The Things We Bury Page 8

  “Well, if we do run tonight after market like everyone else is thinking, I’ll probably need some leather wherever we land. New bellows, an apron, that sort of thing.” The blacksmith lifted the buckskin from Anaz’s arm.

  He didn’t turn away from the woman. She pretended to kick at the child and he screeched, jumped backwards, crashing into the stack of brooms. They fell forward, crashing into the capon cage, setting the birds screeching and flapping. Anaz felt his own feet lurch as if he could leap and catch the brooms from where he was, but then the woman kicked out her leg and snagged the majority of the brooms in the crook of her knee. She balanced there on one foot, while snatching a stray broom she hadn’t caught. She scooped it up and, while still balancing on one foot, kicked the other brooms back into place against the wagon. She used the kick’s momentum to spin, twirling the broom like a sword. It rolled over the back of her hand and she whipped around in a full circle, spearing the tip towards the little child. She stopped less than an inch from him, then tickled the boy’s belly with the broom. He gave a giddy screech and ran away. The woman straightened and handed the broom to the old lady.

  Anaz realized he was holding his breath. Let it out.

  That was the sixth move of Abek-cia Seven. A sword form. An Ascenic sword form.

  “What do you tan ‘em with?” the blacksmith said.

  The young woman turned and caught Anaz watching her. He jerked his gaze away, spastic and ridiculous in its lack of subtlety. He couldn’t help but smile at himself. What a fool.

  “Elf. The hides. What do you tan ‘em with?”

  “Um…tan the hides?”

  “How do you get them so soft? What do you use?”

  Anaz couldn’t keep from glancing at her. This time, he caught her looking. She’d moved to the next booth, a woman selling clay pottery, but she wasn’t looking at the jar she held. When she saw Anaz looking back, she dropped her eyes to the jar. Anaz thought he could see a flush rise up her neck.

  What had Sunell said her lady’s name had been? Isolde? Isell? Whatever it was, there was no way it could contain within it the woman’s beauty. Something oily smeared into him as he stared at her. Was he betraying Reyn even now? Was admiring the hsing-li’s beautiful work a sin against her memory?

  Back and forth they went, each trying to snag a secret glance at the other.

  Gods, she was beautiful.

  “The hell with ya’.” Anaz felt the hide tossed over his outstretched arm and turned back to the blacksmith. He was walking away, hailing the neighbor’s stall.

  “Brains,” Anaz called. “I tan them with brains!”

  The man didn’t stop walking.

  Anaz wanted to scream and run after him. How could he have been so foolish? How could he let his lust lose him that sale? He looked down at the axes. They were right there. Within an arm’s reach. Wouldn’t even have to take a step. He could wrap it in the hides and probably get back to his stall without anyone noticing. He looked again at the blacksmith. He looked over his shoulder at the other stalls.

  Nobody was paying him any mind.

  He watched again as the blacksmith continued hobbling to the stall. That limp. This man needed to eat as much as Anaz did. And Anaz had his strength. But, damn, it would be so easy.

  Killing your soul is the easiest thing in the world. He closed his eyes and held a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The hsing-li had provided for him so far, it would again.

  When he turned to his own stall, he saw Sunell and her lady standing there looking at his hides.

  “I think it’s coyote, my lady,” Sunell was saying to her lady as Anaz approached.

  “Wolf,” Anaz said.

  The two women spun, startled.

  “Anaz,” Sunell said. “This is my lady, Isabell Blackhand. The baron’s daughter. My lady, this is Anaz. He lives to the south.”

  Up close, Lady Isabell wasn’t just beautiful, she was stunning, brown eyes and a smile so bright it sucked the air from Anaz’s lungs.

  She studied him.

  “I saw a pack of wolves hunt a herd of elk once near Bendercell,” she said. “They ran under the pregnant cows and tore at their bellies so the fetuses would fall out. The cows even tried to get back up and run, dragging their babies behind them by the umbilical cords.”

  “Wolves are beautiful creatures, but cruel.”

  “They never even ate the cows. Just the babies. Killed seventeen elk that day and ate barely a third of them.”

  “Like men, animals can be swept up in their blood lust.”

