself until the new shape was nothing like what he knew; it had happened before. Even Carolbury could be that way.

      Sitting at the bus stop and sending his eyes darting over everything, he could manage to break a sweat even in the chill of January. Every day when the bus came he chose the same seat at the back, beneath an ever-noisy air-conditioning unit which set him at ease whether humming to ward off the heat of summer or rattling along with everyone's teeth in winter.

      These bus rides were unbearable. People did not move, but everything went rushing about them nonetheless. He marveled at times that the friction of everything scraping past so many people did not light them aflame, but this marvel was short-lived. Inevitably, he would remember that they had the good fortune to have him riding in the back, watching, holding them portraits with his perspective. He would never be thanked for this work solely because people liked to frivolously ask others to describe themselves.

      Miguel heaved a great sigh of relief at the end of each trip and walked from the corner of his street up the row of same houses to his particular same house, entered and announced himself.

      'I'm home,' he said, pulling out his handkerchief and patting away a few beads of sweat.

      'Yeah,' came the inevitable response from further in. He traced it back into the kitchen where a young girl sat at the counter, her legs not quite reaching down the length of her stool. Miguel couldn't make out her expression behind her curtain of brown hair, but saw the pencil in her hand scratching rapidly away on the paper before her, the hefty textbook wide open.

      'Do you need any help?'

      'No.'

      'Right. Dinner's in the fridge.'

      'Yeah.'

      With that, he retired to his bedroom and tuned in to the local news, one final glance at the world around him to make sure it would survive a few hours while he slept. Satisfied that this was the case after an hour, he let his exhaustion overtake him.

      When he woke up, he found that Sunday had snuck up on him and set itself up in Saturday's place some time during the night. 'No one's perfect', he allowed himself to concede, after which he got up, showered, put on his Sunday semi-finest and stepped into the kitchen. There was the girl again, without papers or books this time, just herself and her white. White sandals, white dress, white hat. She sat there, kicking her feet, the other side of the same brown curtain drawn across her face.

      'Let's go,' she said matter-of-factly while Miguel looked for something worth saying. He ended up nodding mutely, watching as she slid herself from the stool and turned to face him. One wide eye studied him with the same detachment one might study a mold, while the other was shut tightly. Permanently shut. The scar tissue that reached down from the left of her face to encircle her neck had not been discolored for a few years, but it still had its snake-like shape, still seemed a snake to him. Just as abruptly as it became visible, it was shrouded again as the long strands of brown fell into their needed place.

      When he stood with her in God's house, he couldn't look at her, because everyone else already had that covered, and because if there was one portrait he didn't want to hold as it was...

The Cat's Eye, Book I, Part X

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part X

 

The next morning saw Kion’s band quickly pulling up camp and loading everything into their ox-drawn wagons. The clouds that had loomed overhead days before had finally cleared with not a drop of rain, giving way to the pale light of a deep autumn sun, the winds calm. Many of the soldiers had shed their coats, and their talk had the ease of friends on an idle stroll as they set out on the road.

Traleau couldn’t recall anything more surprising in his life than the casual way in which the warriors all throughout their caravan approached him. He’d met hardly any of them the night before, but word spread quickly, it seemed, and men and women came by in groups to satisfy their curiosity about ‘the circus boy.’ He’d imagined having to prove himself at first, he’d imagined disdain from hardened killers; the best he’d dared to hope for was disinterest.

Yet, as they marched along, he could not help but notice that The Priest had not spoken to him since he’d decided to join up with the group. He’d sought him out as soon as he’d woken up, but when he found him, the young man wouldn’t meet his eyes, and ignored his voice. He couldn’t begin to guess what that meant, but it grated at the back of his mind.

For that matter, none of those he was actually familiar with had come to speak to him. He knew Kion was well up the road, leading the caravan personally, with Silvertongue close at hand, but the others who’d gathered around that fire to welcome him into the band--the ‘Named,’ Kion called them--were nowhere to be found. He wondered if, after everything he’d gone through in such a short time, he’d be expected to fade into the ranks like any other recruit, and was anxious to know what the leaders had in mind for him.

