He raked his hand through his hair, sobbing anew and Benson’s big arms folded over him. “I’ll give ye this one moment. This one moment only, boy. Get it all out. But ye need t’ get goin’ soon. Get t’ Metilai an’ find out where theys keepin’ her.”
Croak dug his head into the crook of the old smith’s arm, wiping his nose on the man’s tunic. “How the fuck am I getting her out, then, Benson?” he shoved absently against Benson’s embrace. “If you’ll recall, she is the clever one of our duo.”
“Go to the harbor, see if any of th’ mercs headin’ north can be ‘ired for a few days. If ye can get two or three ye can give ‘er a chance. The rest she’ll make sure of ‘erself, ye know it.”
Croak wiped his snot on his sleeve while his mind raced at Benson’s words.
He looked about the room, unseeing, instead envisioning the escape he could mount with muscle to help.
“When’s the ferry to Gall?” he asked at length.
Benson shrugged and rose from the bed. “Runs every day at six bells.”
Croak dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a deep breath, heaving it back out and bolting from the bed. He moved with purpose, gathering his things, then tied his cloak on.
As he strode for the door, he glanced back at Benson. “Thank you, Benson.”
Benson grabbed his arm as he reached for the latch. “I’ll ‘ire a boy to bring yer ‘orse to Metilai. Just mind ye catch th’ ferry in an ‘our if ye want t’ reach ‘er in time, aye?”
Croak nodded and swung the door wide, all but running down the corridor.
Croak stuckto the back alleys as he made for the harbor. The streets were packed with refugees and merchants, and he heard news of Lerek’s death everywhere he passed. He got snippets of information as he strode purposefully toward the boardwalk.
If possible, it was even more crowded than the city streets, the piers packed with all manner of humanity. The small port city was experiencing a boom it was not ready for and the amount of time it took Croak to reach the boats was testament to how quickly the political landscape had changed even this tiny town.
He pursed his lips, looking out over the sea of sailors and slaves and businessmen and taxmen and anyone else who could find some way to earn a coin. His eye caught on two swift moving forms.
Croak narrowed his gaze, and his mouth opened. He spotted the Roisan first—Gabriol—his big head of blond braids and even bigger body giving him away as he plowed forward. He had strapped on his hauberk and looked a giant in the daylight, pushing at the inflow of people all around as if they were nothing more than annoying gnats.
Croak froze, watching him before he shifted his gaze to the smaller but no less powerful figure of his friend, his red beard and the earrings glinting a path up his ear, marking them both as the men he’d met at Nathaniel’s.
“Mother fu—!” he muttered then tore a path through to the mercs, uncaring and unheeding of the curses and screeching in his wake.
“…fucker,”Gabriol muttered, halting in the middle of the street. Rydon smacked into him. Voices of various dialects sounded all around him as he leaned forward to yell into Gabriol’s ear.
“What the fuck!”
“Yeah, that’s what I say,” Gabriol said and nodded toward someone making their way through the press of bodies. Rydon followed his gaze and cursed anew under his breath.
As the lanky young man from the tavern came toward them, Rydon stepped in front of Gabriol with his arm stretched in front of him.
“Wait! I need—oof,” Croak doubled over as Rydon planted his fist into the young man’s stomach.
“What did I say,” he hissed in Croak’s face, “What did I say would happen, Croak? Did I not say you’d regret crossing paths with us again?”
Croak spit and shuddered, lifting his head enough Rydon could see the deathly pallor in his cheeks and puffiness of his eyes. He frowned and held the young man by the shoulders as he appeared to be about to faint.
“Please,” he whispered, over and over, hanging his head. Rydon looked over at Gabriol with a frown, and his friend shrugged. Rydon shook Croak, trying to peer at his face.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
Croak shook his head and Rydon had the uncomfortable feeling the young man was about to cry. He quickly pulled him off to the side and away from the jostling of sailors and merchant traffic to a building near the boardwalk where there was more privacy. Croak stumbled along, wiping at his mouth and nose.
When they reached the building, he thrust Croak against the wall and held a hand to his chest to keep him upright. “Speak.”
Croak took several long seconds composing himself. When he raised his face, Rydon could see resolve. He knew what he risked in seeking them out and yet sought them out anyway. The man was either a glutton for punishment or in some serious trouble.
“I need your help. I will pay, of course, but we need to leave quickly. For Gall.”
