Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,16

enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Grub asked.

“See, now I’ve said the word enemy too many times and it doesn’t even sound like a real word,” Loth complained. “En-em-ee. Em-en-ee. Mem-en-em-en-em-ee. I can’t tell which one is right anymore.”

Grub snorted. “I’m certain you’ll remember. You must have enough of them.”

“You really are a rude little brat, you know that?”

Loth felt rather than saw Grub shrug. “I notice you’re not denying it. And you really are a terrible human being.”

“Of course I am. I’m royalty, and we’re all bastards, one way or another.”

Grub was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course,” Loth said. “When was the last time someone with their fat arse on a throne actually gave a damn about whether or not the peasants were hungry?”

Grub was silent again. Loth discovered that he liked the feeling of Grub’s hands resting softly on his hips as they rode. He was almost regretful when, an hour or so later, they changed positions.

The day was cold, and the sun appeared faint and distant as a mist blew in over the scrubby ground. The wind-twisted trees seemed to shiver; Grub certainly did.

Loth watched the scrubby scenery for a while, then went back to watching the nape of Grub’s neck, where his reddish hair curled against his pale skin. His hair needed a cut and also a wash. It appeared gritty and greasy and revolting, but for some reason Loth wasn’t as willing to apply those descriptors to the man himself, despite the eel porridge incident.

A breath of cold wind brought the stench of decay with it, and Loth wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

“The Swamp of Death,” Grub said. “We must be very close to the edge.”

“Is it called that because of the smell?”

“Yes,” Grub said. “Oh, and also because it will literally kill you.”

“We’re still on the road, right?” Loth peered down to check, just in case, and was relieved to see they were. “At least Calarian is doing the map reading now, and not Scott.”

They were in the middle of the straggling party: up ahead, Calarian led the way with Scott at his side pretending to lead. Ada rode slightly behind them. Loth and Grub followed her, and Dave brought up the rear, on his shire horse. The shire horse not only carried Dave, but it also pulled the cart. The beast was massive, but when Loth had suggested that it’d take more than a stool for Grub to deal with it—he’d need a ladder—Grub had only snorted and rolled his eyes.

They paused in a clearing to stretch and to piss. Dave kicked mud off the wheels of the cart, grumbling about the state of the road. Loth’s stomach grumbled, but nobody made any move for the provisions, and so he wondered exactly how much they had left. It was probably best not to bring up for now. He’d hope for a decent meal at dinnertime.

“I suspect we have a rough afternoon ahead of us,” Loth said in an undertone.

Grub nodded in agreement, and something about the movement, the light arch of his neck, made a faint tendril of want bloom in Loth’s belly. He squashed it down ruthlessly, unprepared to deal with it.

When they set out again, the day growing darker as the mist rolled in further, Grub rode pillion. The bad weather brought down the mood of the party as well. Dave even stopped humming. Silence settled over them, as thick and heavy as the mist.

And then, abruptly, Calarian stopped, and leapt down from the saddle.

“What?” Scott asked. “What’s happening?”

“Shut up!” Calarian hurried back down the short little column of riders. “Does anyone else hear that?”

Loth listened, but only heard the stamp and chuff of his horse as it shifted restlessly. “What can you hear?”

“Horses,” Calarian said, squinting into the mist.

“We’re riding them!” Scott called back.

“Shut up!” Calarian stared into the mist. “Not our horses!”

Ears like a bat, Loth remembered, his stomach twisting. Was he really so important that soldiers from Delacourt were searching for him? No, scratch that. Was Grub really that important? If he’d really been held as a hostage, then quite possibly he was, and everything Loth had talked himself into during the initial escape—that nobody cared because nobody was following them—was about to be proven false. Bad news for Grub of course, but surely the soldiers would be happy enough at getting their prisoner back that they’d overlook an insignificant pickpocket, right?

Even if he’d believed it, the