“Spare some words for your thoughts?” someone asked.

“Huh?” Traleau noticed the people he’d been talking to had melded back into the crowd, and now only one man kept pace with him. He had a weather-beaten face, dark brown eyes set deep into it, his smile yellowed but big. He was, Traleau guessed, younger than he looked.

“You’re looking like you’re thinking real hard about something. I’m wondering what.”

Traleau considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “Just wondering what’s next.”

“More marching. Really, that’s most of the job,” the man replied.

“I mean . . . for me. I left everything to join because Kion said he could help me, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Nothing, I don’t think,” the man said. “If the boss says he’d help you, he will, don’t you worry about that. He’ll tell you what needs doing when the time comes. The name’s Soln, by the way.” He thrust his meaty hand out, taking Traleau’s and shaking it in his rock-solid grip.

“Traleau.”

“Yep, our famous circus boy. Word ‘round the group is you’re a fine hand with a knife, and not just for show.”

“Where did you hear that from?”

“Well, all ‘round, really, but Stonebreaker’s the one that started it. You must be something special to get him to take a shining to you.” Traleau had to fight hard not to shiver at the name, to keep the boiling in his blood down. “He says he thinks you’ll be Named for sure.”

“What do the names mean?” Traleau asked.

“It means you’re one of the strongest in the band. You prove that, Kion gives you a name that fits, and you throw away your old one.” Soln grinned. “It’s an honor, but it’s a different sort of person as can earn it in this lot.”

“Different how?”

“Well, I’m no philosopher,” Soln began, clearly settling into something he’d thought over many times, “but the way I see it, not everyone ends up doing what they’re made for. The gods make us good for some things, but that doesn’t mean we do that. So, you see, this lot’s plenty strong, strongest in the world I’d dare say, but some of us weren’t made for fighting, and some of us are.”

“Me, I just couldn’t hack it as a farmer, but I know my way around a spear and an axe, so I signed up with Kion to make some coin, and when I’ve enough I’m settling down and getting a wife. But the Named, they’re the kind that’re made for it. They’ll keep on fighting, and they’ll die fighting.”

Soln looked quite satisfied with himself, but Traleau couldn’t appreciate his sense of the dramatic--the thought of a life meant only for fighting sat heavy on his heart. He was relieved to remember other, less laden questions as quickly as he did.

“How big is this group?”

“Something like a hundred-twenty, but it changes quick enough. Biggest I ever saw it, we had near a hundred-fifty.” Soln threw his hands up quickly. “It’s not like you’re thinking, though. Most folk leave this band alive. Usually only four or five dead in a year, I think. But folk tire out, get too old, get enough money or join up with some other lot. It’s not hard to find able hands looking to replace them, what with the boss’s reputation.”

“I’ve been a lot of places with the circus and I’ve heard his name all over.”

“Oh, sure. Even saying you’re working for him changes how some folk treat you.”

Traleau wasn’t sure what to make of the difference between the reputation and the man. Even though he kept to himself, he had spent years observing others, sizing them up for the sake of his act--a process that had become instinct--and yet Kion barely gave any impression at all, let alone a commanding one. He reminded himself he had to have some way of keeping someone like Stonebreaker in line, but it defied his imagination.

“Do you know where he comes from?” he asked. Soln chuckled.

“There are more stories about that than you can guess. I like the one that says an old war god shot a fireball from his ass and Tshio Kion came bursting out of it with a sword in each hand, thirsting for blood.” A few of the mercenaries in ear shot snickered, and Soln played at gnashing his teeth. “Truth is, far as anyone knows, he just showed up in the north and had people telling stories inside a year.”

“Medicine Man was with him from the start, right?” a man nearby asked.

“Ah, yeah, true, not that he’s ever said a damn thing about it. But next thing you know, he’s taking on hands. Guess I was younger than you, back then.”

The stories. It always came down to stories. Traleau was all too familiar with the way stories grew, took on lives of their own; there were enough well-worn stories about his own past to make that clear.

