The wagon battle had occurred five days prior, and just when I didn’t think it was possible, things took a turn for the worse. Near midday, I was walking alongside, expecting him to stop and care for the horses, but he didn’t.
I asked him why we hadn’t halted, but he ignored me entirely, maintaining his maddening half-lidded stare. While the last few days he’d performed all the necessary tasks like a man nearly asleep, at least he performed them. But he had degenerated from the taciturn, cantankerous patron who brought me into the grass into a husk. I told him the horses needed to rest, to eat, but there was no response; he only sat there, back rigid, eyes locked onto the patch of grass directly ahead of us.
I wasn’t sure what to do, and was weighing the wisdom or folly in trying to wrest the reins from him, when he closed his eyes and toppled over, smacking his head on the bench.
The horses took that as their cue to finally stop. I ran over to him, climbed onto the wagon. He was completely unresponsive when I shook him.
I got a flask of water, dipped the hem of my tunic in it, and pressed the cloth against his forehead and stubbly cheek, but he didn’t stir. Unsure whether to move him or not, I finally decided to try, which proved more difficult than I would’ve imagined, as his body was completely limp, like a drunkard’s. I carried/dragged him into the wagon and lay him down, with a sleeping roll propped under his head. His chest rose and fell, small shallow breaths, but that was the only sign of life. I probably could’ve set fire to his shoes and he wouldn’t have stirred.
I had no idea how to help the captain, so I went back outside to attend to the horses. After grooming one, I checked on him again, but nothing had changed. And nothing changed the rest of the afternoon.
Dusk came on, and he might as well have been a stone effigy. Though I argued with myself before doing it, I finally lit the lantern and hung it overhead. The light coming through the horn panels bathed the interior of the wagon in a buttery glow.
I secretly hoped this blatant violation of his orders would’ve roused him, but there was no movement.
He was still fully clothed, and while I didn’t plan on stripping him down entirely, I unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and removed his leather shoes. Neither action prompted a reaction. Trying to think of what else might make him comfortable, I looked at his weapon belts, and then pulled the long dagger free and set it on a barrel.
I reached out twice to pull Bloodsounder off the hook, but fear stopped me short. I tried a third time, but as my hand wrapped around the handle, Braylar moaned in his deep slumber, a low tortured sound, and his body spasmed until I released my hold.
While I doubted the ugly weapon was the cause of his condition, I had to acknowledge that small possibility. And if that were true, I was left to wonder if Bloodsounder could afflict others the same way it had damaged him. I had no intention of striking anyone with it, but thought that merely holding it could be enough. And that convinced me to stay my hand. I felt foolish, but better foolish than bedeviled.
I loaded the crossbow, set it within easy reach, and sat there, trying to stay alert.
And failed.
I jolted awake when a hand shook me and almost shot a bolt through the roof. I thought Braylar had finally risen, but it took me a moment to realize he was still lying there. I started to spin with the crossbow to face whoever had woken me.
Lloi grabbed the weapon and whistled. “Easy there. I like the holes I got where I got them. No need for no new ones.”
I looked at her and said, rather stupidly, “Lloi?”
She smiled her gap-toothed grin. “Bookmaster.” Then she looked down at Braylar, and her smile disappeared.
I set the crossbow down, and tried to explain, “We were worried, well, at least I was, that a ripper had… that you weren’t coming back. What happened to you? Where have you been?”
She hunkered down next to Braylar and slapped his cheek, not altogether gently. His head shifted position, but otherwise he didn’t move or respond. She asked, “How many?”
I looked at her, wondering if I were still asleep.
“Killed. With that flail of his? How many?”
“Two,” I replied, and then for reasons unknown, repeated it, “two.”
“About four days back? Five?”
“Yes, five days. Well, one didn’t die right away. At least, Braylar-that is, Captain Killcoin-he said he didn’t. That he knew he hadn’t. He thought he died a day or two after the attack.”
She grunted and then lifted his tunic up, looking at his belly and chest. “How long has Captain Noose been laid low?”
“He fell yesterday. Driving the wagon.” I moved closer and looked over her shoulder. “What’s… what’s wrong with him, Lloi?”
She responded not with an answer but with another question, after looking at the two-headed flail and then back to me. “You try to take it?”
I felt like a child caught stealing, though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“I was going to try to make him more comfortable, so he could rest. But…”
“But he didn’t like that none, did he? Tried it, too, first time he went down like this. Actually got it off his belt, and he started screaming like I was murdering him with something hot and sharp. And he’s not like to give it up more if he’s awake neither.”
I glanced at Bloodsounder and then back to her. As was usually the case, I felt like there was more to what she was saying than what she was saying. “The weapon warns him sometimes. Of violence. That much I get. But the cost seems high. The nausea, the wounds that aren’t his, now this. Why wouldn’t he just be rid of it, Lloi?”
She arched her bushy eyebrows. “Thinking you would’ve puzzled that clear by now. More a matter of can’t than won’t.”
“Can’t?”
“On balance, you’re on the mark-that wicked thing on his belt done more harm than good. He had any choice, he’d be rid of it already, I’m thinking.”
“But he… can’t be rid of it?”
“Thinking we established that, bookmaster.”
I sighed. “So we did. What I mean is, why? Why can’t he be rid of it?”
