The Things We Bury Page 7

  “Where do you go from here?” the baron asked.

  Not that the lad would be going anywhere, of course. Couldn’t have the boy contradicting the baron’s claims. As far as the world would be concerned, the king’s messenger just told him and everyone of Fisher Pass to shelter in place and defend their homes to the death. And when Fisher Pass fell, as it inevitably would, and all those families were lost—all those men killed and children eaten and women taken to breeding farms—the very justifiable outrage would be just what Marcen and Earl Olisal would need to remove the king from the throne, putting Olisal on it.

  Oh, and wouldn’t you know it, but who was it that just married the Earl? Isabell Blackhand.

  Now, Queen Isabell Blackhand.

  He didn’t relish the idea of killing the young elf, but it was the right thing to do and, as his father used to say, nothing right was ever easy.

  “I’m to continue west to Nove,” the messenger said, “and warn them ahead of the Airim’s Lances arrival.”

  “Ah yes, the Lances. They’re an impressive group aren’t they? My daughter even had wild ideas of joining them.”

  “She should, if she’s strong enough,” the messenger said, suddenly eager. “Their strongest member right now is the Daughter Ella. Have you heard of her? She’s incredible!”

  “Anyway,” Marcen said. He wrapped his left arm around the young man’s shoulders as he turned him to the door. “My bailiff, Sir Nattic, says the roads have gotten dangerous of late. Did you have any troubles?”

  The messenger shook his head disgustedly, then said, “With the Wretched trying to kill us, I can’t stand to think there are men so greedy they would try to kill each other.” He looked at Marcen. “It’s shameful.”

  The baron nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  And then he had his knife out of its sheath and sliding across the boy’s throat. A red jet, arcing away. Two, three, four ever weakening spurts of crimson and the stink of the man’s bowels opening and the body crumpling to the floor and it was all over.

  “This will be poorly received, my lord,” Sir Nattic said. His bailiff was a big man who’d let youthful muscle sag to middle-aged fat, a man prone to the baker’s platter and brewmaster’s ale, but he wasn’t afraid of a little blood and he understood where his loyalties must lay if he wanted to keep it that way.

  Not that the fat man has any choice.

  Marcen knew people scoffed at his insistence on tattooing the members of his house, but he’d seen what happens when everything you have is taken from you. He would leave no question in anyone’s mind about who served whom and for how long. There was a time only two or three generations back when a lord’s staff would be executed and buried with him when he died. Humay didn’t require staff to die with their lord anymore, but it was crystal clear on the subject of dominion and fealty.

  “It won’t be received at all,” Marcen said. “Feed him to Parn’s Gnawers. Quietly.”

  “I’ll be quiet. The Gnawers won’t be.”

  “Shut up and listen. Save the messenger’s cloak and clothes. Once he’s Gnawers’ food, find a boy his size. Give him the clothes and have him ride out on the messenger’s horse. Have him go through town. Be seen, but speak to no one.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Nattic said.

  “And then take care of him and the horse.”

  Marcen didn’t pause or hesitate in any way when he gave the command.

  Nattic, to his credit, only swallowed.

  It wouldn’t be easy for him to pick the messenger double, to choose a young man whose life would be sacrificed like this, but it was only the first sacrifice in what might be the most important war in Humay’s history. He needed to be ready for more. Many more.

  “May I…” Nattic stopped and let the question fall, but Marcen knew what he’d been about to ask. Marcen had led men in battle. A man’s sword swing is a little stronger if he knows why he’s swinging it.

  “This king…Humay can’t survive him,” Marcen said. “The elder Felnis was bad enough, but his fucking whelp…”

  “I heard his mam trimmed his cock as a baby. Wanted a girl. That’s why he squeaks when he talks.”