“Whoa, hey big guy, come to see the new kid?” Soln waved to someone up ahead.

‘Big guy’ just wasn’t enough, Traleau thought. His travels with the circus had afforded him chance enough to see plenty of exotic people; some of the people of Kumsari in the Southwest hadstood near a head taller than their--Brogyr’s--strongman. But they’d been of normal build, and their welcoming demeanors seemed to curb their great stature.

Helmkeeper, on the other hand, looked like part of the land had woken up angry. He was far, far taller than any person he had ever even heard of, let alone laid eyes on. The crowds of warriors parted as he took his long strides, their heads barely coming to his chest. His stature wasn’t the only thing that beggared belief to Traleau; he was broadly built, every bit covered in muscle. Seeing him for the first time in darkness had made it all seem surreal somehow, but the giant body that came to a stop before him was no lie.

He noticed other warriors stopping to watch, whispering amongst themselves. The giant’s face was hard, blank as a stone, but Traleau had the feeling he was expected to say something. He tried, but words seemed to die in his throat as he stood in that vast shadow. Instead, they stood there silently staring at each other. He waited for some sign in the giant’s body language, but his stillness he was like a mountain’s.

“You likely have many questions for Tshio Kion. He has sent me to hear you,” he finally said, deep voice rolling out from his mouth like thunder. The sound was so abrupt and unexpected that Traleau nearly jumped back a pace, but when he realized what had been said, he nodded.

“Thank you.”

“I will walk with you.”

“Yes, that--” Traleau swallowed hard, shook his head and started walking. Helmkeeper kept pace with him, limiting himself to short, shuffling steps. Though they walked side-by-side, the giant looked only straight ahead, still unreadable. To his dismay, he saw Soln excusing himself to talk to a different group of men, and though they were surrounded by warriors on all sides, he was effectively alone with a man who could crush the life out of him single-handed. Whatever comfort he’d felt before was replaced with a mix of fear and awe.

“So . . . I . . .” He paused. Helmkeeper showed no signs of acknowledging him. Still, there was nothing for it but to press on. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“It is deep autumn. Before the snow comes, we retreat to Dregal. We will stay there through the winter.”

“Dregal--that’s far west, isn’t it?”

“Yes. No one will seek us there. It is too far, and the pass will close after we cross.”

“Seek us?”

“Warriors are often hunted.”

“Oh.”

A long moment passed as Traleau tried to think of how to approach what he truly wanted to ask. Suddenly, Helmkeeper’s voice cut through his thoughts like a heavy axe.

“That is not what you truly wanted to ask.”

The boy’s head jerked around to the giant, but those eyes were completely still, focused yet on some point near the front of the caravan, betraying no secrets. However it was, he seemed to understand something different about him than Stonebreaker had.

That man could see that strange feeling he’d kept locked up in the far back with all those memories. That was why he’d pressured him, shown him violence, egged him on. That was why he’d left the circus, but . . .

“Why are you here?” he asked. Helmkeeper nodded slowly, as if in appreciation.

“Good.”

Traleau could see dark green eyes turning to him under that proud brow now.

“I joined with Tshio Kion when my elder brother did.”

The very idea that someone like Helmkeeper could have a brother seemed absurd, but even so, he knew whom it was right away.

“Stonebreaker?”

“Yes. He is my warchief. I have always fought for him.”

Of course, physically, it made sense. Though much smaller than Helmkeeper, Stonebreaker was still the next largest man in the band by a head, and their skin and light hair gave them away for northerners, but he could hardly imagine two people leaving more different impressions.

From the very moment he’d first seen Stonebreaker, the man had seemed like a vicious beast, just waiting for a reason to attack. Everything about him screamed ‘danger,’ his very presence put Traleau in a bloody mood. Yet there beside him walked Helmkeeper, terrible might obvious in every fiber of him, somehow held completely calm. Standing in the giant’s shadow gave him the same feeling as high places.

