The Things We Bury Page 11

Plus, let’s be honest, when was the last time you had a quiet drink with a boy?

  Anaz looked up at her. His eyes went wide and he shot a look at the door, then at the horse breeder who’d moved back behind the bar. “You—”

  No! How?

  “Hush,” Isabell hissed. Dammit, how? She’d barely even said a word! How had he instantly recognized her like that? For years, she’d been fooling people who’d known her since she was a little girl. Anaz had met her for all of fifteen minutes this afternoon and now, in the dark, he saw her. Knew her.

  An uncomfortable mix of flattery and dread raced through her. He knew her! But…he also knew her.

  “My lady?” he whispered.

  Okay. New plan.

  “I’d hoped to find you here,” she said. She kept her voice low, but with the arguing and crying, she needn’t have worried.

  The couple next to them fought over whether to leave, trying to find that mix of whispering so nobody else could hear them fight, but yell loud enough so the other would know how angry they were. “Go to Rinley’s? He’ll be right happy to have six new mouths to feed and us a field a’ corn standing back at home…”

  “Tense tonight,” Isabell said.

  Anaz only looked at her.

  “I thought…” Gods, her mouth was dry. Was she nervous? What are you, a little maiden? Pull yourself together. “I’d like to talk. Maybe outside. Somewhere private.”

  She thought she saw a flash of fear in his face, a scramble for something to say. He shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered.

  She tried not to let the sting of his reaction show. He didn’t want to be alone with her? She could feel the cloak of her courage unravelling.

  “I know what you are. Did the king send a Yul Crafter to help with the wall?”

  “A Yul—a what?” Anaz said.

  Playing dumb or truly didn’t know? She couldn’t tell. Damnit, why is everything so difficult?

  “But your magic,” Isabell said.

  Anaz was silent.

  “I saw what you did today. You’re a caster. A Yul Crafter or maybe even an Airim’s Lance fighting at the wall. From the king’s army.”

  “I am part of no army. And I am here for no wall. I only came to trade for tools. Tonight I go home.”

  “Home.” Anaz was going home! Sunell had said his home was south. Maybe things could go right once in a while after all.

  She glanced around the room again. The half-orc was standing and looking at her. He had his hand on that greatsword he carried everywhere.

  “This would be a lot easier if we could talk outside.” There was no reason to panic. They didn’t recognize her. How could they?

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  When was the last time anyone other than her father had flat out refused her and left her unsure she could change their mind even with a direct order? It reminded her of how lonely being the daughter of a baron could be. Surrounded by people and not one of them—except maybe Lela—willing to be honest with you, not chasing something from you or your father. Anaz’s independence, his certainty, there was no rudeness in it, just a quiet confidence that Isabell found frustratingly charming.

  “Look,” she said, leaning across the table to keep from being overheard, “maybe you aren’t what I think you are, but you can’t deny what I saw today. You have some kind of power.”

  “I have no power. I can ask things from the hsing-li.”

  “I need your help. Fisher Pass needs your help. I need to find the Airim Lances at the wall. I need to get out of Fisher Pass, away from my father.”

  “Then I wish you safe travels.”

  The innkeeper was talking to the half-orc and watching her. The bartender too. The innkeeper pointed at them, locked eyes with Isabell. She jerked her gaze away.

  “That’s the problem,” she said. “Getting there safely. I don’t know those mountains, my father has never let me travel through a city alone, much less in the wilds. But you do. You live there. You said yourself, you’re heading there tonight. Let me come with.” She reached out to touch his hands, but he snatched them back. “If I don’t reach the wall, if I can’t find the Airim’s Lances, this village and everything I care about will be ruined.”

  The half-orc was walking towards them now, slowly weaving between people. The innkeeper circled the other way. Pinning her in. She didn’t have long.

  “This village is fleeing. Everyone says your father is ordering an evacuation tonight.”

  “He’s not.” She shot a look at the couple next to them, tried dropping her voice even further. “He won’t.”

  “But these people…”

  “He’s leaving them.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You would if you knew my father. If I can find the Airim’s Lances, I can join them, I can fight with them and we can come back here and help get people out. Maybe even keep the wall from reaching them in the first place.”