  “I’m not worried about his cock, Nattic. I’m worried about Humay.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “If something isn’t done, we will all be swallowed by the Wretched. Our women dragged into their breeding stables like livestock. Their newborns’ souls feasted on by a Tellich.” He gripped Nattic’s shoulder, drilled his fingers through the fat, deep into the muscle. “My father died trying to do the right thing for Humay and was punished for it. You weren’t with me yet, but I know you’ve heard the stories. Our land. Our family’s name. All stolen by the first Felnis. I watched him fall, Nattic. You ever see someone fall from a tower?”

  “I was at Cornwillow’s siege. Saw men fall from the battlements.”

  “That’s in the name of something. This, this was in the name of nothing, Nattic. Despair. Shame. Threw himself from this very room. That walkway there.” He gestured to the door. Outside it a bridge spanned between his tower and the chapel tower two dozen paces away. “I was in the yard. Watched how his cloak came off of him halfway down and then just drifted, quietly. I will never forget that sound when he hit. And now his son wants to do the same to me? Only he’s too fucking scared to do it himself, so he allows these, these, these walking curses invading his country to do his work for him?”

  “Fucking coward.”

  “A coward runs away from battle. This, Nattic, is treason. He gives his own country to the enemy.” He could see the ground of Nattic’s will had been tilled, supple, ready for Marcen to cultivate. “War is a brutal thing. You know this. It’s a thing for those who have the stomach for hard choices. Who understand the stakes. You and I, Sir Nattic, we are such men. Humay needs men like us.”

  Flattery. A warrior must have the right blades for whatever battle he faces.

  As if roots had sprung from the floor and anchored the man straight, Nattic pulled back his shoulders and saluted. “For Blackhand and Humay, my lord.”

  Now that’s how it should sound.

  11

  “Will they eat us?” Elnis hadn’t stopped following Alysha all morning, one hand latched to her skirt from the moment he’d learned they were running. Every word seemed to tremble at the edge of wailing. He wasn’t old enough to really understand what was going on, but that was the thing with fear and kids. No different than with horses. More contagious than the Rot.

  “No, sweetie.”

  Alysha twisted the mouth of the burlap sack she’d filled with gloves, then wrapped leather cord around it and tied it shut. Going to Market Days today felt a little like dancing while her home burned to the ground. They should have left last night. Would anyone even be there? Would anyone buy her leather wares? Please, Airim, let them. Without at least a few coins, they’d be begging the entire way north. She dreaded what that would do to Daveon. Lately, by the end of every day he had this whooped-dog look. How much more could they take?

  She stacked the burlap sack on the table next to the others. That was the last of them. Six months of work and it all fit into only four sacks.

  “But they coming?”

  “They are, honey.” She had promised herself she would never lie to her kids. The world was tough enough without learning the hard way later on because your folks were too scared to tell you the truth about things. “But we’re leaving long before they get here.” Airim willing.

  The door opened and Daveon and Nikolai came in from the stable, stomping mud and water from their boots. The rain had stopped sometime last night, but the yard was still soaked.

  “Would Anaz take some breakfast? We don’t have much…” She felt embarrassed they couldn’t offer more than bread and a splash of warm water. Please, Airim, let somebody want my gloves and satchels today.

  “Gone before sunup.” Daveon stepped onto the porch and shook out his cloak, then hung it next to the
door. He told Nikolai to go change for the market, then looked at Alysha, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to say something.

  “What is it?”

  “Fennel is worse today. We’ll have to flush her eyes before we leave.”

  “Okay.” She could tell that wasn’t what he’d wanted to say.

  “We’re gonna’ have trouble with the king if she dies before she drops her foal. May have trouble anyway if they won’t take the foal. Would have to sell Syla.”

  “That’s all in Airim’s hands now. We’re turning the horses out and the king’s men will just have to get what they get.”

  “Right.”

  “We talked about this.”

  “Yeah. I guess we did.”

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything. “I have the wagon loaded,” she said, “with that cedar chest your ma gave us up at the front and most of the stuff for Market Days at the back. I figure what we don’t sell today we can pack in that chest around your parents’ glassware. Could probably trade on the road if we need to. If we don’t sell…” She couldn’t finish the thought.