He realized they had been quiet for a long time when he saw the sun halfway up the sky, though the activity of the caravan had carried on undisturbed. They were passing through the sparsest tracts of land that formed the fringe of the Duchy of Scembre, with few farms on either side of the road. Without any other foot traffic, the warriors had spread to fill the whole road, but Helmkeeper still walked beside him. If he’d noticed the silence, he gave no sign of it, nor did he make any effort to revive their conversation.

Traleau was grateful, turning his thoughts to the night before. That young woman--Chaku, was it?--hadn’t protested his choice, but didn’t seem entirely convinced he wasn’t mad. Sitting around that fire and getting a close look at his new comrades, he’d felt that he couldn’t really blame her. Though he only knew The Priest’s--and now Helmkeeper’s--reasons for fighting for Kion, he could clearly tell that every last one of the ‘Named’ had one, something they wanted that meant enough to them to fight.

And then, there was Traleau, the circus-boy-turned-mercenary because . . . he didn’t know what else to do. It sounded like the start of a bad joke, he thought. It made enough sense when he remembered slitting that young man’s throat, or the way Stonebreaker pressured him, but he felt none of that heat as he let his gaze roam over the long procession of men and women. Except for the weapons--and those were casually held--they looked a friendly crowd, scarcely different than the circus troupe he’d just left behind.

“Are all these people really warriors?” he muttered to himself.

“No,” Helmkeeper replied. “Most are not.”

“They don’t all fight?”

“A fighter isn’t always a warrior.”

“Soln said something like that.”

“He is a good man,” Helmkeeper nodded.

That surprised Traleau, ‘good’ was not a word he heard associated with mercenaries. He wondered what it meant to them.

“I don’t know what a warrior is, I guess, but Stonebreaker thinks I could be one.”

The giant narrowed his eyes, and his bellow-like breath held for a moment, but he said nothing. Traleau wondered if he’d said something wrong, and wished The Priest would talk to him, he seemed to be the only person ‘in on it’ who was willing to explain things clearly. Helmkeeper spoke much less, but was just as confusing as his brother, and when he thought of the other Named, he didn’t hold out much hope. Wind, he thought, would probably bite his face for asking him a question.

The day continued much as it had gone, marching quietly as the strange mixture of confusion and acceptance settled on Traleau’s mind. Morning passed into mid-day, mid-day into evening, and the wide dirt paths gave way to untouched grass. An order to stop was sent up and down the length of the caravan, the exhausted oxen turned out to feed and the whole band set about putting up camp.

These tasks were familiar to Traleau, and small tents for a few people were far easier work than a great circus tent for thousands. The warriors took a shine to him for the speed of his hand and his willingness to help, but he was just grateful for something to quiet his thoughts. He had just finished one of the last tents when he saw Soln with another man and a woman, waving him over.

“So, this here is our new hand, Traleau,” Soln said, looking to the others.

“Funny name, that. Western, yeah?” the man asked.

“Sure he’s never been asked that before. Come off it,” the woman said, shoving past him. “Welcome to the family, Traleau.” She struggled her way through the sounds of his name, but flashed a toothy grin.

“Oh yes, family, yes, give us a kiss then, sister?” the man said.

“Not likely.”

“Right, so Traleau, meet Rehmo and Finele, my dearest drinking partners,” Soln said. “You, ah, drink? Not some breakfast wine that’s half water. I mean drink,” he asked.

Traleau could feel a sinking in his chest; yes, this was familiar. Too familiar. Had anything really changed, he wondered, or would this day--and the next, and the next--be just like every day before?

“Not really, no,” he said, trying to think of an excuse when he noticed the three mercenaries perking up.

“Hey boss, drink with us for a spell?” Soln called.

“I don’t see why not.” Tshio Kion’s voice. The grey-haired man strolled easily through the bustling little camp, that same casual half-smile on his face. “Though, first I need to borrow Traleau for a little while.”

The man put a firm hand on Traleau’s back and quickly led him away from the camp, out over the dry grass. After a short walk, he stopped and looked him over.

“So, first day. What do you think?”