  “He’s not ordering them to leave?”

  “He’s not letting them leave,” Isabell said. “No man, woman or child.”

  Anaz looked down the table, at the slew of citizens debating with each other about what to do, when to run, when to wait. She saw the way he looked from face to face, noticing which ones were crying, which were angry, which resigned. She felt the smallest bud of green hope. Now that he understood, if he had even a shred of humanity within him, there was no way he could stand by and let everyone die.

  “I saw it in you today, Anaz. At the Market, when that elf ran. You wanted to stop him, but held back. You care about these people. I can see it. Please. Help me.”

  The way he looked at her, she thought he might cry. So much pain. Where had this strange man come from? What had happened to him? What was he running from?

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  Isabell’s heart sank.

  The innkeeper was close. He made a gesture she couldn’t entirely see and the couple next to her stopped talking, stood up.

  Think, gods dammit, think. She had seconds, maybe less. There had to be a way to convince him, to force him. What had Sunell said? That he was trying to buy tools or something. He hadn’t looked too lucky at Market this morning…

  “Well, hello,” the innkeeper said. He sat next to her.

  “I’ll pay you,” she said to Anaz, not bothering to whisper anymore. “I know you didn’t get what you needed today at Market. I’ll pay you. There’s another Market at Clover Hollow to the west of here. It’s in two weeks…if the wall hasn’t reached them. You can buy what you need there.”

  Anaz looked at the innkeeper, then to her.

  He stared at her a long time.

  “Imagine my surprise,” the innkeeper said to Isabell.

  Anaz drummed his fingers on the table.

  “A surprise indeed,” the innkeeper said.

  Her eyes never left Anaz’s.

  The half-orc stopped behind Anaz. He planted his greatsword’s tip in the floor with a thunk.

  Isabell could hear the hall starting to quiet. People were staring.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  14

  Malic didn’t want this damn girl in his damn inn. And that stupid wig. Maybe it fooled these farm hicks, but Malic had spent his life hunting people and learning to spot the best of the best at hiding. This girl was playing at something she didn’t know shit about.

  He had enough to worry about just keeping half the fucking village from splitting and now this bitch struts her crazy ass in here with the baron likely not far behind. Once he got here, all bets were off. Bastard might even try to take the Sunflower Stop if he thought Malic hadn’t done enough to protect his daughter. Malic knew his kind. He’d worked for a couple nobles like him before. Killed a couple, even.

  No, that wasn’t how tonight was going to go. He’d worked too hard hiding here to let anything fuck it up. Not the damn Wretched and not some horny flake girl chasing a screw from the oddity.

 
“My lady.” Malic straddled the bench facing her. He lathered his voice with honey. “An honor to have you. Again.”

  The girl looked at him, then at Two Fingers. Not a flicker of fear. She had bull-sized balls, he’d give her that. Though she did seem a little frustrated at being spotted so easily. She sighed and pushed back her hood.

  She glanced past Malic, at the rest of the people at the table staring at them. “I had hoped to have a quiet night out, if you know what I mean. Without certain people knowing where I was,” she said. “I’d heard this was the place to be after Market so where else would I be?”

  “I can think of a place or two,” he said. Looking at her closer, sitting on his face might make that list. “Can I get you anything before you leave?”

  “I’m not going anywhere yet.”

  “Reconsider. Last time, your father, if I recall, weren’t none too cordial with you being so cordial.”

  “Is my father here?”

  “See? You’re starting to get it.”

  “You forget yourself, innkeeper.”

  The last person who’d told Malic to not forget himself took a dip in the Salt Boil Sea. There were worse ways to die, but he’d be hard pressed to think of any. Shame the coast is so far away. Not that he’d actually kill her. There was still a line or two he wouldn’t cross. Weren’t worth crossing, truth be told. He had enough heat on him with the captain still searching for him and Two Fingers and all. Still, a man can dream.

  “I think of nothing but your safety, my lady,” he said.

  “To be sure.”

