Chapter Twenty-Two. On Matters of Size.
Twenty-Two
On Matters of Size.
Deep in the autumnal woods, behind the thick trunk of a thimbe whose leaves have gone red and orange, I’m peeling off my absolutely disgusting underclothes.
The chill in the air makes me goose-pimple all over, until I feel for sure my bones have turned to icicles.
Julion has given me an entire bladder of fresh water to clean with—for all the good it can do against what coats me—and I grit my teeth, brace myself, and empty the rush over my head—
A beautiful scent blooms around me, of roses and other flowers I have never smelled before.
It’s not water.
As a tingling enlivens the root of every strand of my hair, I bring my fingertips to my nose. Then I rub them together. It’s an oily substance, astringent in nature, and it’s doubling and redoubling. Glancing down my body, the fizzing trail it leaves on the way to my feet generates heat.
I pour the rest of the bladder over my head, closing my eyes and luxuriating in the unexpected gift.
Soon enough, I am as covered in the cleanser as I am with the muck, and just as I’m wondering how to rinse off, the solution starts to evaporate.
Steaming off my hair and scalp first, the moat’s stench and slime leave with it, and I watch my forearm as my freckled skin emerges.
When I reach up to my head, I’m surprised to find the locks of white hair dry and fluffy—and as I bring some forward to my nose, the flowered scent lingers.
What would Merc think of it?
As he comes to mind, it seems right that the warmth that’s flowed into my body and kindled my internal organs flares up even more.
I enjoy the sensation for the moments it lasts, and miss the soothing comfort when it’s gone.
Ultimately, I’m left cold and aware that I’m bruised and cut in many places.
Time to get dressed, and fortunately, this bathing bounty is not all Julion’s provided me.
Draped on a branch, there’s a pale blue men’s undershirt, of such finely spun wool, it’s like air.
There’s also a heavier navy jacket and pair of riding pants, both of which have a pattern on the hems that appears to be sterling silver.
Finally, I’ve been given a turban that is made up of coils of that blue fabric, and accented by more silver stitching.
Shivering, I throw the clothing on. The undershirt is absurdly baggy, and I roll the sleeves up.
I have a little better luck with the jodhpurs, as they’re meant to fit tightly; they just pool around my ankles and calves.
A fine leather strap from Julion’s saddlebags slips through the loops to keep the waistband from sliding off my hips, and then I glance at the sodden slop heap of what I had been wearing.
I’ll have to somehow fashion a face covering out of something. But I hate the idea of any of it on me now that I’m clean and in fine, dry clothes.
On that note, I turn to the pack. Amazingly, there’s a puddle of scum around it, the fabric seeming to reject that which everything I’d had on had absorbed like a sponge. When I bend down to open the throat, I’m also shocked to find the interior is totally dry—
Hide.
That old familiar voice cracks like a whip, and as a horse that’s drifted off its trot into a walk, I snap back into action and inspect the turban-like hat.
Yanking all my hair together, I wind it up high and force the dressing onto my head.
Given that it’s made up of bands of fabric, I tear free the end of the top layer and the length falls down over my face, buffering the world in a haze of blue.
To keep the veil in place, I tuck it into the shirting and finish things with the heavier outer coat.
The last thing I do is take Mare’s velvet satchel of coins out of my bloomers.
The bag is nothing of its former pristine self, but the coins inside gleam like sunshine.
Pouring them all out, I twist, twist, twist the fine material, wringing out the murky sludge.
Then I use the very last of what’s in Julion’s bladder.
Like with me, it’s a resurrection.
I refill a dried, clean sack, and tuck it into the inside of the navy coat.
When I step out from behind the tree with the pack over one shoulder, both of the men who are waiting redirect their glowering expressions to me.
“You look like a boy,” Merc says dryly.
“She is perfectly dressed for discreet travel—”
“Assuming you want her to get mugged for all that silver.”
Julion’s jaw works in a circle, as if he’s chewing on insults he’d prefer to spit out. Next to him, Merc’s staring like he wishes the knight would open his mouth and let it all fly.
To ease the tension, I bow toward Julion. “You’re most generous. Thank you.”
Julion places his hand over his gleaming gold breastplate and inclines his torso in return. “You are most welcome.”
I hand him back the empty bladder. “What, may I ask, is that wash?”
“Oh, is it not lovely? My staff makes it from the garden at the—”
“Not to ruin this chatty conversation,” Merc cuts in, “but may I remind you that there’s a village that still wants you dead. And they live on the far side of that.”
His heavy forearm swings around like the boom on a frigate ship, and my eyes follow where he’s pointing out of the tree line at the wall.
“Allow me to be of aid.” Julion steps in to me and takes my hand. “I have a steed, and a home that is very safe. No one will find you there, and if we leave now, we can be there by sundown—”
Merc closes the distance, too. But instead of gallantly assuming my free palm on the other side, he looms in all his black leather and hard-worn steel. “She and I already have an arrangement. I will see her where she needs to go.”
“It’s up to her—”
“She’s already decided—”
“And she can reconsider—”
“Enough!” As they both eyebrow at me, I shake my head. “Merc is right. He and I have made … an arrangement. He is going to ensure my passage to … safety.”
Not that I expect much of that. Along the way or wherever I end up.
“He’s going to get you killed.” Julion glares at the other man. “Because he’s going to desert you when it’s convenient for him or he gets a better offer. That’s what men like him do.”
“You don’t know me, jyrth.”
I nearly gasp. Not because I’m particularly lady-like—but because even after all my years at the Gauntlet, I’ve only ever heard that word used once before.
Julion does gasp, and rears up on his spine, like a prized stallion coming to attention. Maybe because one of its shod hooves touches excrement.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You can beg for whatever you want,” Merc drawls. “And something tells me you’re probably the kind whose preferences run in that vein. But pardon isn’t something you’re getting from ‘a man like me,’ now or ever, and especially when you’re in my way.”
With a slow, steady draw, Merc unsheathes his broadsword and then begins to idly flip the massive weapon in the air, like it weighs no more than a stick.
Each time he catches the hilt, it smacks against his hand, and I’d be willing to bet my virtue, he’s picturing himself paddling Julion’s butt each time the sound rings out through the trees. Or worse.
Oh, wait, I’ve already bartered with my virginity.
“Do you honestly expect me to be impressed by this show?” Julion says with hauteur.
“Well, mine’s bigger than yours, so yes, I do—”
“Can you each please stop,” I say with exhaustion. Then I turn to Julion. “Thank you, for rescuing us—”
“I rescued myself,” Merc cuts in.
My eyes narrow in his vicinity. “And I’m about to toss you back into that moat if you don’t cut out the instigating.”
His smile is devilish, and he lowers his voice into a stage whisper. “I’d like to see you try. At the very least, I’d enjoy the effort—and I’d make sure you did, too.”
I’m muttering under my breath as I refocus on Julion. “Thank you for your concern, and your timely rope.”
“Where are you going?” Julion asks.
Merc cuts in front of my voice: “That’s none of your concern—”
As I shoot another glare at him, he gets precious, making a little zip-the-mouth, throw-away-the-key motion over his lips. Then he shoots a shimmy in Julion’s direction.
For a moment, I picture Merc getting eaten by balas after all, while I ride off into the horizon with a golden nobleman who’s been so kind.
Julion clears his throat. “So be it, then. But before we part, I will have a word with you.” Though I do not meet his eyes, I can sense the nasty look he sends Merc. “Alone.”