“Of?”

“My little band. Don’t tell me you didn’t talk to anybody.”

“Soln, a few other people. I’m bad with names,” Traleau admitted. “Helmkeeper walked with me for a while. He doesn’t talk much, though.”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” the aging man nodded. “Well, I hope whatever he did say was worth hearing.”

It was confusing, Traleau thought, and I want somebody to just talk straight. “He gave me something to think about,” he said.

“Heh. Listen. I know you’re wondering why you’re even here after today, or what’s different now,” Kion said, scratching at the back of his head idly. “Happens to everybody their first time joining up with a soldiering lot. Happened to me, when I was a boy.”

“It did?”

“Gods yes,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know soldiering from wiping my own ass. You think it’s all blood and swords and bad facepaint, but it’s a lot of marching, talking, planning and a tiny bit of fighting.”

“Oh.” Traleau knew his face gave away exactly how he felt.

“But, you know what else happened after a while?” Kion folded his arms over his chest and smiled. “You start liking the planning, you learn not to mind the marching and the talking, and one good fight can stick with you for years. You can ask anyone in the band, really, even the ones who think they’re just in it for the money. Even Soln over there has some stories to tell, though they all sound better when he’s drunk.”

“You said . . . that you could help me find a use for my . . . you know.”

“Just call them what they are, boy, instincts. So they’re a bit bloody, that’s nothing to apologize for. But yes, I’m going to teach you how to make cutting a man’s throat something more than just violence.”

Everything he had heard and seen in years among the common folk tried to tell him this was dangerous, this was wrong, but even if he recognized it, he didn’t feel it. Kion’s words were calming.

“How long do I have to wait?” Traleau asked. His hands twitched, longing to curl around the grip of a knife.

“Not long, boy, not long. Anyone told you where we’re going?”

“Helmkeeper said we’ll be in Dregal for the winter.”

“Believe me when I say that it’s the perfect place for you to find out just what you’re made of.”

Traleau let his curiosity show, but Kion chuckled and shook his head.

“You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It should take us fifteen, sixteen days. In the meantime, I want you to settle in, talk to some people. This is your band now. Now, come on, I could use a drink.”

The Cat's Eye, Book I, Part IX

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part IX

It was a funny thing, Chaku thought, that the very people she was looking for had made it so easy for her to move freely ‘round the city. Not a week before, the city guards were so knock-kneed with fear of the uprisings that the gates were watched closer than a royal babe by day and sealed sure as a tomb by night. Kion’s lot, by all accounts, had done more in days to wipe the rebels off the map than all His Grace’s puffed-up errand boys had managed all Summer; that and the festive mood of Carnivale meant she found the gates wide open, soldiers drunk as could be.

Chaku had no love for the countryside at night, and as the myriad torches of the city gave way to scattered bonfires along the road and the dark settled in thick, it took all her will to focus herself on the task at hand, instead of checking for ambushes. The cheery folk walking up and down the road cooled her head enough that she could take the measure of things.

There was little chance of tracking him down in one night, especially out in the open. Even a Maspa in these parts could slip around ghost-like if he stuck to the quiet roads, and if he were being chased anyway, she knew he would. What’s more, someone on the run with nowhere to go could pick any place easy as you please. Sure as the safe money said he’d go south ‘fore the winter rolled in, but there was no reason he couldn’t go any other way.

At least, Chaku thought, this means that fat pig and his bought law probably won’t find him any time soon, either. But that left her with only one real option as far as her own side of the search: she’d have to pay a visit to the sellswords’ camp, see if he’d really joined up with that lot. She didn’t think it such a bad fit, God’s truth, but she didn’t much care for having to tell the lady what she didn’t want to hear; she’d been stiffed of coin for as much before.

Still, there was nothing for it, so she took the road north, eyes on a village not far up it.

Well, Chaku thought, I’m gettin’ to see the bonfires like I’d wanted.

The circles of Scembrese swaying, singing and attempting to dance reminded her of the filthy alleys back home, full of sailors and traders and whores until the break of day. Only difference, other than occupation, was that on the continent folk are polite enough to wait for an occasion.