“Wasn’t with him, but heard tell he tried burying it once, figuring that was where it come from. Back to the ground, like a body you don’t want nobody else to find. Him and some Nooses with him. Dropped the last dirt on top, probably without a whole lot of eulogizing, and then rode off. Didn’t get real far, though.”
She stopped. I waited. When she didn’t continue, I started to open my mouth and she said, “Guessing you’ll want to know what happened after that, too, so I’ll just tell you. Crippling pain brought him down. They thought he was dying. Like to have, until they knocked their heads together long enough to figure out what to do. Rushed back, got those shovels dirty again, and brought that vicious thing back out of the earth. Seemed it didn’t much like being buried like that. Captain stopped screaming when it was back in his hands.”
I was about to ask something else, but she held up her nubs. “Right now, the whyfores of getting rid of it got nothing to do with us. I just got to get him through this spell.”
We both looked at Braylar for a long moment and then I asked, “So you’ll be able to help him, then?”
“Won’t be any kind of easy. I been here right after… But two killed, and five days? Done that many, but never that long. Memoridon could manage. Least, that’s what’s said. But none of their kind wandering out this way. So I’ll do what I can do.” She laid her palm on Braylar’s forehead. Quietly, and directed to the prone man on the floor, she said, “I would’ve been here sooner if I was able. Fact was, I was trying to lead danger the opposite way, keep you out of another scrape. But you wouldn’t have it. Ordered me away. I told you you ought not to, but…” She sighed. “Now you might not never wake to hear how right I was.”
I understood little and less. “I have no idea what’s happening here, Lloi.”
“You ever seen a man bit by a snake? Got the poison coursing through him? Now, maybe it’s a pit snake, just hurts the man bad, or maybe it’s a brass viper, kills him dead. Either way, you catch it early, open the wound, draw it out, that man might get better. Might not. But wait too long? Real sick or real dead. This is that, only the flail the thing done the biting, and those dead memories are the poison. Can’t say how bad Captain Noose is like to get-this is the worst I seen him. But I got to get that poison out, and I got to do it now, so you step on back and let me get to draining.”
I stood up. “What can I do to help?”
“Make sure I drink plenty,” she said. “Water, fine, wine, better. Do that, and keep your lips locked, that’ll be the rightest kind of help you can give.”
I found a flask and watched as Lloi knelt next to him, her good hand on his belly, and the nubby stump on his forehead. She lowered her head until it touched his sternum, then slowly raised it, rolling and turning it side to side slightly as she began to chant something I assumed was in her native tongue, until she tilted her head back as far as it would go, chin pointing at the canvas. She did this over and over, the only small changes coming in her humming or chanting.
I sat and watched, feeling equally mystified and obtrusive, as if I were witnessing some deviant act or sacred rite meant to be private. And yet what else was I supposed to do, go outside and sit in the dark?
And so I waited and held my tongue. After a time, my eyes began closing, but Lloi’s chanting, while lilting, wasn’t rhythmic or repetitive enough to allow me to fall asleep. Every time I was close, the pitch or delivery changed, or a new kind of alien syllable was introduced, and my eyes opened again.
I looked over after one such occurrence, and she paused her chanting, although the strange bobbing continued, and she looked over at me and opened her mouth. I remembered her request, and started to hand her the flask, but she shook her head. She paused mid-rise long enough for me to put the flask to her lips and tip it up. She took several swallows before pulling her lips away as wine dribbled down her chin and fell on Braylar’s chest.
And then she continued her ritual, with a smear of wine on her forehead after she touched down again, and I immediately thought of the large blood stain I’d hidden in the rear of the wagon.
This went on the remainder of the night, with Lloi pausing briefly on occasion to take some wine, and the chanting undergoing subtle changes, and little other variation as the hours crept by. As dawn came on, I put out the lantern and chewed some goat that was especially stringy. I offered some to Lloi, but she only looked at the flask, which I gave her. By now, we’d worked out the transfer of liquid so nothing was spilled, but Lloi’s hair was sticky and matted in front from our previous slips. I patted at her with a damp cloth as best I could and settled back against the side of the wagon.
I was nodding off again when Lloi finally stopped chanting. I looked at her as she fell back against a barrel, eyes shut, face pale. She pointed her toes away from her and then rolled her sandaled feet in circles, to either work out stiff muscles or keep them from seizing up.
I asked if she wanted food or drink but she declined both. I looked at Braylar, but besides the splotches of wine on his skin, he seemed unchanged. I whispered, “What happens next?”
She pulled her legs up to her chest and laid her head on her knees. She sounded absolutely exhausted and hoarse when she finally replied, “Can’t say.” Then she forced herself up, legs wobbly, holding the barrel for support. “Need some rest now. He wakes, you wake me. Otherwise, you leave me be.”
She disappeared through the front flap and the wagon rocked as she jumped off. A few moments later, I heard her vomiting. Even after I was sure she’d emptied her stomach, she continued to make awful clenching, heaving, sputtering noises.
I wasn’t sure which was the greater oddity-a Syldoon whose Deserter-inspired weapon allegedly stole memories from the dead, or a disfigured Grass Dog who presumably drew those memories out of him like poison. Or an archivist who believed either one.
And that was the last thought I had before falling into a depthless dreamless slumber.
