Touching the brim of his hat, he inclines his head—and yet somehow remains unbowed. Then with achk-chkbetween his molars, the black stallion lopes off in a canter that suggests those hooves have plenty more speed at their disposal.
Merc continues to stay where he is, until the rider has hooked up with a well-grooved road many lengths away, and continues forth toward the dark clouds that are gathering to the northeast. When my mercenary finally turns back to the stream, his eyes burn with aggression that’s not directed at me.
Wordlessly, I cross through the water, hop out, and gather the reins of our horse—who isnota nag. Lifting up one of the saddlebags, I shove my other hand in and fish around, and when I feel what I was hoping to find, I pull out an empty cloth sack. I imagine that the mayor or one of his sons probably kept a sizable load of provisions in it. Orange fruit, going by the scent that lingers, no doubt an offering for the Sooths they went to see.
I really hope that muddy, bound pair made it back to the village safely.
With a jerk, I rip apart the bag, the flimsy seams releasing without much force. When it’s all unfurled, I take off the blue turban, wrap my lower face and hair up with the sackcloth so that only my eyes show, and then replace what was on my head to hold the draping where it is. As I tuck the tail end into the navy blue coat, I look at Merc.
“We should move along,” I say. “I don’t like the look of that weather.”
His face softens, though it’s nearly imperceptible: If I didn’t know him so well, I would think there is naught behind his hard, cruel exterior save more of the same.
Nodding at him, I gather the reins and mount up on the saddle’s leather ledge, landing in a soggy astride that feels unpleasant.
Compared to the heat, I’ll take it.
Merc remains where he is for a stretch of time, and I don’t rush him. He’s scanning around, and then rechecking the road off in the distance, as if to make sure the rider in the top hat stays on his own journey—and keeps it separate from our own. Only after that black stallion has disappeared somewhere around the base of the closest mountain in the range does Merc walk over.
As he swings up into the saddle, I release my hold on the reins and lean back to give him room. He settles with a solid thump, and our horse grunts beneath us. No doubt it wishes for a return to the lighter load of just me.
Merc directs our not-nag to the road the hatted man approached on, and the twin lines of packed earth suggest that stagecoaches travel the route with frequency. I twist around and look back. The storm is continuing to gather strength, the bad weather ushering in great black and purple swells that will soon eclipse all the blue sky. At least there’s still no hat man—and the breadth of the lakebed we’ve crossed astounds me. I can’t see the far-off shore where we started the descent I didn’t take much note of, and all those gray boulders, gray rocks, gray stones, and gray pebbles are as inhospitable an environment as I could ever imagine.
The Lake of Lost Souls. How apt, and I’m glad I didn’t think too much about the name as we headed down into that basin.
As I turn back around, every instinct I have tells me we’re heading into another kind of inhospitable.
“What are the clouds doing?” Merc demands.
“Coming fast.”
As anxiety travels up my spine and fuels unhelpful thoughts, I tell myself that I’ve seen many a storm before—except all I can think of are the black bands in the Fulcrum. I pray to the crescent moon the things in the sky really are just clouds, however gloomy and dark they appear—and not evil energy come to hunt us.
But the top-hat man proves to be right. Soon enough, a sizable town kindles on the horizon, and when we reach the farming fields on its periphery, the low stone plot fences and orderly lines of mature plantings are a surprise that shouldn’t be one. No matter the debauchery, people need to eat. At the moment, nobody is working the rows of bright green bushes, but they are well looked after, without weeds or leaves damaged by pests. And as Merc lingers his attention on the crops, I wonder if he isn’t making an expert’s assessment of the beans and grains.
My heart aches for him.
Grazing pastures with over a dozen horses working at the grass come next.These meadow lots are separated by rail fences, and after them come the first of the structures. The stables are flat-roofed and closed up, the weathered boards the gray of the lakebed, and in their midst, trees have been allowed to grow up, perhaps to offer a buffering from the sun. These arboreal specimens are like none I’ve ever seen, tall, bushy, and triangular, the branches spindled with dark green spikes, their trunks craggy from what appears to be a perpetual molt.
Though voices thread over on the breeze, I don’t see anyone. Merc hears the chatter, too, his head turning the moment the conversations register in my ear.
He still has that dirk out by his thigh.
“We’re being watched,” he says softly.
My eyes shift all around, but I can see nothing in or between any of the stable buildings. “Where—”
“Up.”
That’s when I see the camouflaged blind, set about halfway to the top of the nearest tree. I don’t know how he saw it, but there’s another. And… another, up ahead.
“I guess they take their horses very seriously,” I say in a lowered voice as thunder sounds out behind us.
“It’s about the gambling. You have to be careful with sore losers and big winners alike.”
“Oh.”
And now we arrive.
