The man looked up at her with faded eyes, as if unable to quite understand the question. “Blight? Yes…yes. It’s the blight. People got it—we thought it was contained—then they pulled a body out of the well.”
Caliban drew in a sharp breath. Learned Edmund traced a protective sign across his breast.
“It wasn’t human. I don’t know what it was. Some kind of animal, maybe. But we’ve all got it now, you see. The whole village—the well water—everyone must have it. They’re starting to drop. You have to get away. Tell anyone you see on the road to stay away.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” asked Caliban. There was a flat, fatal note in his voice.
“No.” The stranger looked away. “We can kill ourselves well enough. Just go away.”
“May the gods keep you,” said Learned Edmund, sketching a benediction in the air.
Useless,Slate thought tiredly.Better the gods grant them a quick death and a strong hand on the knife.She cleared her throat.
“Is there a way around the village?”
The stranger barely looked at her. “Around the far fields.There’s an ox-road, just down the road behind you. Don’t touch anyone. Don’t let anyone touch you.”
Slate nodded.
She thought of all the things she could say, and they all became flat and meaningless on her tongue. She lifted a hand in salute, and then turned her horse.
The others followed. No one said anything.
The ox-road was rough and bumpy, but it did indeed swing in a wide circle around the fields. Tan dust rose in a cloud behind them, turning the mules a vague beige. The village in the distance looked like a bruise.
They passed a farmhouse off to the right. The empty windows stared at them. Slate watched it, fearing that someone might come out, fearing what she might have to do if someone did.
Brenner reached back into his pack, swung his crossbow forward, and slapped a bolt into it. The sounds seemed very loud, even over the clipping of the horses’ hooves.Click. Click. Tap.Slate would have bet that every ear in the party was riveted on it.
Click. Skreeeeek.
Click.
Brenner will shoot anyone who tries to approach us. And I will let him do it.
No one came out of the farmhouse. There were crows perched on the fence railing, and she could hear them croaking behind the house. A whole murder’s worth, by the sound.
Eating something.
Could just be a dead farm animal.
She was careful not to look back, when the ox-road swung wide, in case she might find out what they were eating.
A long time later, they returned to the main road. Slate felt a painful clutch of relief when they rode up onto it, as if somehow the presence of the wider road might protect them.
It seemed to be a cue to speak again. Learned Edmund sighed. “Those poor people.”
“Nothing we could do, priest.” Brenner reached out and slapped him on the shoulder. Learned Edmund started, and then offered him a tentative smile.
“I don’t know why we even bother having wars,” muttered Slate. “The world’s trying to kill us fast enough as it is.”
Caliban gazed between his horse’s ears, and said nothing at all.
That night they stayed at a posting-house several hours farther on. They had to ride most of the evening to get there, but there was a unanimous feeling that a bath at the end would be worth the time. Slate’s skin felt faintly sticky, as if the death in the village had clung to her like mist.
Word of the plague had already reached the posting-house. Slate had to explain twice, and then Caliban had to explain again that they hadn’t touched anyone, they hadn’t even ridden through the village, they hadn’t come anywhere near anyone with the blight. The innkeeper finally believed them, probably because Brenner was glowering and even Caliban was starting to look inclined to violence. Slate wondered if he had simply decided that blight would be a less sure death than having his throat slit by large men in desperate need of hot water.
There was only one copper tub. They drew lots.