I woke when the wagon began moving forward, feeling so tired I was unsure whether I’d slept for mere moments or a month. I sat up and the first thing I noticed was that a prone Braylar had been replaced by a seated Lloi, facing the rear of the wagon.
I stretched and sat up as well. When she heard me, she turned and offered me her small pouch of seeds in her nubby hand, which I declined. She popped a few more in her mouth, working them open with a dexterity rodents would have admired before spitting out the shells. “Captain Noose figured he been drifting off course long enough. Time to get rolling right and center again. Didn’t bother waking you, on account of you not sleeping last night. I already told him what befell while I was riding solo, but he cautioned me to be ready to retell it again, should you have questions. Which we both figured you might, as you can’t seem to help yourself. So,” she offered me the seed pouch again, which I accepted this time. “Ask what you got to ask.”
I wasn’t sure where to begin. My questions came in a flood, “What happened to you? Where did you disappear? Were you outrunning the ripper, or-”
She held up her hands, or hand-and-a-half anyway. “Whoa, easy there, bookmaster. Nah, wasn’t no ripper delayed me none. That is, I seen the feathered bastard, and followed at a real respectful distance for a fair bit. But I knew he hadn’t seen the wagon. They got a real taste for horse. He seen the horses, would’ve been too good a meal to pass up, wagon or no. That ripper moved off in the opposite direction, so he weren’t a worry no more. No, the reason I didn’t come back right quick was, there was a Grass Dog party, looking for those hunters that ripper gutted. Big one, armed to the teeth. They had some outriders, doing what I been doing, and they were heading for the tracks this wagon left in the earth. They found those, that party would’ve run you to ground, killed you deader than dirt, no question. So I gave them a different track to follow, led them back toward the ripper trail. Tried to, anyway. They turned before they caught it, headed back to the party for the night. So I spent the next couple of days and nights laying down track after track, staying just ahead of them.”
I noticed how exhausted she looked earlier, but attributed that to whatever it was she did last night-I never considered how little she might have slept in the days leading up to it.
She said, “Couple of times, I thought they was going to hit the ruts this big rig left, and they might have, too, except I finally got them to follow me to the chariot tracks. Not sure if they ever caught that ripper. Big party like that, they probably never even seen him. By the time I got clear of them and found your trail again, took me a good while to catch up to the carnage you left behind. Thought for a flash that war party found you, but if they had, no way you would’ve rolled off. So that was a real mystery.”
I asked, “Did you find bodies?”
She spit some husks out. “Blood, yes, bodies, no. Wouldn’t have been too mysterious a mystery if I’d come across a bunch of bodies. I saw tracks, and found a few weapons, which told me it wasn’t any kind of Grass Dogs you tangled with, but that was it. So I got my pony moving fast as I could until I closed the distance. Found you last night, asleep with a crossbow in your lap. The rest you know. Or not. But can’t say what I can tell you that’ll clear it up any.”
“So… what is it you do exactly? For him, to him?”
Judging by her expression and the way her top lip puffed out as she rolled her tongue behind it, I assume a husk got jammed in the space in her teeth. A second later, it went flying out the back emphatically. I’m not sure if she was more annoyed by my line of questioning or the trapped husk.
“Real hard to put it right,” she said. “Partly, because I don’t know for certain. They say a Memoridon could bore you to tears piling one explanation atop another. Never met one. Probably a good thing, that. But I’ll tell you this much. Men think memories are like murals or statues or objects, all stored in a huge gallery, some kind of collection that captures the truth of whatever happened, never changes none. But that ain’t so. They can capture the untruth of something, just as easy. They can change, especially as time leads to time.”
I said, “That doesn’t really sound… accurate to me, Lloi. What can we trust if not our memories?”
She leaned forward. “Hoping you’d ask. Happens I got an example in mind for you. Let’s say you’re in a town, walking down a busy thoroughfare. You see a woman in front of you, comely, mannered, real nice on the eyes. You’re watching the way her hips tilt this way and that, when all of a sudden, a thug cuts the pouch off her belt and takes off running down the street. She screams ‘thief!’ but nobody stops the wretch in time. Escapes clean. So an hour later, the city watch is asking around, wanting to know if anybody got a solid look at the man. You step forward, you were right there behind when it happened. Three other people step forward, too. And separate, you all describe what you saw. Or think you saw. Thing of it is, the city watch is awful confused, because every single one of you got something different to say. You claim the man was middle height, had brown hair, wearing a green tunic. Somebody else there says he was a tall dusty fairhair with a bluish tunic, and black boots. Another thought he was on the shorter side of things, couldn’t recall the hair, but thought he had a tuft of beard on his chin, brown boots.
“See what I’m getting at? All of you would’ve sworn you saw what you saw, but the cutpursing happened awful quick, and your eyes were fixed on those swaying hips just before, and each of you got a different kind of perspective for the thing. Tall witness might have thought the thug was short, when he might have just been short to him, but middling to you.
“Each account could be different, when each of you saw the single thing. So your memory of the thing would feel true enough to you, but that don’t mean it reflects something real. Maybe one of you in this make believe got it right, maybe none of you did. Hard to say for certain.
“To each man himself, his memories seems as solid and factual as a stone mosaic, an urn he could turn around and heft, a flower he could sniff. But when I go inside another, I don’t see it or feel it like that. Everything is shimmery, shifting, like it’s bathed in mist and shadow, like… like walking down the foggiest street you can think of, with everything looking not like itself at all.