‘Course thinking of home was no help, so she turned her ears to the songs floating from every circle, watched passersby wander over to the fires when they caught wind of a tune they knew, the less lively just happy to take a spot near the warmth and be rocked ‘bout by their fellows. Chaku noticed, for the first time, how tired she was, enough to reach down into the bone. The bonfires tempted her something awful, the promise of heat and drink and no worries. She paused and gave it a real thought until she remembered the hundred times her sister had torn her up for ‘lacking the follow-through.’

She was still trying to excuse a little sit-down by the fire by the time she’d wandered into the village, where the stalls and crowds of Carnivale almost made it seem a city for the night. It took a few tries to find someone sober enough to point her to an inn, and plenty of shouting to get the innkeep’s attention over the hollering lot in his tavern.

“How might I help you, miss?”

“I’m looking for them sellswords the Duke hired of late, I heard they made camp off in this direction.”’

“Sure, close enough that some are here in the village celebrating.”

“Oh, aye? How might I be getting there?”

“Honestly, you may as well try asking that fellow over there, he’s one of them, they’ve been plenty friendly with us.” The innkeep leaned over the wooden counter and pointed to a man in a dark-green cloak, fur-lined, sweeping the air with his hands, a crowd fixed, listening as he spoke. She knew him from the night before, one they’d called Silvertongue. She watched him for a moment and he seemed easy enough, all right. Chaku pushed her way through the crowd and planted herself square in front of him, staring him down.

Silvertongue was spouting off some poem, near as she could figure, but noticed her and took her meaning plain enough. Soon as he’d finished, he bowed like a regular showman and slipped out of the group, towards her.

“Is there some way in which I may be of service?” he asked, guiding her to one of the few empty tables far from the innkeep’s bar. His voice was gentle but clear, strong, cutting right through the noise. Chaku reckoned someone so good at talk could make sweet deals fall from the sky for Kion’s lot.

“Aye, though I suspect ye’ll not want to be when ye know what I’m asking.”

“Perhaps not, but that is for me to say, is it not? What do you have in mind?”

“I want to know what became of the circus boy yer lot’s been playing with.”

“So, you must be the lady pursuer Amprezzo described. He neglected to say that you’re Oza, however. Fascinating island, I must say. Rare to see its people living on the continent.” Silvertongue’s perfectly upright posture never wavered, his hands folded neatly on the table, entirely still. Chaku thought of Amiel and nearly laughed to herself.

“Sure enough, but ye’ve not approached my question.”

“First, let me say that our group has not ‘played’ with anyone. We have, however, enjoyed a mutually interesting association with a member of a circus recently. Some of our group took a liking to him for his prowess and dedication, and he appears to have great curiosity about the life of a warrior.”

“And where’s that great curiosity gotten him to now?”

Chaku could tell Silvertongue was taking her measure when he went quiet. He smiled for a spell, then raised a hand to signal the innkeep for a fresh drink.

“I had the pleasure of briefly speaking to him in the company of The Priest less than an hour ago, they were on their way to our encampment to discuss . . . the boy’s future. I suspect that this is not what your financier was hoping to hear.”

That was as good a cue as any to take her leave, but when she stood from her seat, she was surprised to see nobody had a mind to get in her way; there weren’t even rough hands set up by the door. Silvertongue laughed.

“Ah, you seem shocked, but if you wish to leave, you may. I had hoped you might pass through here and we could talk, but it’s scarcely crucial enough to risk getting into a fight with you, Aanitsuru Chaku.”

Chaku jumped at the sound of her name, but Silvertongue just pointed to her seat. She wasn’t sure what game the bastard was playing at, but she intended to find out, and cautiously took her seat again.

“The Priest is a vitally important part of our group, but his responsibilities are . . . focused. I must make it my business to know as much as I can, and we’ve worked in or near this city often enough over the years. To the proper authorities, you do not exist, but an errand-runner fresh off the boat from Oza pulling some of the things you have, making the kind of money you have, yet living so ascetically? That qualifies as a person of interest.”