  “Being sure. That’s a good way of putting it. In fact, to be sure you are safe, my man, Two Fingers will have to stand guard of your person.”

  The half-orc stepped onto the bench, up onto the table, kicking aside a plate of food, then down on Isabell’s side. He turned and sat on the table in front of her. His greatsword still stood in the floor behind Anaz like a flag. By the gods, Malic often forgot how big Two Fingers was.

  “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary,” Isabell said.

  “What would our Lord Baron say should something happen to his daughter in the Sunflower Stop? We’d all feel better if Two Fingers stayed close.”

  “As I said. Appreciated, but not necessary.”

  The stranger looked at him. Maybe thinking of inserting himself into something he shouldn’t. The pipsqueak could go fuck himself if he wanted to get involved.

  “And as I said. Close.”

  The fire crackled, a pop and hiss as a new pocket of sap was discovered and dissolved. Silence after.

  “Very close,” Malic said.

  Two Fingers pressed his left boot against the lady’s hip.

  She slid away from him.

  Two Fingers scooted down the table. Pressed his boot against her hip again.

  “You’re touching me,” Isabell said and inched away again, at the end of the bench now. She pulled back her hood and removed the wig, letting her natural hair loose. “If I recall, the last time someone touched me was here at the Sunflower Stop. And if I recall, you were standing over there behind the counter when my father nearly killed the lad.”

  The war waged between Malic and Isabell’s glares would have flattened mountains. This bitch was going to threaten him? Using her old man? Not this night. Malic had learned a hard lesson when that knight had crushed his left hand all those years ago—a lesson he knew this spoiled brat had never needed to learn. You never give up. Never yield. Not until the moment you die.

  He nodded at Two Fingers.

  The half-orc slid his boot against her.

  “She asked to be left alone.” It was the freak.

  Malic could have kissed the man. He might not be able to toss out the baron’s daughter—those damn un-crossable lines—but this fucker was gonna’ take a tumble.

  Two Fingers looked at him. He nodded again.

  The half-orc swung his legs over Lady Isabell’s head and kicked the little man. Sent him flying like a dog bone. Poor bastard didn’t hit the floor until he was halfway to the hearth, then skidded into the stones.

  Isabell jumped up. “Stop!”

  Malic caught movement behind the bar and saw Daveon standing at the edge, one hand gripping the wood. Malic grinned at him.

  The little man hauled himself up, rubbed at his head and brushed off the straw rushes. He picked off a couple sunflower seed husks.

  “That’s twice,” he said.

  “Eh?” Two Fingers grunted.

  “You won’t touch me again.”

  When the little man retook his seat, Malic didn’t know if he should laugh or go get his own sword. Two Fingers won most fights on his size and look alone. Malic couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually stood up to him.

  The man glanced at the half-orc, then folded his hands in front of him.

  Two Fingers laughed a rabid dog’s bark. “Little shit’s got an earball problem,” he said. He grabbed the man by the shirt, strangling it tight around his neck, the other hand reaching under his armpit.

  “We’re all full up on little shits tonight,” Two Fingers yelled as he hauled the man from his seat. He was going to throw the stranger into the fire. Not at it. In it.

  Somehow, as he lifted the little guy off the bench, the freak slipped from his jerkin, like water poured from a pitcher, and Two Fingers, with all of his half-orc strength and size suddenly void of a counter-weight, flew towards the hearth himself, his arms outstretched, following the tossed jerkin. He sprawled face first, his tusks cracking against the floorboards.

  The Sunflower Stop erupted. Some were rightly too afraid to laugh at the half-orc, but there were plenty of drunks who weren’t. Then, Malic heard Isabell gasp.

  The stranger faced the flattened half-orc, now shirtless. Slicing up and down his body, across the back of his neck, his arms, his waist, were hundreds of scars. Gouges. Burns. Some long, some short, wide and pink or pale from different ages. A patchwork of violence written in flesh. Malic had seen scarred men before in the Corp., but he’d never seen anything like this.

  Like a galloping horse with its throat suddenly cut, the laughing crashed to a stop. Everyone stared at the strange man with his strange, brutalized body who had just toppled a giant.