“I can move down those streets, through those dusky galleries, the man with the memories might never know I was there. Even if I move something around, tweak it some, take it like a cutpurse myself, I move unseen. Like a ghost, or time.” She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “Like I said, real hard to put words to it and have it make any sort of sense. But with Captain Noose there, it’s a different thing altogether. I go into his memories, I see the same thing I see in anybody’s-shady, funny around the edges, echoes where there ought to be none, things shifting right as I look at them square. Now, I go in after he killed someone dead with that flail of his, and it’s… different. Those stolen memories, they don’t look like his own. Oh, they’re murky, sure enough, and all the rest. But they… leak. Every one of them, puddling something that might as well be poison, which is why I said as much last night. They don’t belong, and I don’t go in and take them out, they continue that bitter leaking until they… well, I can’t say for a surety what would happen. But I got my suspicions. Captain Noose might never wake up, Or if he does, might wake a hollowed-out man, no memories of his own. Maybe none at all. Can’t say.”
She said this with zeal and conviction, but I wasn’t certain I understood. Or believed. “So… are you saying you, uh, retrieve these memories somehow?”
“Yep. That’s right,” she said. “I go in, find them, take them out of him and into me, and then I destroy them. Walking into another’s memories, easy enough, though I don’t always know what I’m seeing there. But taking them gets trickier, and trickier still when they burn to the touch.”
“Was this why you were vomiting? Why he was vomiting?”
She replied, “You’re right quick. Makes you queasy something fierce, having somebody else’s memories inside you, no matter how you want to picture it. Weren’t meant to be there. Torques your stomach five directions at once. I could show you, you like?”
I quickly shook my head.
“Thought not.” She closed her pouch. “Got nothing else to add, just now. So-”
“Lloi,” I interrupted. She looked at me, tired. I didn’t want to press her, but my head was still swarming with questions. “You mentioned the Memoridon. I know little about them, other than the sorts of things everyone hears. They’re memory mages of some kind, right? But-”
“Can’t say I like this wagon none,” she cast a meaningful glance towards the front where Braylar sat unseen, “but I need some more rest, and I won’t be getting none in the saddle, so wagon it is. You grab yourself something to fill your belly, bookmaster, head up on front now. Expect Captain Noose is expecting you, and if ever a man liked to wait less than him, I never met him and hope never to.”
She gave me another long look, and I nodded.
My stomach was indeed rumbling, despite the talk of vomit, so I filled it as quickly as I could and rejoined Braylar.
He said nothing at first, staring straight ahead. But finally, “You know more than you should already. Be oh so careful with that. Knowledge is a often a very dangerous thing.”
I had no idea how to properly respond. Who would I tell? I wasn’t even sure what had really happened, so I didn’t know what I could tell even if there was someone tempting offering their ear. I would surely be thought a madman. Maybe the fact I was starting to believe all of this made me one already.
Braylar handed me the flask and said, “Oh, light the lantern again without my permission and Lloi won’t be the only one missing pieces.” I took the flask and nodded. He added, “But thank you for keeping watch over me. You could’ve taken a horse and left. That would’ve been sensible. Most would have. So… thank you for staying.”
Even if it meant getting more exchanges with threats laced with strange praise, it was good to have Braylar back from wherever he’d disappeared to.
Several hours later Lloi emerged, looking not much better, but arguing that she was ready to scout some more. Braylar was reluctant to let her go. But she pointed out that we’d already encountered more in the grass than we wanted to. And so off she went.
However, she returned sooner than expected. Hearing her approach, I hopped over the bench as Lloi reined up. Braylar looked past her to the horizon, his hand on Bloodsounder. “Report.”
She rolled her head around slowly on her neck, complying only just before he was about to dress her down. “Couple of wagons. Heading in this general kind of direction, though a little more on the northerly side. Easy enough to slip around them.”
Braylar stopped scanning the horizon and turned his full attention to her. “Hostile? Or accompanied by rippers, dragons, wraiths, or anything else unsavory that you might neglect to tell us about?”
She shrugged. “Not that I seen. Watched them file past before doubling back this way. Small wagons, a handful of folk on foot. Walking staffs about the only weapon I could see.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Does all of the grassland get this much traffic, or did you just pick the most popular route?”
“Can’t say what they’re doing out this way. Besides inviting attack, that is. But I don’t see them causing trouble for no one. Still, you wanted to know what’s ahead to avoid what you could, so I’m telling you what’s ahead. If you want to steer clear, just redirect a bit more to-”
He held up a hand. “How much smaller are the wagons?”
Lloi took her cap off her head, spun it around on her nubby hand. “Can’t say for a certainty. Didn’t creep up and measure it. Both shorter than this rig, but while one was pulled by two horse, the other was hooked onto four, so while I can’t speculate as to total length, couldn’t have been too poor a comparison.”
He lowered his hand and nodded slowly, as if consenting to his own plan. “Lead us to them.”
Lloi stopped spinning her cap. “Captain Noose?”
“You heard me.”
She stood in her stirrups. “It won’t be no problem to skirt around them. Won’t even lose much in the way of time. We-”
“We go, Lloi. Now.”
Lloi filled her cheeks with air and then exhaled long and slow. “You’re the captain, captain.”
