Rakos unlaces his coin purse and drops it heavy in Bellamy’s palm. “I’ll be back. Be good.”
“No promises.”
Rakos laughs. Touches Bellamy’s cheek and sets off at a jog away from the loading zone.
Petunia grumbles when Bellamy asks to ride with her, but scoots over to make room. She keeps quiet, sometimes scolding the horses under her breath, and mostly leaves Bellamy be. Perched beside her on the cushioned bench, Bellamy hugs Bastard and tries not to worry.
He fails.
Whether he’s worried for himself or for Rakos, Bellamy isn’t sure. He doesn’t even know what he’s worriedabout. Is it more disturbing that Rakos is gone, or that Bellamy is so disturbed by Rakos’s absence?
He shouldn’t be so attached to Rakos. The first time they met, Rakos tried to strangle him. A week ago, he abandoned Bellamy in Orthin. Should it really matter that Rakos touched his face so gently during the festival?
The wagon rumbles smoothly beneath him. Draskora’s roads aren’t any worse than Silaise’s.
Bellamy’s head swivels as they set off from the loading zone. The buildings are different, all scowling gargoyles and grotesque crenelations. Smoke and magic smudge the sky. But the people aren’t as different as he thought they would be. Draskoran bakers light their ovens before dawn too. Petunia seems nice, beneath the grumbling and flagrant cheating.
The caravan leaves Orthin’s outskirts, following a wide road parallel to the river. Autumn-bare farmland sweeps around them, interspersed with copses of untamed forest. Ahead on the road sit two squat gray towers. Drasgard waystations, like where Bellamy met Rakos.
“You on the run for something?” Petunia asks out of nowhere.
Bellamy fiddles with Bastard’s pouch. “I’m not.”
She clicks her tongue. “And I’m a blossoming thirty-nine, like your man said. Just keep your trap shut if the drasgard asks questions, all right?”
“I’m not on the run, and he’s not my man,” Bellamy insists over her derisive snort. “But I’ll keep my trap shut.”
“I don’t want trouble at my wagon. Teodor’s a fucking shrew when he’s woken before noon.”
“Teodor?” Bellamy glances at the shuttered window behind them.
“Business partner. Pain in my ass. Him and Merry are asleep in there while I do all the work. Oh, here we go.”
The caravan halts in front of the waystations. Nerves build in Bellamy’s stomach as trios of drasgard fan out between the wagons. They open each door for a cursory check. One soldier stands apart, a longer robe hanging open over her uniform. Magic pulses steadily around her hands, to no immediate effect.
Checking for illegal scalestone?
At Petunia’s wagon, the drasgard ignore Petunia and Bellamy entirely to pound on the side door. “Drasgard, open up,” barks a gruff young man.
Petunia covers her mouth, eyes bright, as the door swings open.
“I charge extra for morning calls, handsome,” a cheerful voice calls from inside. “Oh my, there are three of you. I charge extra for that, too!”
The drasgard stumbles back. “Apologies, sir! I mean, sirs, I didn’t intend—”
“For fuck’s sake, man,” one of his colleagues says, shoving him aside to complete a cursory inspection. She waves the wagon forward, before moving down the line.
Bellamy blinks. “Are they…”
“Naked? Probably. That was Merry you heard.” Petunia clucks and shifts her grip on the reins, urging her horses forward. Then she reaches back and pounds on the wall. “We’ve got polite company today. Put on some fucking trousers if you get up.”
The cheerful man—Merry—laughs from inside. “I don’t intend on getting up. Getting it up, on the other hand—”
“Shut the fuck up,” groans another voice. Teodor. The wagon jostles with a violent sound, then settles.
Tension unlocks from Bellamy’s shoulders. Yeah. Draskorans aren’t that different from Silaisans. Not that Bellamy has ever socialized with Silaisan charlatans and bed workers before either.
Then the wagon passes the waystation, and Bellamy sees the structure beside it: a long, iron gallows.
