out the whole time, but the owners of neither house would let him in. Nor would they allow Nettle in his stead. At the third house Talen sat back at the wagon like a servant and sent Nettle to the door as his master. Only then were they able to obtain the goods.
When Nettle came back, he asked, “What have I got to do to get something to eat?”
“I’ve got people giving me the eye and all you can think about is your stomach?”
“What?” asked Nettle. “I can’t get hungry?”
Talen shook his head. But after stopping at the honey-crafter’s, Nettle walked over to a new baker’s house to buy a small meal.
Talen waited again in the wagon. A group of men only a few yards down the road talked among themselves and kept looking up the lane at him.
He didn’t dare look at them directly, but it didn’t matter. They reached some conclusion and all turned to face his direction.
At that moment Nettle exited the baker’s, holding something folded up in the bottom of his tunic.
Talen was only too happy to release the brake and flick the reins and start Iron Boy. Nettle shouted, but Talen didn’t pull back.
Nettle caught up to the wagon, holding his tunic with one hand, then jumped in and sat beside Talen on the wagon seat.
“What are you doing?” asked Nettle.
Talen glanced back, knowing the men would be following, but they hadn’t. They stood watching him and Nettle go.
“One of these days,” said Talen, “your stomach is going to get me killed.”
Nettle followed Talen’s gaze. “Goh, those dogs weren’t about to do anything but bark. Besides, look what I got.” Nettle let his tunic down.
In it lay a disgusting half loaf of bread pudding and a dozen ginger cookies. “Am I good to you or what?” asked Nettle.
The cookies were one of Talen’s favorites, but now wasn’t a time to think of food. He glanced back once more. The men had not dispersed nor turned back to talking among themselves.
“Lords and lice,” Talen said.
Nettle took a fat, moist bite of his pudding. “I don’t think they like you.”
“Really,” Talen said. “What gave you that idea? We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Act natural,” said Nettle. “Here, have a bite.” He held up his pudding. It had currants and cashews mixed in with a good helping of something green and shaggy. The whole thing was held together by a wiggling gelatin that reminded Talen of animal birthings.
“I think I’d like to focus on the matter at hand.”
“What you want to do is distract yourself because if you spook, those men will spook. Now take a bite.”
Nettle had a point. Talen waved off the bread pudding mess, took one of the ginger cookies, and bit into it. It was baked with sugar, and while it crunched on the outside, the inside was soft and just about melted in his mouth. Any other situation and he’d swear he’d visited the gardens of the righteous.
Talen glanced over at Nettle, who promptly showed him the contents of his mouth.
“I hope you gag,” said Talen. “And when folks ask how you died, I’ll tell them you did it eating pig food.”
Nettle laughed. “No, you won’t. You’ll remember I used it to save your life. And then you’ll eat it the rest of your days.”
“Being sickened by animal birthings is hardly a rescue,” said Talen.
“It’s a distraction,” said Nettle. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
It had, but Talen wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
They crossed a small bridge spanning a muddy canal and then turned onto Fuller’s Lane.
Down the lane two young men circled a large black rat snake. It was as long as Talen’s leg and as thick as his wrist.
Talen tensed. He didn’t have to see their faces to know who they were. It was Fabbis and that lazy-eyed Sabin with his head shaved and dyed with temple henna.
So much for disgusting mouthfuls of bread pudding. Suddenly Talen’s cookies didn’t taste so good anymore. He took a drink of water from a goat’s bladder to wash them down.
“Fancy pants,” Nettle said.
Fabbis wore a pair of finely woven scarlet-and-yellow trousers. The worth of the fabric covering that moron’s sweaty bum alone was more than everything Talen had put together.
Talen turned his head, not wanting to make eye contact with Fabbis.
“They’re going about it all wrong,” said Nettle. “Look at them.”
Sabin held a stick and kept heading the snake off. Every time he did, the snake coiled up and tried to strike