  Daveon picked up a black satchel and untied it, opened it, closed it, retied it. He fiddled with the strap.

  Nikolai came out of the bedroom and stood at the door watching them.

  “Daveon, what is it?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about those horses.”

  “At the Skets?”

  “The king’s going to need them.”

  “Great. Let him get them.”

  “It’s not just the horses, Alysha. It’s the folks south of here. And how somebody should warn them. I could head south, warn off the families and get back our horses all before the wall even crosses into our range.”

  “Let Sir Nattic send men. They get paid for that kind of danger. You don’t.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Malic might tell him not to.”

  “Sir Nattic isn’t beholden to Evan Malic. Not everyone is.”

  “Nattic is a knight beholden to two masters ever since that business Malic bailed him out of with the tax collection last year. And you didn’t see Malic last night. He looked like he was about to kill that messenger. Ain’t no way he warns anybody about anything.”

  “Airim forbid his little fiefdom be scattered,” Alysha said. Gods she hated that man.

  “Anyway…”

  “Anyway what?”

  “Anyway, he wouldn’t get our horses back from the Skets. If that wall is moving, the king could really use the horses.”

  “Then he’ll have to get them himself.”

  “It’s just…I could take Syla and Red. Back in four, five days.”

  Something cold slithered around her throat, making it hard to swallow. Testing the idea once, last night, was one thing. Bringing it up again this morning meant he was serious. He wanted to go south. Towards the Wretched. To leave them there alone.

  “You’d leave us…”

  “The messenger said the way that wall is moving it’s two weeks out. You’d be fine. Or…”

  She let the silence hang between them. She’d be damned if she’d make any of this easier for him.

  “Or you could leave now, if you wanted, I guess. I could catch up.”

  She laughed, a sharp, surprised yelp. It was that or scream. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Her, on those mountain trails alone with her two kids and a wagon and a horse. Running from wiblins and cutthroats. Scavenging for food.

  “There are families down there, Alysha.”

  “There’s a family right here!”

  “Kids, Alysha. Hell, the Sket family has four girls. You know what they do to them!”

  “And Sir Nattic or the king’s men will protect them! Why does it have to be you?” Her voice quivered and she couldn’t decide if it was fury that he’d even think of leaving them or dread that he might actually do it. Elnis gave a small whimper, hugged her leg.

  Daveon glanced at Elnis, then at the satchel in his hands. He gave a slow sigh. “Yeah.”

  There was that whooped-dog look again. A soul-deep exhaustion.

  Everything was falling apart. How much longer could she hold them together?

  For the first time in all of this, Alysha thought she might cry.

  Anaz hadn’t been sure what to expect at Fisher Pass’s Market Days, but this wasn’t it. How much of his life had he spent in different markets and bazaars, burying his grief, his sins, with other sins? For a long time in Anathest, buying wine, women and weapons had been the only thing that assuaged his hurt. Until he’d met Reyn.

  Those markets had been loud, often violent affairs. This one felt closer to a funeral. He knew it was the wall smothering everything, but it didn’t make the day feel any brighter. Or profitable.

  The town square was much bigger in the daylight than it had looked last night. He could see the Sunflower Stop across the square, its gates open. The dead thief had been taken down from the gallows—nothing spoils a party like a dead man watching—and the fountain statue that centered the square had been sprung into action through sorcery. Crimson and golden banners flapped from every tent, many embroidered with a stag head.

  An old woman with wispy white hair had set up to Anaz’s left. She’d brought a dozen cages filled with squawking and jumping capons as well as a half-dozen brooms she’d made. They stood in a stack leaning against her wagon. A young boy who’d ridden in with her had helped her stretch a large canvas canopy up and off the top of the wagon creating a stall with a tent top. The boy had helped for a while in the morning, but now mostly played with a pile of stones he’d gathered. The old woman had seemed to do okay through the day and now, by mid-afternoon, she only had a handful of capons left.

