learning.”
“What happened?” Isaac alarmed himself with the question, but maybe it was just the part of him that identified with the pain in other people’s lives.
Crymson glanced over at him, running her hands down her dress. “It was politically oriented. I vied for a position and I failed, thanks to the Cao Fen’s hierarchy.”
“Or ineptitude,” said Slate, tracing the divots created by Teacher’s nails. Crymson glared at him but didn’t respond.
He looked up, “Guess it’s my turn. We’re mercenaries – real ones, mind you, not one of those simpletons that signs on with big companies and leaches off their momentum until a sword creases their skulls. Teach and I, we’ve been, ah,” he cast an eye on his companion, “traveling together for a few years now. I’m assuming our man wanted me on for my boyishly good charm and my way with females, but I’m sure our ‘cause’ would benefit from my weapons and fighting knowledge in a pinch, because I can outfight any man in this bar, and with Teach at my back, we can take on an army, no problem.”
“Outfight any man in this bar, maybe,” Crymson said.
“That’s right,” said Slate, his eyes on her. “Or woman. How about you, runt? You bringing anything to the table?”
Isaac could feel their eyes upon him, expectant, judgmental. Now was his moment to cement himself as an integral part of the group. Now was his moment to impress them, as they had all undoubtedly impressed each other.
“Blessed.”
Slate leaned forward. “What?”
“Blessed,” said Isaac, slightly louder.
“Thought you guys were nearly extinct?” Crymson phrased the question more like an accusation.
Isaac felt the chair dig deeper into his spine. “Some of us are still around.”
“What kind of Blessed? What can you do?” Slate asked.
“I’d rather not . . . ”
A bubble of silence again enveloped the group. Isaac squirmed, but didn’t say anything, refusing to look up from the middle of the table.
“Terrific. Absolutely terrific.” Slate slapped his hand against the table. “I’ve got a group of misfits on my hands, and the biggest one of them all is practically mute. Do we at least have a plan?”
“Considering you brought along a real mute, I’d consider ourselves lucky that he managed to say a few words,” Alocar said.
A narrowing of Slate’s eyes. “You better watch what comes out of your wizened fucking mouth, Old Man.”
“I have the rudiments of a plan, not that you did a thing to help besides bitch.” Alocar reached behind his back and pulled out a long canister, capped on both ends. He popped the bottom and caught a sheet that fell from the cylinder’s hollow. A quick wipe across the table with his shirt sleeve and he unfurled the paper, a map at its center.
Alocar spoke in a normal voice, causing Isaac’s eyes to dart around the room. “The royal family is here.” He pointed to the capital city of Tabernack, east of the Idranian River. “We, on the other hand, are here.” His finger landed on Dradenhurst. “The good news is Tabernack is only about a two month ride at most, and we can stay on the King’s Road the entire time. It’ll take us right through a few villages and a couple bigger cities, like Fayne, so the trip itself won’t be bad, which will put us back in Dradenhurst by about mid-September, if everything goes as planned. We just need to get some horses and supplies and we should be gone in three weeks, after the Idranian has calmed enough to cross. Questions?”
The table rocked as another person slid a chair up to its edge. A man with eyes the color of wet dirt stared at them. He smelled like a prisoner from Whispers, though more amply fed than three put together.
“And who might you be?” Crymson’s hand had drifted below the table, next to her right thigh.
The man had a high voice, a boy’s right before the onset of puberty. “I’m a messenger. Angras sent me. You leave in two weeks.”
“The floodwaters won’t have receded by then,” Alocar said. “It’s impossible.
“Then make it possible. Horses and supplies are being gathered as we speak. They’ll be in front of the Ruganel at seven in the morning, two weeks from now.” The man let his dirt-brown eyes wander over them, one corner of his mouth upturned. “Remember, you serve only at the pleasure of the master.”
A knife nailed the man’s hand to the table, eliciting a squeal. Slate leaned forward and wriggled the knife around, blood dripping into