  “Blood lust. I think that’s it. Sorry. With the wall coming and seeing your hide…” She shook her head and looked past Anaz, towards the south, then back at him. “I’m making my way around the Market. I’m sure my father will be calling the evacuation by this evening at the latest. I want to make sure everyone knows so they can trade for what supplies they’ll need.”

  “Thank you,” Anaz said. That must be what she had said to the old woman before hugging her. Anaz had known nobility and wealthy men and women his entire life and he could count on zero fingers exactly how many would have bothered going among their people in person to warn them. To comfort them.

  Stop. Don’t you dare. She’s a trap you’ve already fallen into once before.

  “Sunell says you’re new to our Market Days. This is quite a range of animals here. Do you know a lot about hunting?”

  “Not much,” he said.

  “How did you find your way to Fisher Pass?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She gave him a crooked grin. “What do you know?”

  “I know you rolled your wrist too much with the broom. Abek-cia Seven requires a perfect balance between relaxed and sharp. Soft and strong. It’s a difficult form. Other than the wrist thing, you did it well.”

  The lady stared at Anaz for a long moment. “Abek…You’ve…” Her tongue bumped into walls like a blind dog. She looked him up and down, measuring him, seeing him. A person truly seeing him, for the first time in seven years. “I always thought it was pronounced ah-bek-cow,” she said.

  “Chow. It’s an Ascenic name. Means ‘Blessed Rain.’” He heard a hint of sadness in his own voice at the mention of his lost tribe.

  “Fascinating,” Isabell said quietly.

  She gave him a tender smile, maybe some sympathy in it. Anaz grinned back and there they stood, stuck, he not sure what to say next, not wanting to say anything that might break the moment.

  Sunell said, “I told you he—”

  There was a commotion behind Isabell. A young elven man carrying a satchel that clinked with coin barreled at them. He was looking over his shoulder.

  “Stop him!” someone screamed. A man with thick arms and short-cropped brown hair reached out to grab the young elf, but in a blink there was a dagger in the elf’s hands, slicing deep into the man’s arm.

  The elf laughed and kept running. Straight at Lady Isabell. Only a step away. He was going to collide with her and then trample Anaz’s last couple of hides, ruining everything.

  Had Anaz given it any thought, he probably would have simply let the elf crash into Lady Isabell and trample his hides, but that was the thing with spending your entire life fighting. Much of what you know is tattooed into the muscles. Only when it’s over do you realize what you’ve done.

  He sucked the hsing-li into him, felt the man’s feet pounding against the earth, felt the vibrations rippling out and under Lady Isabell, under Sunell, himself. Then, in one motion, he grabbed Lady Isabell by the shoulders, spun her so her back was to him, kicked her feet out from under her and caught her before she hit the ground.

  Meanwhile, the earth under the elf’s feet jumped, catapulting him over Anaz, Isabell and his hides. He flailed through the air until he crumpled on the other side. The satchel exploded into a shower of gold senits.

  As fast as he had molded it, Anaz smoothed out the ground, praying it all happened too fast for anyone to see. When he looked down, Lady Isabell
was looking where Anaz had worked his hsing-li.

  “Please, stop him!” a woman shouted.

  Anaz could have. The elf was still scraping senits together. He could drop Lady Isabell and catch the elf, but neither of those options felt very good to him. He’d already involved himself too much and, truth be told, he wasn’t eager to stop holding Lady Isabell.

  He shouldn’t be doing this. As his mind caught up to what he’d done, what he’d revealed, regret pooled into him. This was how it starts. Attachment.

  “Anaz, don’t touch her!” Sunell hissed. She looked to her left and right, her eyes wild. “Let her go! Before they see.”

  He lifted Lady Isabell back to her feet.

  The elf jumped to his and sprinted into the shadows between two buildings. A soldier ran up to them. Two other soldiers chased the elf, but Anaz could see there was no way they’d catch the man in town. He was too fast and they, in their armor, too slow.

  “My lady.” The soldier sucked at the air trying to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”

  Lady Isabell looked from Anaz to the soldier and nodded.