“Sometimes I wonder.” He pointed at the horizon. “Lead on.”
She did. A few hours later, with dusk not far out, I saw a pair of wagons. Closer still, I made out people walking in front and behind, some riding on mules. All told, there appeared to be a half dozen or so. When we closed the distance enough to make out these details, the procession stopped where they were, directly in our path some distance ahead.
I’d seen many caravans in many cities, particularly Rivermost, and if this was a caravan, it was the shabbiest and most poorly protected in the known world. They also didn’t comport themselves like soldiers of any kind, just as Lloi had indicated.
All those in the wagons were adults, almost evenly split male to female. They were a variety of ages, and disparate in dress. Two had simple tunics and robes, made from rough and patched linens. The others had belts and fine pouches. There was no silk or velvet or telltale signs of nobility, but it was clear servants and yeomen walked among merchants.
Braylar said “Pilgrims” under his breath with the same amount of disdain he might have used for lepers or cockroaches.
When we were about thirty feet away, Braylar pulled the reins and we came to a stop. Some of the pilgrims exchanged whispers and glances, and then a woman approached us. She was short and stout and had three chins that I counted, and her grooved face was shaded in a ridiculously wide-brimmed floppy hat. She had garters on her hose, buttons on her dress, and a lovely bag hanging from her belt. While not wealthy, she was no peasant. Probably the lady of a small household somewhere, and the others her retainers.
Lloi was riding alongside us. She pushed her shapeless hat around on her head. “Just like I said. Nobody more dangerous than a mole rat.”
The woman carried herself with confidence as she approached us, a huge smile on her face. I wondered how she managed such abundant friendliness considering the grim visage of the man she was about to address, but the smile seemed genuine, if a bit oversized.
She raised an arm and waved, looked at the three of us, eyes pausing momentarily on Lloi, and then she said, “Greetings, travelers! Well met. I’m Jebaneeza, sometimes called Jebaneeza Wrong Hand.” I realized then that she’d waved with her left hand. “I don’t mind this address-in fact, I rather like it-so you may call me as such. If it pleases you, of course.” I didn’t imagine it was possible, but her smile seemed to grow as she said this, and the wrinkles deepened around her eyes.
She seemed pleasant, especially after sharing mile after silent mile with my patron; it occurred to me that under different circumstances I’m sure I would have grown to like her.
Jebaneeza waited for us to introduce ourselves. I looked at Braylar, and he was looking at everything before him-the wagon, the people standing around it, their clothing-critically, measuring, in that cold and distant way of his. I began to feel uneasy.
He looked at her. “Wrong Hand, eh? It’s a shame that bynames are so often filled with malice or cruelty, yes? It’s good you’ve come to terms with yours. How is it you find yourself traveling among the grasses?”
Her smile shrank a size or two, and her eyes didn’t seem quite as merry as they had, but she kept on as if she were speaking to a long-time friend. “We’re on a pilgrimage. My companions and I, that is. There’s a shrine in the center of the Green Sea, devoted to-”
“This shrine of yours,” Braylar leaned forward, “it’s made of grass and sod, yes?”
Jebaneeza shook her head. “Oh it isn’t mine. No, no. It belongs to anyone who would visit. And as for the grass, I’ve never seen it before, but one of my companions has, although I don’t recall him commenting on the construction. Hmm. Sod. Seems a shame to construct a shrine out of sod, but I suppose there aren’t many alternatives in the Green Sea, are there?”
Braylar lost none of his grimness. “There are no alternatives. And it’s not the center.”
She tilted her head back to get a better look at him, and I noticed her eyes were of the skyiest blue. She said, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you. The center?”
“Of the Green Sea. The shrine isn’t in the center. We passed it only a few days back.”
It took me a moment to realize what he was referring to; I hadn’t considered that the ramshackle building might be a shrine, and I was surprised he’d been cognizant at all during that time.
Jebaneeza’s smile returned to its unnatural size once more. “Delightful! Oh, when you asked about the sod, I assumed you hadn’t seen it either. You’ve seen it, then? Of course you have, you just told me as much. And is it glorious then?”
Braylar smiled, neither pleasant nor attractive. “If you consider sod glorious, it is most glorious.”
There was a silence that seemed to comfort none of us save Braylar, and she broke it to say, “Well. It’s close then? Good. That is good. I imagined we had quite a distance yet to go.” This was followed by more silence.
I thought I might retrieve her smile by saying, “It’s surprisingly well put together. Considering the material. It’s simple, but elegant, if a bit in disrepair.”
Jebaneeza lit up again. “Lovely, just lovely. I can’t wait to see it. I’ve meant to for many years. I’ve visited nearly every shrine in this area, you know. But the shrine of Cuthlan-the one in the Green Sea, I’m not sure if you knew that, but it’s the shrine of Cuthlan. That’s his name. Cuthlan the Lame. Ah, yes,” she addressed Braylar again, “I see what you mean about nicknames. Or what was it you called it? Bynames? Bynames. Yes, they do seem mean-spirited, don’t they? Or at least not very complimentary. I’d never really considered it before. But even religious figures don’t seem to be spa-”
Braylar interrupted. “Have you been in the Green Sea before, Wrong Hand?”
