27. Penny #2
We reached the market and headed for the stall closest to the livery where the grain merchant was hawking his goods.
By the time we approached the portly old man, I’d forced out another burp that had me half-convinced I could make myself vomit after all.
It reminded me of the time I’d thrown up on Kit.
He’d certainly been eager to put me to bed for the night after that.
The guard marched ahead to the counter where he requested the grain we would need to get our horses through to Forstford and back to Ashpoint. I hung a few feet back, leaning against the wall of the livery, bent in half and breathing hard.
When the shopkeeper went to the cart behind his stall to fetch the grain bag, the guard stomped over to me.
“You’d better hold it in,” he muttered. “Last thing we need is you getting sick all over the damned place…”
Turning toward him, I mocked a full-body heave. Dry and unproductive, but threatening enough he lurched backward.
I looked up at him with my eyes as wide and full of woe as I could manage. “I don’t think I can hold it in,” I croaked.
“Gods, take it around the corner!” The guard stabbed a finger toward the barn. “And out of sight. You had enough folks staring already. No need to start a rumor you’re carrying plague.”
I nodded, then rushed toward the livery, making sure to wobble and stumble a bit on the way. Once the side of the building was between us, I stood straight and whipped my head from side to side, searching for someone I could talk to and hopefully trust.
Explaining that I was a member of a cult and on my way to burn down a town was likely to get me sent to the gallows. This would require finesse. Unfortunately, I was about as tactful as I was dishonest, which was to say, not nearly enough for this task.
A stable hand wandered into sight and noticed me at the same moment I spotted him. We made eye contact for a second while I thought.
Kit was better at this sort of thing. Taking charge. Telling lies that were close enough to the truth. But I was good at things too. Namely, making people like me.
“Excuse me,” I began, adding a wave and a smile. The stable hand perked up. He was younger than me, probably still in his teen years, and he met my cheer with his own. It was nice to see a friendly face.
“Yes, sir?” he asked as he wandered closer.
“I’m in need of a messenger.” I glanced toward the market behind me and started speaking faster. “Someone who can get to Forstford. Tonight. Do you know of anyone?”
I wasn’t clear on the distance yet between us and Kit’s town, but the people there would need as much time as possible to gather their things and evacuate. Perhaps even alert the militia.
The thought sent a chill down my back.
If we got to Forstford and the militia was waiting, we would be arrested. Tried. Executed. In asking for help for others, I may have been facilitating my own demise.
Maybe Kit was right. Maybe I did have a death wish.
“Josiah could go. He’s quite fast on horseback.” The stable hand nodded toward the livery and another man I assumed to be inside. When he looked back at me, his head tilted quizzically. “No way anyone could make it there tonight, but he could get there quick. What’s the message?”
My mouth went dry, and my thoughts slowed to a crawl.
I started to reply and stopped, then started and stopped again.
I needed Kit. To hold my hand. To tell me what to say. To lend me his strength.
But his strength was what got him left behind. The guard agreed to bring me to town because I was “harmless.” I needed this stable hand to know that, because if the militia did intercept us in Forstford, I doubted they would listen or care.
“I’m not a bad man,” I whispered.
His brow furrowed as I scrambled for something steadier to hold on to.
“But perhaps some other… bad people… might be on their way to Forstford.” My voice cracked at the end, and I hated the way it sounded, too fragile, too unsure.
“What makes you think that?”
“They told me.” My palms were damp. The early morning air pressed close, cool against the back of my neck.
“Oh.” Just that, simple and flat, but it left a hollow space between us.
“Can you… or Josiah…” My words tangled together, and I had to stop, swallow, start again. “Will he go? Will he tell them?”
“About the bad people?”
“To leave.” The plea rasped out. And as an afterthought, I rushed to add, “Tell them the warning came from Kit. They’ll understand.”
His frown deepened, and the silence stretched, interrupted only by my heartbeat thundering in my ears and the low murmur of the market behind us.
He had more questions; I could see them, but I couldn’t answer them.
Instead, I fumbled to the small of my back where I’d hidden my knife beneath my shirt. When I pulled it out and brought it around in front of me, I caught the flash of panic in the stable hand’s eyes.
I raised my free hand in surrender and tried again to reassure him. “I’m not…”
Not menacing. Not strong. Not bad.
Protest clogged my throat, and I forced out a breath before finishing, “I’m trying to help.”
My fingers curled around the hilt of the knife as I spared it a mournful look. It was the weapon Kit made me, his way of making sure I always had something sharp between me and danger. I had another use for it now. A cause even more worthy.
“I don’t have any coin,” I explained, the words hushed but steady. “But I have this. Perhaps it could be payment for the task?”
The stable hand eyed the knife as I turned it around, then offered it to him, handle first. He leaned forward, just beginning to reach, when the guard came around the corner into view with a sack of grain slung over his shoulder.
The guard’s head swiveled, and since I hadn’t gone far, he spotted me at once. His gaze dropped to the weapon in my hand, and storm clouds rolled across his face.
The stable hand flinched back, leaving me standing there, holding the knife and looking horribly guilty.
“What’s going on out here?” the guard demanded.
“He was just… showing me this knife. My intended is a blacksmith, you know, so I have an eye for fine craftsmanship. Has a nice heft to it.” I bounced the dagger on two fingers to demonstrate the balance.
The guard cast a scowl from me to the stable hand and back again.
I didn’t want to give the knife away. It was a gift. Kit loved to give me things, and I appreciated all of it, but I forced myself to offer it again to the stable hand, this time with every scrap of determination I could muster.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of it.”
It sounded strange even to me. It must have looked stranger still: me offering a weapon to pay for a service that hadn’t even been agreed upon. But all I could do was trust he would take it.
The stable hand hesitated another moment before he finally closed his fingers around the hilt. The weight of the weapon left my palm, and relief loosened the knot in my chest. I exhaled, shaky but grateful.
The guard’s eyes drew down to slits. “Feeling better?” he grumbled, suspicion roughening his voice.
I didn’t try to dodge it this time. I could finally be honest. “Yes,” I replied. “A bit. The boy got me some water, and that helped settle my stomach.”
He studied me, then gave a short nod.
“Good,” he said. “Because I recall you offering your strong back.”
Without ceremony, he shifted the grain sack from his shoulder and dropped it squarely into my arms. The weight nearly knocked me backward, but I hefted it to my own shoulder and locked my knees before I could topple.
The guard seemed satisfied as he turned to the stable hand. “Sorry for the bother. Didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”
The stable hand bobbed his head while resting a hand on the knife now tucked at his belt.
With a sharp clap of his hands, the guard turned to me. “All right, lad. Off you go. Best get that to the wagon before your legs give out.”
He made a shooing motion, and I pivoted under the load, staggering a step before finding my rhythm.
Each stride pulled at my shoulder, and I swallowed a groan. Strong back, I internally scoffed. By the time we reached the cart, I would be as hunched as a brittle old man. Still, the thought of Kit laughing at the sight, and at my expense, was enough to make the burden worth it.