  They’d laughed. The pissants of Fisher Pass—of his village—had laughed at Two Fingers, and, by extension, at him. All because of this little freak.

  There would be blood tonight. Evan Malic promised it.

  Daveon’s heart thudded in his ears as he watched Two Fingers stand up. If hatred could take a form, surely this half-orc would be it. Tension sparked across the silent hall, drinks frozen halfway between table and mouth, giant white eyes too afraid to blink. Someone down the bar whispered the Canticle of Airim. For eight summers, ever since they had barged their way into Fisher Pass, Malic and his half-orc companion had been untouchable. Now, a ten stone man had touched one. In a big way. And he’s about to be touched back.

  Two Fingers dragged his hand across his mouth, smearing a streak of that weird purplish-red half-orc blood leaking from a split lip. He looked at his hand, at the blood there, then at Anaz and Daveon knew. This beast was about to murder his friend.

  And a beast he was. Daveon had cut down trees smaller than the half-orc.

  And trees don’t cut back.

  He didn’t know when it had happened, how his feet had moved, but there he was, suddenly standing between Two Fingers and Anaz.

  “Move,” Two Fingers growled.

  “Better listen, Therentell,” Malic said. “He only warns once.”

  Daveon’s ass felt like it might fall out from under him. What was he doing? He tried swallowing, had to try a second time to clear his throat.

  “Everyone calm down,” he said. “We’re all on edge, but attacking neighbors isn’t the Fisher Pass way.” That sounded good. Who could disagree with something like that?

  “I’ll decide what’s the Fisher Pass way,” Malic said.

  Fucking M
alic could, that’s who.

  “This wart hair isn’t one of us,” Malic said, stabbing a thumb at Anaz. “And the lady’ll be leaving shortly behind him.”

  Lady Isabell raised an eyebrow. Daveon couldn’t imagine talking to the baron or his daughter—any nobility, for that matter—like that.

  Say something. Keep them talking. He thought he could maybe see the steam releasing off of Two Fingers, could maybe see his anger slowly simmering off. Or he’s just packing it in, letting the pressure build for a bigger explosion.

  “Evan,” Daveon said, “this isn’t what Fisher Pass needs. People are scared enough without your dog breaking his leash.” I’m an idiot.

  “You wanna’ see a fucking dog, I’ll bite,” Two Fingers said.

  “Scared of what?” Malic screeched. He spun wildly, his red rimmed eyes razing the room, jabbing his deformed left hand. “Been here long enough to know which o’ you fuckers got mud for spines. One man, claiming to be from the king comes in and says the wall is moving and suddenly every one o’ you want to run. Run!”

  The word cut at Daveon.

  Malic stabbed his hand at Lady Isabell. “Why aren’t any soldiers coming to Fisher Pass? Why hasn’t the baron called a retreat?”

  The Lady Isabell looked from Malic to Anaz, then back to Malic, but didn’t speak.

  “Malic, don’t—” Daveon started to say.

  “Because there isn’t anything to run from is there?” Malic said. “Airim’s cock. Your father still brands his servants. He hangs anyone even suspected of stealing from him. You think the Wretched stink? Two Fingers and I came to Fisher Pass to get away from the dead bodies, but we’ve been smelling the baron’s dead justice for damn near a decade and now all of a sudden the wall is moving, going to chew up everything he owns and he’s just sittin’ on by and lettin’ it happen?” Malic shook his head. Stepped closer to Isabell. “No. Your old man been kicked down before. Had everything taken from him before. He ain’t lettin’ that happen again, is he? That’s why he hasn’t ordered the evacuation. Either that messenger was lying and the wall ain’t moving or he’s got a plan.” Malic stepped away from Isabell and waved out across the room. “It’s why I ain’t running. I didn’t work this hard at making Fisher Pass my home to have it all taken away now. It’s why you pussies need to grow some fucking spines. And it’s why strangers causing trouble for the honest folk of Fisher Pass need to get the fuck out of my inn.” Malic’s gaze raked between Daveon and Anaz.