  “Bloody fucking elves,” the soldier panted. “Ain’t never seen one jump like that, though.” He glared at Anaz. Veins throbbed in his neck, his face a sheet of sweat. “Lot a fucking help you were. You coulda’ done something.”

  Anaz could only shake his head. The screams of the Pit rang in his ears, the screams of the sandfury’s winds and the crumbling walls and thousands of screaming, dying people.

  Lady Isabell frowned at him. How could he explain? How could he tell them that he was done doing something? He’d done enough and what had it gotten him? Let the hsing-li take care of its own concerns. As it wills it, so it will be.

  “My lady, hurry,” Sunell said, pulling on Isabell’s arm.

  “Maybe we’ll see you again, Mr. Anaz,” Isabell said as she was pulled away.

  Anaz’s heart pounded and he felt like he’d swallowed a bee’s nest. This was how it started.

  See her tomorrow? Not on my life.

  Daveon couldn’t decide what was worse: the silence they rode into town in or the thoughts that wouldn’t stop filling that silence. Alysha had attempted to talk to him, worked to lay trusses between them, but by the second mile Daveon had nudged Syla ahead and Alysha’s horse, Red, had fallen in behind as Daveon knew he would.

  It wasn’t the right thing to do, ignoring her like that, slapping away her peace offerings. He knew it. He always knew it, and yet he always did it. In all of his twenty-seven summers he’d never understood how a man could know the exact wrong thing to do and still charge into doing it, but that was the story of his life.

  They pulled their wagon into Fisher Pass’s square and laid out their blankets and Alysha’s satchels and leather works in silence. There they stood, holding hope and grudges, looking at her six months of effort spread before them.

  This being the first time they’d sold anything other than horses at market, they didn’t have a colored tent like most others. At least they’d thought to bring blankets, though, unlike Anaz, standing there across the square with nothing but his hides in the dirt.

  The silence gnawed at him. Sure, she was scared. They all were. These were scary times. That didn’t mean they’d feel better by being cowards, running and abandoning their duties—leaving everyone else to die. If anyone knew what that felt like, he did.

  “Thought maybe you folk skeddadled.” Phelan Farsight crossed under the Dolilis statue. He had been close with Daveon’s brother, Rayen, his family a longtime friend of the Therentells.

  “Thinking about it,” Daveon said, shaking Phelan’s hand. “What’s the word?”

  Phelan scratched at his chin, looked over his shoulder. Not that anyone was paying attention. Hell, there was barely a hum of haggling across the market. It was closer to a funeral than a festival. “Mum’s the word so far, it seems. The Lady Isabell is walking around warning people to pack as soon as they leave Market, that her father will be calling the evacuation by nightfall, but as soon as she leaves Evan comes around with his half-orc telling everyone to stay put. No word, yet, from the boss himself. Not sure folks’ nerves need the twanging from the two, but there it is.”

  “Where do you fall on that scale?”

  “My wagon’s packed,” Phelan said. He leaned and spat into the dirt. “Rhonda wouldn’t bed until it was ready. Boys spent the night watching the southern horizon.”

  If the lady Blackhand was telling people to flee, it was likely her father would agree. That would make Alysha even more insistent on leaving. He needed to sell her leather works more than ever.

  “Rin and Wesley gotta be, what, fifteen summers by now?”

  “Fourteen and twelve.”

  “Growing boys like that. Probably could use a good pair of work gloves?”

  Phelan squinted at the gloves, scratched his jowl under the ear. “No horses today?”

  “Almost as good,” Daveon said. “Horse hide.”

  “Guess I’d rather have a horse than its skin. If we end up setting on the road and all, can’t say the boys’ll be needing gloves.”

  “Wherever we all end up, there’ll be work to be done.”

  Phelan looked skeptical. Daveon bent and grabbed a pair and held them out to Phelan, wagging them in the air. “Alysha hand stitched them herself. Feel how strong that seam is. Felling trees or wrestling steer, your hands’ll be grateful for the masterwork.”

  “Guess I’ll probably need my senits more,” Phelan mumbled. He took a step backwards. “Well…”

  “Tell you what,” Daveon said, stepping forward. “Two for the price of one? Both boys fitted for a quarter-senit.”