She corrected him, “Jebaneeza Wrong Hand. Or just Jebaneeza, if it please you. `Wrong Hand’ seems, well, as I said, mean-spirited. Especially alone, like that, `Wrong Hand.’ But-”
“You’ve never traveled on it, yes?”
I imagine she was regretting approaching our wagon just then. “Yes. I mean no. No, I haven’t traveled on it. But my companion, as I believe I mentioned earlier, my companion has. And my family hails-”
“Your companion is a fool to lead you here. Unless you have a battalion hidden in that wagon.”
“Battalion? Soldiers, do you mean? No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And no weapons? Are none among you armed, or able to defend yourselves?”
“No. Why should we be? We’re on a pilgrimage, as I told you.”
Braylar shook his head. “The Green Sea is a dangerous place to travel. Or did your companion forget to tell you that?”
“No,” she said, then amended, “that is, he mentioned that it wasn’t entirely safe, of course. But he said we could travel unmolested, being on a pilgrimage. And I believe him. Our gods will protect us.”
Braylar laughed his ugly laugh and said, “Then you’re a bigger fool than he is, Wrong Hand.”
And then he pulled his crossbow from beneath the seat and pointed it at her.
She gasped and took a step back. She looked back and forth between the crossbow and Braylar, very quickly, before blurting, “What? How dare you?”
Braylar gestured at the wagon with the crossbow before letting it drift back to her chest. “Now tell your companions to unload the wagon in the front.”
“But we’re pilgrims! We have nothing of value!”
“Listen to me carefully, pilgrim. I’m stealing nothing. You will unload your wagon and we will unload ours. You’ll ride off in our wagon, we’ll ride off in yours. You’ll keep your goods, we’ll keep ours. Simple, yes? Now do it.”
She put her hands on her substantial hips and said, “Switch wagons? What madness is this? I’ll do no such thing.”
Braylar sighed. “You might have noticed, I have a crossbow pointed at your chest. Perhaps you’ve never seen one work before. Let me explain: If I press this trigger, it will send a bolt right through your lungs, possibly even out the other side. You’ll fall in the grass, gasping. A great deal of blood will pour out of the hole. And you’ll stop breathing. This, too, is very simple. Now, your fellow pilgrims might cooperate more readily if I shoot you dead, given over to terror or panic, but then again, they might not. Panic does queer things to people, and righteous wrath, worse still. Rather than cooperate, they’d probably object. And if they did, I’d probably have to shoot, bludgeon, or stab them too. Now, I have no interest in killing anyone today. But if you press the issue, I have no qualms about it either.”
She sputtered, “You would… you wouldn’t dare!”
I was appalled this was happening, and didn’t understand why it was happening, but I had no idea how to stop it from happening either. It occurred to me, albeit briefly, that I could try to wrest the crossbow away from Braylar, but I knew that would only end with me killed in one of several ways. And so I did the only thing I could: I attempted to make this happen as bloodlessly as possible.
I told Jebaneeza, “Unfortunately, he would. He’s a godless pagan, who shows no respect for anything that walks or crawls. And I doubt his short retainer on the pony is likely to take your side of things. I suggest you do as he says.”
She looked at me, aghast, and said, “You seemed so polite, so mannerly. How can you be a part of this? How can you allow this, this…” she searched for the right word, “this brigand to do this?”
I didn’t have a ready-made response. “He’s the one with the crossbow, m’lady. Now please, do as he says. If you do, I guarantee no one will be hurt.”
Of course, I had no power to guarantee anything, but she wasn’t mollified anyway. “You’re no better then! Not a whit! In fact-”
But Braylar didn’t let her finish. “Enough. Do as I say, and you’ll live to see your silly shrine. Contest me, and you won’t live at all. And your people will likely follow. And maybe out of spite, I’ll go back and burn that shrine to the ground and piss on it besides. So make up your mind. Now.”
There was a moment when I was sure she’d attempt to stand her ground, and Braylar would have little choice but to shoot her down or leave off the peculiar idea of swapping wagons, but I suspected that no Syldoon would back down in such a situation, and especially not this one. Jebaneeza looked back and forth between Lloi and Braylar, and finally pragmatism and self-preservation won out. She shook her head, turned on her heel and walked back to her wagon.
This all seemed like a sudden fantastic dream. I had a hundred questions, but when Jebaneeza got out of earshot, I looked at Braylar and asked the most pressing one, “Would you have shot her?”
He didn’t look at me, but kept the crossbow pointed at her as she began speaking to her companions in very animated fashion. “I would take no joy in it.” That was the depth and breadth.
I turned to Lloi. “And you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Told you already. I do what needs doing. That’s what I do.”
Dazed before, I became angry then, saying to Braylar, “What purpose does any of this serve?”
“Perhaps you forget. We were involved in an incident several days back. Some Hornmen were killed. I imagine this knowledge has been posted at border forts across the land by now. They’ll be looking for this wagon. Torn, blue canvas, spattered with blood. A spear hole in the seat. A huge bloodstain in the inside. Is it coming back to you now?” I didn’t respond. “Good. So we must be rid of this rig, yes? Now is better than later.”
“But this is no better than what the Hornman did to you. It’s extortion, or robbery, or-”
“It is neither. They’ll still have a wagon. And in fact, unless I grossly misjudge, ours is the newer of the two, and worth quite a bit more. Though, admittedly, it could use a little work.”
