Bukke cast judgment on the kindling without giving the sticks a second glance. “Put it all back in his damned cart.” He swiped Pavek’s shoulder again, but his aim was off: his fingers were still twisted into the luck-sign of fire.
Pavek prayed silently to the wheel. With that cloud wandering the sky and the memory of the previous storms etched deeply into his mind, he was having second thoughts about leaving the walled city for the empty unknown. It was no surprise, then, that moments after he started thinking he could survive another sixty days—or forever—the leather-capped veteran was tugging at his sleeve.
“I’ll spell you here,” he offered. “Get yourself a swallow or two of water, and ease your eyes down the line. I think I spotted your woman.”
“Is she—is she alone?”
The veteran shook his head sadly. “Two men. Can’t see why she’d throw you over for either of them: the dwarf’s as old as the hills, and the half-elf’s a scrawny lad. Maybe it’s best to leave things where they lie—?”
“No—” This time the hesitation was real. “I’ve got to speak with her.”
“Your decision, son, but have a care. Everyone’s gone skittish on account of that cloud, even an old man like me,”
Pavek got the hint and unknotted his pouch. He dug out three bits then, after glancing at the pile of broken stone and seeing the empty shade around it, he dug out three more. “Tell the boy—”
Tell the boy what? he asked himself, raking his hair and staring at the cloud.
“Tell him he should have listened, he should have stayed close. Tell him I’m sorry, that’s all.”
Spinning on his heel, he caught sight of the half-elf’s coppery hair, then—already ignoring the veteran—he started toward them, moving with slow purpose, so if he drew the attention of the templars each would think another had given him an order.
The trio stiffened as he approached. The half-elf moved his hands nervously over the smooth wood of his staff and the dwarf lowering the cart traces, flexing the stone-solid forearms typical of his kind.
The druid—he realized, with some dismay, that he had no notion of her name—stood at arm’s length between her companions.
“Woman,” he said when he was close enough for whispering. “Hire me to haul your cart through the city. Your zarneeka’s being turned to poison, and you need my help.”
Her eyes widened. She seemed about to say something, then Pavek felt myriad fiery needles pierce through his skin, and his mind was engulfed in blazing light. His world became timeless until, with a nauseating thump, his heart began beating again. By the time his sputtering mind had reconstructed itself, Bukke had joined them.
“What’s going on here, scum?” the inspector demanded, flourishing his prod for effect.
Bukke glowered at each of them in turn, lingering longest on Pavek’s bearded face, giving him enough time to wonder if, with all of them together in the same place, the younger templar would remember what had happened exactly sixty days earlier.
“No dishonesty, great one,” the druid replied without a hint of deceit or indecision. “I was hoping to hire a man to haul our cart through the city.
Bukke scowled skeptically: even an old, leather-faced dwarf was stronger than a day-laboring human. The druid deflected Bukke’s suspicion with lowered eyes and a fleeting smile.
“We were delayed, great one,” she explained. “Poor Yohan exhausted himself getting this far—”
Poor Yohan had gotten the message. He was rubbing his muscles now, not flexing them. His shoulders sagged, and he’d developed a remarkably weary demeanor—all of which confirmed Pavek’s original supposition: the woman was the one he had to deal with.
“Ah—you’re all worthless scum anyway,” Bukke decreed. He swung the prod to emphasize his judgment, striking Pavek’s still-aching shoulder. “But he’s more worthless than you. Choose another and begone.”
A silent scream swelled in Pavek’s throat. He’d placed all his hopes and faith in this moment, only to see them disappear.
“I see none better, great one,” the druid said, scanning the other laborers with disdain worthy of a templar taskmaster. Then she focused her attention firmly on Bukke. “This scum will suffice.”
“As you wish, Lady,” Bukke conceded, his voice slower and softer than it usually was. “Will you be looking for an overnight inn?”
“No, great one. I’ll be done with him by sundown.”
“Your name, Lady—for the records?”
“Akashia, great one. These are my servants. Their names are not important. I won’t be trading in any market; my goods are already promised to their new