Chaku fought tooth and nail to keep her face straight as she could, but some stranger having so many pieces in his hands felt like betrayal and no mistake.

“Now, ultimately you’ve never been an enemy or an ally to us, so we’ve had no need, strictly speaking, to know more. Yet, I am personally very intrigued by you. Tell me, where does that money go? Are you saving it for some greater purpose?”

They stared at each other across the table in silence, until Silvertongue chuckled softly.

“All right, then. Could you at least tell me the name of your current employer and their interest in Traleau? Surely you understand the safety of a new comrade is important to us.”

“I think not. I’d have ye take me to see him before yer lot clears out. Let me have a word with him and I’m done.”

“I hardly think that necessary. If your concern is truly what you related to The Priest, then I can settle the issue right now; Traleau intends to join our group. He will be leaving with us tomorrow. He will become a mercenary.”

“I’ve something to ask him to his face.”

“So, you would have me help you indulge your personal curiosity when you have entirely refused mine? Come now, be reasonable,” he said, for all the world sounding like a friend. Chaku gave him hard eyes out of habit, but that damn smile wasn’t coming off his face; she knew that.

“Aye, reasonable, I can be that,” she said. “Let me bend his ear and I’ll tell ye something about Chaku ‘erself.”

“That’s a more credible arrangement.” Silvertongue nodded his head and took a swig of his ale--even that had some dandy magic to it, since not a drop or hint of foam was wasted on his face. Chaku had seen enough ladies of standing make a mess of the same to find it all a bit off.

“You will understand, of course, that I cannot speak to how the boy will react, or if he’ll even wish to speak with you, but I will nonetheless expect you to uphold your end of the agreement.”

“Way I figure it, if he won’t hear me out, there’s answer enough,” Chaku said. “I’m not the sort to back out on what’s been settled, ‘swhy I’m even nosing around your lot in the first place.”

“I respect that. It’s certainly rare enough.”

“These days?” Chaku said, rolling her eyes. Silvertongue looked into his cup and laughed.

“People of quality, I suspect, are always in short supply.” He took another drink, set the cup down and gathered himself up out of the chair. “Well, then, if you’ve no other business to attend to, I can guide you to our humble camp now. It’s just a half hour’s walk from here.”

Chaku nodded and followed after him, kept a pace behind him, eyes on his hands, mouth shut. He tried to strike up small talk, and every last word was fine, but she’d gotten what she wanted and had a feeling the less she said to this one, the better. He didn’t seem to mind, giving up on her and singing instead, real pretty. She didn’t believe it at first, but sure enough, he was singing Oza songs like he sang them every day.

Before long, she could make out the sight of fires and tents grouped round them a ways off the road, a few shapes moving through the night to and from, and some amid the camp itself. She only needed a good look at one of the folk making for the village to see they were warriors, and that was where she wanted to be.

The closer she got, the more Chaku felt easy; each hand might be rotten, but lots like this were a beast she knew well. To the last, the men and women she saw on the way to the camp looked the sort she and her sister would drink with--work with, too--back home. Foul-mouthed, muddy-faced, sweat stinkin’ lot, she’d guess, but they’d know what they were about. All that just served to make the skinny shape of the circus boy look a bad joke in the camp.

She drew some looks as Silvertongue led her between the tents and fires, but most were busy with drink and talk, and plenty others were looking at the center of the camp, where Traleau was sat with the roughest lot she’d seen. She remembered some from the night before, Stonebreaker, Brand, Wind. The Priest was there, staring holes in the circus boy, looking right furious. Kion, held court, relaxed as any man, but she’d never forget that knife to her neck.

Still, three men, one woman and one . . . she couldn’t figure, wrapped up in all those rags . . . she’d not seen before. Rough hands all, to be sure.

“Silvertongue, you’ve honored us with a guest, eh? Who’s your friend?” Kion said, the first to notice. Crowds had never weighed much on Chaku’s mind, but having all those eyes turn to her at once was something else. Still, one look at the boy reminded her why she was there, and she set the nerves aside for later.