“But the authorities are looking for this one. If they find them in-”
“Start unloading our supplies, Arki. Now. Lloi will assist you.” She nodded and dismounted.
Before considering the weight of the words I said, “I want no part of this.”
He laughed but his eyes didn’t stray from the pilgrims. “You should have mentioned that during our first interview. Now, there are several witnesses that will happily identify you as a fellow brigand. At the very least you would lose a hand if caught. And what’s more, if we don’t do this thing, and the authorities, as you call them, do find us, you’ll be hung. Remember why we’re trying to offload this.”
I objected without thinking, “But the soldiers didn’t see me. They-”
“All but one. You are very forgetful. But even if he keeps his swollen lips closed, do you really believe that will save your neck? If so, you’re a bigger fool than the pilgrims.”
I stood up, and filled with some newfound courage, said, “I can go with them. The pilgrims. Right now. I can leave.”
Lloi looked at me, her expression mostly curious.
Braylar said, “And you’d find a bolt in your back before you got halfway there. I would rather not shoot you. Truly. But that’s exactly what will happen, just the same. You’re the third. What more is a fourth?”
“Third?” I asked stupidly, and then compounded with, “Fourth?”
“The first archivist was killed by an arrow no doubt aimed for me. The second I killed myself. For disobedience that bore a striking resemblance to yours just now. If I must hire a fourth, I must hire a fourth. I prefer not to-it’s a time-consuming process, and tedious in the extreme-but that’s entirely up to you.”
This chilled me, and I sat back down, lightheaded. But I didn’t have long to consider the implications before he ordered me to go in the wagon and begin unloading the supplies out the back. Lloi had already walked around to the rear and pulled the gate down.
Numb and uncertain, I did as commanded.
Lloi and I worked side by side, and though she was lacking digits and was smaller and a woman besides, she moved with economy and speed and seemed to move two containers to my one. I tried not to look at her much, sure I would only say something to slink lower in her estimation. But she called me over to help her with a barrel, and as we rolled it toward the gate, she said, “Never seen Captain Noose do nothing without calculating real hard on it. This here won’t be no exception.” She jumped down and said, “Met the last bookmaster, in case you wondered. Traveled with him a fair bit, same as I done with you. And I got to say, it didn’t split my heart none to see what happened to him. He earned what Captain Noose gave him, and more besides. Got off easy, you ask me.” After I helped her hoist the barrel into the grass, she added, “You mind that tongue of yours, though. Not a one of us some priceless treasure, you understand. Hate to see you with a bolt in your ribs. Really hate to see that flail crack your skull. Just one more thing for me to clean up.” She smiled and punched me in the shoulder, and then jumped back in the wagon.
Sometime later, dirty and drenched in sweat, I thought we’d finished the last of it and was leaning against the side when Lloi said, “Nuh-uh. Nearly there. One more thing yet.”
I looked over my shoulder, and seeing nothing inside, said, “I’m no master of sums, but I can count to one and I don’t seen a single thing in there.”
She smiled again and climbed back in. “Reason for that.”
I stayed on the ground, waiting for her to realize the wagon was in fact very empty, when she knelt down and began pulling at one of floorboards. I was about to remind her that Braylar ordered us only to unload the wagon, not dismantle it, when I saw her lift a panel up off the floor of the wagon. I climbed back in then and looked over her shoulder. There was a compartment hidden in the floor, and there was a long narrow box inside.
Lloi said, “Give me a hand here, bookmaster.”
I helped her lift the box out of the compartment, though it was surprisingly heavy. While she was sliding the panel back in place, I said, “What is this? And why was it stowed in such secrecy?”
“You didn’t think Captain Noose chose to ride clear of the roads because he got an appreciation for tall grass and butterflies, did you?”
”What’s inside?”
She winked. “Told you he got his reasons, didn’t I? When he sees fit to share them, I’m guessing you don’t get yourself shot you’ll be the next to know.”
I was about to ask another question when I heard Jebaneeza. Lloi and I walked around to the front of the wagon.
She was standing before Braylar. “The wagon is empty. And now what will you do with us, you, you… brigand? That is what you are, you know? A cowardly thief, to attack defenseless pilgrims like this.”
Braylar laid the crossbow across his lap. “I suggest you defend yourself on your next pilgrimage. As I said, you’ll soon be on your way. Tell one of your men over there to assist my fellow brigands in loading our goods in your wagon. We’ll swap horses as well. Then we’ll be on our way. You’ll have your two wagons, we’ll have one, and we’ll all happily move off in the opposite direction. Is this clear?”
Jebaneeza’s eyes narrowed, and she pointed a fat finger at Braylar. “I’ll report you. I hope you know that. I’ll report you to the first border patrol the very first chance I get. We won’t be going to the shrine, we’ll be going straight to the authorities now.”
“Shame about your shrine. Such a fine day for zealotry. But before you go running off to vent your outrage and cry for justice, you should know that Hornmen are already looking for this very wagon. Apparently they’re under the impression that the owners are responsible for the deaths of one or two of their agents. Possibly more, I don’t know. It might be a dangerous thing indeed to ride this wagon into any populated area, particularly one populated by border soldiers. In fact, were I riding in such a wagon, I’d rid myself of it as soon as possible, and by any means necessary. Such a wagon can bring nothing but ill luck. Still, it’s yours now, and you can do with it what you will.”
