“Are you a Healer?”
The Dark Worlder makes a rough sound that could be a laugh and begins to carefully roll the remaining cloth. “No. But I am intimately familiar with a slew of injuries.” He hands me a tin. “Put this on your wrists and on your arm where the Ditya scratched you. It will help with the pain.”
I think I imagine his wince as his eyes sweep across my injuries.
“What’s your name?” I blurt out suddenly. “You know my name, it’s only polite to tell me yours.”
He flashes a wry grin. “Were your last kidnappers overly concerned with manners?”
I chew at my lip. Though he is utterly infuriating, pummeling him would probably only hurt my wrist.
“It isn’t wise to be giving your name away to strangers,” he repeats his sentiment of earlier.
I let out a huff of frustration. “Fine—"
“It’s Shaw,” he interrupts with a lazy smile. His pale eyes sparkle in challenge. “I don’t think you’re really in a position to do much with my name. Or know what to do with it if you were.”
Shaw. It seems so…ordinary. Though I don’t really know what I was expecting. Maybe something less human? He’s insulted me with his confidence I can do nothing with the information, but gaining his name feels like a small victory, nonetheless. And something of a relief. A relief to name the danger sitting beside me. Shaw.
* * *
Shaw
The man is exactly where I left him. A relief that I don’t have to spend the entire evening hunting him down in whatever run-down taverns exist in whatever paltry Boundary town is closest. It’s already been one of the longest days of my life, made longer by the fact I will have to relieve Max from watch when I return to our camp. Sleep, it seems, will elude me for another night.
He is wrapped in a large overcoat, a ridiculous choice for the warmth of the evening, but not uncommon for the Boundary hunters that prowl these woods. Cloaks like that afford plenty of space to stash weapons. I smile assuredly. “Why, hello there. Eulogius, was it?”
The hunter bares his teeth as I approach, snarling against the wad of fabric Max gagged him with. I take it from his mouth, resisting the urge to laugh that the gag is bright pink, probably the remnant of some old dress of hers. She’s never been one to resist a little humiliation when it comes to the scum of slavers.
“You’re either brave or stupid for messing with me!” His voice is higher than I would have guessed. He must be younger than he looks. Though the Dark World has a way of doing that to people, prematurely aging those by the measure of what heaviness lies in their souls.
“It’s a fine line,” I reply indifferently, scanning the forest. Aside from the stray howl of an angry creature in the distance, it appears deserted.
“I told you, I ain’t talking without payment. You have what I asked for?” he demands, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’s clearly nervous, but that’s to be expected. This isn’t the kind of thing he does every day. Most of the men that inhabit these Boundary hovels only work as hunters to make ends meet. He’s merely a farmer, only advantageous to me in what he turns a blind eye to. The kind of activity that happens in the barn on the edge of his property and the kind of ‘merchandise’ men darker than him move through it on a monthly basis.
“That depends,” I drawl, “do you have the information I need?”
“I’m not telling you nothing until you pay up,” he blurts out, his voice wavering slightly. He narrows his eyes and thrusts his fist into his opposite palm. A warning. “And you better pay up. I’m not risking my arrangement to get nothing.”
I almost laugh that the boy thinks I can be threatened but bite my lip instead. There’s no need to provoke him. Yet.
“There now, Wayland Rutger is a man of his word,” Probably. “And I brought what I promised.” I pat the pocket of my cloak.
The boy’s body visibly relaxes. His shoulders slump, as if holding his head high, even for only a few moments, has exhausted him. I don’t judge him for it. He has a farm on the brink of ruin and a family on the brink of starvation and being proud won’t save either of those things. Holding onto his morals and stopping the horrendous merchandise that’s trafficked through his property won’t feed his family. It might even get him killed for land so close to Similis. It’s a natural progression, to start providing some of theproducthimself.
I understand him, even if I hate him a little.
Because I’m no better. Conscience is a luxury afforded only to the comfortable and safe.
I toss the small leather pouch at his feet. It’s coin that could fuel weeks’ worth of Denver’s outreach programs in Nadjaa, feeding the poor and educating them to own their voices. I push the thought to the side. If it keeps me from breaking my vow, it’s money well spent. I’ll deal with the treasury deficit later.AfterI get Denver back.
The boy hunches over and weighs the bag in his hand. “Yen Girene is always looking to buy,” he says.
I already know this, but don’t say so. I’m supposed to be a simple farm boy, after all, not a wraith that collects shadows like currency.
“If you got something…unusual,”his voice is rough as he says the word. Perhaps giving voice to one’s sins, instead of closing your eyes and refusing to see them, is taxing.
“The Achijj is looking to add to his harem and will…” he stutters and presses his eyes together, his mouth twisted in disgust. I resist the urge to grab him and pry them open. To make him look upon the filth he associates himself with, even if it is by simple negligence.
