“There is a band of Followers not far from here, and I believe they are bound for Quell. I passed them not long ago. You would be quite safe journeying with them. They are kind to travelers. They have to be—it is part of their vow. Anyone may walk with them safely, for as long as they wish, without harassment by the guards or even the Temple itself. It is the arrangement they made, long ago, after the Plague ended.”
“What if someone is a murderer? Or a thief?” I asked skeptically.
“After three days, the sanctuary ends. Then the murderer or thief can choose to join the Followers permanently, or they are subject to the kingdom’s and Temple’s laws once more.”
“Well, what if they pretend to take the vows and then murder everyone in their sleep?”
“You have a very morbid imagination,” Patrick said. “The Followers are not defenseless. I imagine they have ways of protecting themselves from such things. Why? Are you a murderer?”
I wasn’t a murderer. Iwasn’t.
Yes, you are, said Baldbeak with approval. Pride, even.
I mean, technically, I had murdered someone, but he had been trying to murder me, so surely that didn’t count? And I hadn’t exactly planned to throw him out of the window. He had overbalanced, and …
Patrick laughed, seeing my face. “I didn’t mean to send you into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking. Just …” I pressed my lips together. “Well. Thank you. I’ll talk to them.”
He swept a seated bow. It had a slightly mocking air. “Delighted I could help.”
The movement had exposed the seam again.
“Wait a moment,” I said. He paused.
“What?”
“Your seam, it’s …” I gestured.
“Oh.” He looked down. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I can mend it for you.”
For the first time, he seemed a little uncertain. “Oh no, you don’t need—”
“It will only take a second. Just take it off.”
He looked at me with eyebrows raised, but obeyed, shrugging the motley thing off his shoulders and handing it to me. I was worried it would smell, but fortunately he seemed remarkably clean for a traveling magician, and the fabric gave off only a faint scent of soap and something astringently herbal—rosemary, perhaps. I recognized it as the same scent permeating the borrowed linen shirt I wore.
I ran the tear through my fingers, letting my fingers learn the cloth, and then crouched in the shade and shrugged off my pack. It was a simple enough job. I riffled my fingers over my threads as if over the strings of a guitar, finding the one that sang.
“You have an awful lot of sewing supplies in that pack,” he remarked.
“It’s a normal amount,” I said absently.
“I see.”
I had found the right thread—tarnished silver, showy and shabby at once. I snipped off a length and threaded one of my bone needles. Just having the needle between my fingers made me feel better, more in control. It was such a small repair, but I couldn’t help giving it a flourish. I used the stitch I thought of as the Feather, because it mimicked the spines along a quill’s length. When I had finished, the line of stitching looked like a swan’s plume, still glossy from the river, had been laid gently across the shoulder of the many-colored coat. The sheen of the silver thread made it appear to move. I cocked my head and eyed it critically.
Shiny, said Baldbeak.
“Well of courseyoulike it,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I handed Patrick back his coat. “Thank you for your help.”
I felt better now that I had performed that small service for him. There was no debt between us now. I found that I liked that and felt more charitable towards him in general.