She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, shook her finger again, and then blurted, “If this is true, then you… you’re a murderer and a brigand!”
He shifted the crossbow on his lap, lazily almost, so that the bolt was pointing in Jebaneeza’s direction again, and said, “Now, order one of your men-and one man only-to take our supplies and load up the other wagon. My companions will assist. You can load your supplies into this one as soon as we’ve gone. Do you understand? Or do I perhaps need to draw a diagram in the dirt?”
Her face grew very flushed, and though her anger was neither frightening or intimidating, it was certainly bold. “You’re a bully, and a thief, and a self-professed murderer! And-”
“I profess nothing.”
“And when you’re captured, I hope they, I hope they…” she paused, not as if she were searching for the words, but as if she knew them and were trying to hold them back. “I hope they string you up by your neck and hang you until dead! I do! Dead, dead, dead!”
Braylar raised his eyebrows. “So uncharitable, Lady Pious. Very unbecoming. Truly.” He pointed the crossbow directly at her this time so there was no mistaking his intention. “Now load, before we add pilgrim slayer to the list, yes?”
She seemed more incensed than ever-I doubt righteous outrage could manifest itself more clearly than it did just then-but she was done protesting. She stomped back to her wagons, hips shaking thunderously, the folds of her skirts gathered up in one hand. If she had a tail it would’ve been twitching like a wet cat’s.
A few minutes later one of the other pilgrims came over to begin hauling our supplies to the other wagon. He was young, and judging by his shabby clothes, a servant of some sort. When I tried to hand him a crate, he flinched as if my hand were a poker from a fire.
Lloi and I did our best to avoid him as we all loaded the other wagon, and he returned the favor, though we stumbled across each other awkwardly more than once.
The boy only had a few trips left to make, and so I returned to sit next to Braylar. After a time, he said, “Don’t look so distraught, Arki. We’re doing only what we have to do. Nothing more.”
That was little enough consolation.
After everything was stowed to Braylar’s satisfaction, we switched the team of horses, tethered the other mounts to the new wagon, and started off, leaving a very confused and angry group of pilgrims in our wake.
While the shorter pilgrim wagon had a wooden cover, the one we’d taken wasn’t too dissimilar from the bloodied one we left behind. Aside from being slightly smaller, as Lloi had predicted, and badly in need of a new coat of paint, it had the same kind of canvas top, wooden ribs, a seat in front. The chief difference was this wagon didn’t come equipped with a covert compartment in the floor, so the long box Braylar had secreted away earlier was now sitting among the rest of the supplies, albeit covered by a blanket. I was torn between wondering what it could contain that should have caused this criminally-inclined journey, and angry with myself for caring at all.
We traveled as far as we could before daylight gave out, and then a little further besides. I assumed Braylar wanted to put as much distance between us and the scene of his latest encounter as possible, though I didn’t ask. When we finally made camp, I moved the horses off and tended to them far from his gaze, not trusting myself to hold my tongue. I slept inside, though there was less room to recline now, and Braylar and Lloi remained outside. Few words were spoken by the pair, and none by me.
The next morning, the wind picked up appreciably, and some gusts were almost violent. I dozed for a while until I felt the wagon lurch. I looked out the back flap and was startled to see we’d turned onto a road. I couldn’t believe it at first. I was beginning to think I’d never see one again. But one look out the back confirmed it.
Not long after, he ordered Lloi to ride ahead, and while she argued with him, Braylar was unmoved. “As you can see, we’re no longer in the grass. I hardly think we’re going to get lost.”
“Oh, I figure you can find your way well enough now. But that might be more cause for me to stay close. If you take my meaning.”
“It’s unlikely I’ll be killing anyone else before we reach our destination. And if it somehow proves necessary, I’ll be sure to dispatch the villains with blade or bolt, never fear.”
She didn’t respond, and I imagined her twisting, rolling, or otherwise contorting her silly cap again.
Braylar said, “As much as your tender worrying warms me through and through, the rest of the company is likely beginning to fret as well, given our tardiness. So I need you to advise them we’ll be there shortly. Ride to the inn. Now. Without objection, interjection, or renunciation of any kind. Are we clear, Lloi?”
“No need to whip me with big words, Captain Noose. I’m riding out, I’m riding out.” And so she did.
I wondered what would happen if I simply ran. Maybe Braylar wouldn’t hunt me. Though I doubt he’d allow his third archivist to wander the land with such damning information on parchment. Now that I thought about it, it was surprising he hadn’t killed more archivists.
Braylar called out to me, “Arki, please join me.”
He sounded in good spirits indeed. What a curative, robbing and threatening pilgrims in the wilderness! I planned to suggest as much next time he fell into his invisible abyss, if Lloi didn’t prove handy.
I took a seat next to him.
“I’m guessing you’re guessing about our destination again, yes?”
I didn’t respond right away.
“Ah, I’ve offended you. I’m not sure who is more to blame-you for having such delicate sensibilities or me for tearing them asunder so frequently with my indelicate action and speech.”
That must be what passed for an apology among barbarians or Syldoon. Perhaps both.
“Well, we’re nearing civilization once more, and you can be sure, I do my uttermost to be civil in such places. So put aside your sullen looks and bruised emotions. Or don’t. As ever, the choice is your own.”