  Phelan stepped back again. “Mighty kind of you, but with Airim-knows what lying a’ future, I’ll save my coin. Not sure you should be so pushy to take others’, Daveon, you sitting on that Therentell gold and all.” He nodded towards Alysha behind Daveon. “Ma’am. We’ll see you folks on the road, I reckon.”

  Daveon watched him walk away. He tossed the gloves back onto the rug, a sour feeling in his stomach. Therentell gold. It was only one customer. There’d be others.

  Yet, by mid-morning they’d only sold seven pairs of gloves and a single satchel…and those only through what felt like begging to Daveon. He’d never seen the town so miserly on a Market Day. Every conversation started the same way: “No horses?” People were thinking more of the road than the field that morning. Even Lily Benhoven begged off and only paid for three of the five pairs she’d laid claim to. As the sun climbed higher and higher, Daveon watched Alysha’s shoulders droop further and further.

  This, too, is my fault. This is Airim punishing me and everyone I love.

  “The Therentells selling at market as I live and breathe,” Evan Malic called. Daveon had to catch himself from groaning as the innkeeper and his half-orc thug—bodyguard? Hired killer? Daveon couldn’t decide—sauntered up to them.

  “No horses today?” Malic asked. “I thought you’d be trying to maybe pay down on what you owe me.”

  Malic’s eyes never left Daveon’s wife.

  “The horses are for the king,” Daveon said. He stepped up next to Alysha close enough that their shoulders touched.

  Malic had an easy way to him, but Daveon suspected it was a ruse. Like a cat’s easy way before it pounces. He picked at the distorted fingers on his left hand while examining the gloves on the ground. Malic and Two Fingers, only two good hands between them, Malic with smashed fingers on his left and Two Fingers missing his pinky and ring finger on his left hand altogether. Daveon had never heard where Malic received the injury to his hand, but the rumor was that he had forced Two Fingers to cut off his own digits and feed them to a pig. Daveon didn’t like to think about the kind of man who did that to another person…or the kind of loyalty that person must feel to do it.

  “I don’t see any mittens unfortunately. With things as they are,” Malic held up his ruined left hand, “I find gloves only half as usef
ul as I once did. You make these Daveon?” Malic already knew the answer to that question, Daveon knew. Gods he hated this man.

  “I did,” Alysha said.

  “Beautiful and talented,” Malic said.

  “A good ass for a human, at least, am I right?” Two Fingers rumbled, then he laughed and punched Nikolai in the shoulder. Compared to what the half-orc was capable of, it was just a nudge, but it sent the eight-summer boy who couldn’t have weighed all of five stones toppling backwards. The moment he landed, as if the ground had thrown him back, Nikolai leapt to his feet and took two steps toward the orc, his fists bunched. Daveon caught his son by the arm. Two Fingers laughed and winked at Nikolai.

  “Anyway,” Malic said, “I’m sure you heard the wall may or may not be moving. Can’t be sure yet. Waiting on our Lord Blackhand to let us know, but I suspect he’ll say we have nothing to fear. That said, if you are feeling a little frightened, I wanted you to know you are welcome to stay at the Stop.” Again, his eyes never left Alysha.

  Daveon stepped in front of his wife, blocking Malic’s view. It was that or he cut the innkeeper’s eyes out of his fucking skull. “We’re fine where we are,” he said. “But thank you for the offer.” And go suck a goat’s teat.

  “I’m just thinking it might be easier for everyone. Bring the horses into town. I have more than enough stable space for what you have left.” He stepped to the side to see Alysha. “Maybe you could work the shift at the Sunflower Stop in the evenings. Airim knows folk wouldn’t mind a little beauty with their beer and, truth be told, your husband’s stories may have run the table a few too many times. We can only hear about his brother’s heroics at the Battle of Lindisfarne a couple hundred times before it loses its luster.”

  “I can’t imagine leaving my home,” Alysha said, “but thank you for the generous offer.” If it was possible to say thank you, but mean fuck you, Daveon was pretty sure his wife just did it.

  Guilt squeezed at his heart, watching the way his wife stood up for him. She was so quick to stand by him…when he returned, she’d understand.