“You.” The Priest said, showing nothing.

“Oh, so you’ve met?” Kion asked.

“The Priest is a damn pretty boy, always has a woman chasing him,” a stocky man with arms like mast-poles grunted. “Though this bitch isn’t the usual.”

“Please, Dungeons, mind your language,” Silvertongue said, offering Chaku an apologetic shrug. “This is Aanitsuru Chaku, the young lady who was observing Traleau earlier today. Some of you, she’s already familiar with--The Priest told me you were shadowing us last night as well?”

“Aye.”

“Then I need only introduce a few. Crow, Dungeons,” Silvertongue said, waving at the long-haired woman and the stocky charmer in turn. “Medicine Man, Rags and Helmkeeper.” An old man--older than Kion, she’d wager--the bundled up one, and a giant. No other way to put it, Helmkeeper was bigger than a man should be allowed; she’d figured for sure the dark was tricking her eyes, but looking longer just made her dizzy. She looked over the lot quiet-like, not sure what was supposed to happen next.

That grey-headed Kion spoke up first. “What brings you to our little camp? Not that we mind the company.”

“Looking to have words with this one,” Chaku said, pointing to Traleau.

“I’ve given her my assurance that would be acceptable.”

“No harm in it, but the choice is Traleau’s,” Kion said. Chaku couldn’t make out much on the boy’s shadowed face, but could see the slight nod. Kion stood, and his lot with him, each walking off until they were out of earshot. Chaku looked all ‘round once just for herself, then sat herself next to the boy, warming her hands by the fire.

“Ye’ve any guess who it is that’s hired me to follow ye?”

“Ami,” Traleau said. “Er, Amiel.”

Chaku couldn’t hear any hint of affection or guilt, nothing she might have expected. “Aye,” she replied. “She thinks this lot ye’re throwing in with is like to turn ye into someone foul.”

“I know,” he said. She could tell he was looking straight into the flames too in the quiet. “What do you think?”

Chaku had to snicker when she realized he’d meant it. She felt like she could see how someone with such a rough hand had made it so long round normal folk: there wasn’t a scrap of guile in that head of his. He was innocent, or at least part of him was.

“Can’t say as I care,” she said. “Truth is I’ve not come for her sake. I came because I’ve something to ask ye for myself.”

Out the corner of her eye, she could see the boy turn to look at her, but he said nothing.

“I’m just wondering why ye’d do it. Ye’ve plenty of reason not to.”

“I have to try something,” he said, softly. “I don’t want to go back to being alone, but I don’t belong anywhere I’ve seen yet. So I’ve got to try something.”

“Finding who ye are,” Chaku said, only half joking.

“I guess so,” Traleau said.

“Ye know what being part of this lot means, don’t ye? What they want ye for is yer knife.”

“That’s all I have.”

“Right, then.” That settled it for Chaku sure as anything could have. She met his eyes and made sure he knew, knew she got it. She stood right up and walked away, leaving him there, not a word from him as she did. Better that way, she figured, since where his head was, more talk wouldn’t help a thing.

‘That’s all I have’ was why she lived how she did, why she wouldn’t and hadn’t turned her nose up at wet-work when the coin was right, why she’d left home the way she had. There were naught to be said for it but to try finding something else, something better. Failing that, turn the hands to making a place.

“I hope your concerns have been addressed?” Silvertongue said, all smiles as he fell in step with her.

“Aye, something like that,” Chaku said. She hadn’t noticed his approach at all, but it was fitting enough, where her head had gone, with what she’d agreed to. A part of her still fought for her secrets, but she’d always known they’d be told on the continent, even if she hadn’t figured on this.

“As for your end of our agreement?”

“I’ll tell ye why I came here from Oza, since you’re so keen to know.”

She knew there was no point to it, but Chaku looked back over her shoulder at the circus boy and saw him well fixed by the fire, Kion and the others gathering ‘round him once more.