CHAPTER NINE #2
The hungry glimmer in the clerk’s eyes grew brighter. The supplies should have cost closer to ten on their own, prices in Wauld being higher than in Ephria naturally. But he knew that Deckard was desperate for the painting.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “Can’ do that. Full price for the goods on the list, and an upcharge on the broken triplet.”
Deckard knew the value of the painting wasn’t near what the clerk claimed.
He’d lived in Ephria’s capital for years, and the name Fortinne Graas had never reached his ears.
The potential merit of the tale of Graas’s travels and emigration notwithstanding, whoever the painter was, he hadn’t been a legend.
But the average Wauldener wouldn’t know that.
“Listen,” Deckard rested his hands on the counter, “we passed a grocer, a baker, a chandler, and all other varieties of shops on the way here. There was even another general store down the way.”
The clerk drew his shoulders back. “Morty ain’t got all I got.”
“But I’ll bet that Morty would be downright chuffed if we’d do business with him rather than you.”
The clerk tapped the list. “He can’ give yeh the deal I’m givin’ yeh.”
“You’re not giving us a deal,” Deckard countered. “You’re cheating us.”
Offense colored his face red, and Auden set a hand on Deckard’s shoulder, but he waved the Mage off.
“This triplet has been here quite a while.” Deckard brushed a finger over the vignette’s frame, revealing a streak of now-clean wood. “No one has even glanced at it but me, leaving a thick layer of dust to accumulate. Wouldn’t that be damaging to such a valuable heirloom?”
The clerk’s lips pursed at his lie uncovered.
“So,” Deckard held his stare, “how’s that seventeen gold sound?”
They left the shop with their bags full and their list complete. All they had left to find were horses for purchase.
“That cost us nearly twice what it should have,” Auden grumbled.
“It only cost us seven gold,” Deckard corrected as they wound through the streets toward the sound of metal on metal and the smell of manure. “The other ten were my own expense.”
“We share the same Alliance-funded purse, Jonn.”
“Should I live through this, I’m sure I can find some way to pay them back.”
Auden shook his head, unsatisfied. “Why did you want it so badly anyway? Ten gold for any painting so small is theft.”
Reasoning there was no point in hiding his intent, Deckard tightened the strap on his pack. “Evylin’s birthday is in a couple of weeks.”
His copper eyebrows drew low. “You’re buying gifts while on a mission to save the world?”
“She’ll appreciate it.”
“A painting? Evylin doesn’t strike me as a purveyor of the arts.”
“It’s the subject of the painting that she’ll appreciate.”
“I suppose you’d know better than I.”
The conversation ended as they entered the farrier’s stables.
Gentle nickers filled the air from the paddock and stalls.
The owner was a stout man, tall with arms toned by pounding steel into horseshoes.
His accent was even thicker than the shop clerk’s, and Deckard settled for understanding only one side of the conversation.
The one word he regularly picked up from the farrier was “mucker,” the same term the clerk had used.
“Yes, very well,” Auden finally concluded. “That will have to do.”
With that, the farrier grunted and headed toward the paddock, yelling at his stable boy while gesticulating wildly.
“I take it we’re getting our horses,” Deckard said.
Auden sighed. “Five of them. We’re short on the funds for the other two.” He said the last bit with a disgruntled glare.
“Ah.” Deckard made sure his expression was adequately penitent. They’d only brought enough coins with them to procure what they absolutely needed, not wanting to risk drawing the eye of a back-alley thief by flashing around too much gold. “We could retrieve more and come back for the others.”
“We can’t return,” he said. “Best not to give them a reason to remember us.”
“Right.”
The fire crackled in the small forge, bars of steel sticking out of a barrel beside it. Despite the cultural differences, the stables looked the same as any in Ephria. Granted, the prices were higher, and he couldn’t understand the owner well enough to attempt lowering the price.
Deckard turned back to Auden, brow furrowed. “What was that he kept calling you?”
After a moment of consideration, the highlord understood. “Mucker. Means friend.”
“Then why not call you ‘friend’?”
“There’s nearly a thousand miles of land between our two countries, Jonn,” he said. “So much separation and space are bound to create some differences.”
“But we speak the same language.”
“Yet, our accents are different. So is our colloquial speech.”
Deckard found himself growing curious to discover the roots of the Waulden accent and turns of phrases. He wondered if there might be a book on the subject. Regardless, if he were to continue going in and out of the settlements with Auden, he’d need to learn their everyday expressions and slang.