  To Anaz’s other side, a man with a lifetime of beard and no hair had herded two dozen ewes into a makeshift pen he and his son had built that morning. The man’s wife had been making a killing selling clay jars of honey and syrup, baskets of huckleberries and raspberries. Their wagon had been freshly painted, a blue and yellow pattern of sunbeams and stars. Their daughter had been juggling and singing in front of their booth, attracting people in. Despite the depressed pall over everyone, they’d managed to sell most of the ewes.

  That, however, was not at all Anaz’s experience. It didn’t help that he had nothing except his hides. No cart. No tent. No painted signs or dancing children. Just his hides in the dirt. Half a day gone and he had only sold one skin, a fox hide for less than a quarter senit. Not even close to what he’d need.

  Now, with the sun considering its descent, Anaz had decided if people wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to them. He stood in front of the blacksmith, holding a buckskin he’d made from a red stag this spring and a fox hide with the fur still on it. He knew the buckskin alone should be worth the axe head and hoe he was looking to trade for, but so far the man had been less than warm.

  “That looks to be deer there. That one a coyote?”

  “Fox,” Anaz said, lifting higher his right arm with the fox hide draped across it.

  “What’s an elf want with an axe, anyway? Thought you long-ears live in trees, not cut them down?”

  “As I mentioned, I’m not an elf,” Anaz said. “You make swords, yes? This buckskin would make a fine grip on a handle. It’s soft enough for the hand, but strong enough to not stretch or tear.”

  “Angry Renin makes the hafts. I just make the blades. But, I wouldn’t expect an elf outsider like you to bother getting to know the town you’re trading in, I guess. Why ain’t a young elf like you at the wall anyway?” He stood from the stump he’d been using as a stool and Anaz could see the way he hobbled and kept his weight to his left that his right leg had been injured grievously at some point. Probably couldn’t walk more than a dozen paces without pain. “If more of you fancy folks would face that wall, we wouldn’t all be running for our lives today.”

  “I’m not an elf.” Anaz forced himself to hold his smile. I’m going to die t
his winter. This man had no intention of trading to Anaz the few iron supplies he needed. It was infuriating. He had an axe right there, leaning against the wagon wheel along with three others. A hoe with a sharp new blade. A sharpening stone. The things between a winter in safety and a winter scrounging for deadfall he could burn. Inches from him.

  Anaz glanced behind him to check on his hides and saw that page girl, Sunell, talking to the old woman with the capons and brooms. A young woman leaned forward, long strands of brown hair drifting across her smooth skin.

  Reyn?

  He squeezed his eyes closed. No, it wasn’t her. The hair was lighter than Reyn’s, but equally long. Delicate silver chains laced through it and it dropped far down her back, over the intricate dress to her hips.

  “Hodus did mention you have a bear skin over there?” the blacksmith said.

  “Hmm?” Anaz mumbled, his eyes stuck on the woman with Sunell. She and the old lady were talking, something serious by the look on the old lady’s face. She started to cry and the young woman hugged her. Kindness. Something raw opened inside Anaz at the sight of it. How long had it been since he’d been around people and so far, everyone had either been afraid or angry or desperate. Even the Therentells had been driven by fear and guilt. Seeing this simple act of gentleness, of comfort, it swelled something warm inside of Anaz.

  “The bear skin,” the blacksmith said. “Hodus said you had one.”

  “A grizzly,” Anaz said. He turned back to the blacksmith, was disquieted at how badly he wanted to turn and look at the woman again.

  “The hell,” the blacksmith said, a new respect creeping into his voice. “You killed a grizzly.”

  “She was old. She offered.”

  “The grizzly offered her skin.”

  Anaz turned back to look at the woman while saying, “She was generous.”

  She was teasing the young boy now. He pretended to fight with her, his tiny fists whirling in wild arcs. The old woman smiled, saying something to the boy that Anaz couldn’t hear.