The farrier and his stable boy returned with their fully saddled horses. Most of them resembled any standard Ephrian horse, with short brown and black coats. However, there was a smaller one of a heartier build, with large white patches splotched over its black coat and a silk-like mane.
Once the horses and coins were exchanged, and they’d begun their journey back to camp, Deckard asked about the unique breed.
“A Brounes Gypsy,” Auden said. “They’re mostly used for pulling carts or wagons, making them excellent traveling horses. I’d have liked to have more, but he gave me a deal on the others.”
Upon their return to camp, there was a general confusion as to why they’d only brought back five horses when they’d taken enough money for seven. Graciously, Auden kept Deckard’s secret, telling them that the supplies had cost more than expected.
“We’ll get two more when we arrive near Vaulley,” he announced.
Ilain quirked one of her sharp eyebrows. “That’s three days away. Why don’t we stop in Jourdan tomorrow?”
“I’d rather put more distance between us and Blount’s Night Mages before we stop again.”
Everyone agreed with the sentiment, leaving Rafferty to ask the inevitable question that remained. “So who’s doubling up?”
A collective silence fell, no one wanting to volunteer.
Evylin rolled her eyes. “I’ll ride with Jonn.”
“It won’t be comfortable,” Deckard warned.
“We’ve done it twice before.”
Thom piped up then. “Ethenn and Raff are short enough that they could probably share.”
Both men sent him scathing looks.
Evylin grinned at their reaction but shook her head. “With all his muscle, I’d imagine Ethenn weighs as much as you.”
Ilain sighed. “Very well, I’ll volunteer. Whom shall I ride with?”
The four remaining men considered it. Rafferty and Ethenn looked ready to offer, but Thom spoke first. “I’d be honored to escort you, milady.”
Everyone stared at him in shock.
Folding her hands on her lap, Ilain batted her lashes at him. “Are you certain that you can bear being so close to me?”
“I think I’ll manage for three days,” he said, with a suggestiveness to his tone that made Deckard’s brow pinch.
Was his brother flirting with Ilain?
“With that all sorted,” Rafferty said, distracting from the strange moment, “which horse is mine?”
Within an hour, they rode out, old and new belongings packed into the saddlebags. Rafferty wound up with the gypsy horse whom he’d affectionately begun calling Betsy. Ilain sat behind Thom, full skirts splayed out behind her.
“Try not to get too attached to me,” Thom said as she adjusted the fabric.
She settled her chin on his shoulder teasingly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”
Watching the exchange suspiciously, Deckard startled when Evylin’s arms threaded through his to clasp around his waist.
“Did you forget I was back here?” she asked with amusement.
“Momentarily,” he admitted.
She scooted closer, legs pressing against him on both sides. “I’m rather offended. Am I so forgettable?”
They swayed with the gait of the horse, its hooves clomping and squelching on the dirt and mud road beneath them.
Deckard’s suspicions shifted from his brother to his wife.
He still couldn’t pin down what was causing this return to normalcy.
He wanted to be grateful for it and lavish in the comfortable way she leaned against his back.
But he couldn’t. Not when she seemed to have moved on from Hewitt’s death so suddenly and completely.
Still, he would take whatever closeness to her that he could get.
Resting his hand on hers, Deckard glanced over his shoulder. “In a million lifetimes, I couldn’t forget you.”
She released a soft laugh. “What a charming sentiment.”
“I’m a charming man,” he quipped.
Evylin slipped one hand free to reach up and tug the hood of his cloak from his head. He began to protest, turning to scold her when the sudden presence of her lips on his bearded cheek halted him. He gaped at her, baffled.
Her smile sparkled in her amber eyes. “More than any other.”
Unsure how to respond, Deckard let out a small puff of a laugh.
He didn’t feel the humor of it, though, confusion clouding his head.
Evylin had grown increasingly casual with her flirtation and touch since they’d entered Wauld.
And while it initially made his chest fill with the warmth of hope, now it twisted like a knot.
Something was wrong. He just couldn’t puzzle out what.
Staring at the path ahead, Deckard scanned the tree line. His subconscious formed into Hewitt’s phantom, standing there with his arms crossed as they neared. His gray eyes summoned Deckard, a call to walk through the forest and think through this problem.
He just needed an excuse to go out alone.