The King's Blood (8 page)

Aldrin shook his head, of course not. Nobility always made a show of never carrying more than they want, less than they need. After all, wasn't that what servants were for.

"Well," her minimal coin purse slipped back into her pocket, "we best tighten our belts then. I fear it shall be a long walk to Tumbler's End."

Setting one foot forward she struck out East, keeping the road always within sight but far enough in the distance only those looking deep into the dark woods would spot them. Aldrin picked at something on his mud tunic, a final bit of white embroidery thread still poking through the thick mud. As the last strands unwound from his grubby fingers, he chased after Ciara, the dragon trailing behind him.

Traveling through the untamed part of the forest was harder work than Ciara expected. When her skirts weren't snagging on branches, burrs, rocks, and big burrs that look like rocks she'd have the trees getting uncomfortably friendly with her. Thanks to the overuse of deer trails and skirting closer to the road than she'd admit to her father, they made their way in pretty good time to the outskirts of Aldershot, just as the merciful sun settled down for a sleep.

"I've been here a few times before, it's little more than a crumb on the map, but this autumn heat will not last long. We'll need winter clothing and provisions."

"A hot meal and a warm bed would be nice as well."

Ciara grunted, knowing just what kind of meal and bed her meager coin would get. Sure, the boy could drop his father's name and they'd be set for about four hours before the mercs slit their throats in their featherbed sleep.

She dropped the boy's hand, wiping the palm sweat across her dress. They'd been intertwined after he ran off to relieve himself and she spent what felt like hours yelling for him. He appeared around a brush pile, some of the mud off his face, carrying an even more beaten down sword than the one Marna handed him.

"Where'd ya get that?" Ciara demanded, pointing to the rotten thing.

"It was the strangest thing. A lady, clad only in sea foam, rose out of the lake and declared it to be my destiny," he waved the bent thing around, the blade redder than clay from rust and misshapen so badly it formed a serpentine 'S.'

"There ain't no lakes about here," Ciara pointed out, "Just the river."

Aldrin didn't seem to much notice, having finally found a blade that suited him, a more than likely cursed, disease ridden thing tossed into the marshland after a battle ages ago. He whooshed the S around his head as if he were about to impale his destiny himself.

"The lady of the drainage ditch is dictating your destiny?" The brown eyes, a funhouse mirror of skepticism reflected back onto his own.
 

Aldrin stopped waving his arm around and looked at the half rotted thing seemingly for the first time. "Yeah, you're right. It belongs back with the dead where it fell."

And pulling his arm back, he heaved the thing as far as it could go. Swords aren't the most aerodynamic of weaponry
⁸
, especially one that twisted like a stream, so it flew five feet before crashing awkwardly to the dirt.

Ciara grabbed a hold of Aldrin's hand and huffed, "Come on," leading him away from the forest.

Neither of them noticed the hand rising from the marshy ground, clasping the hilt.

"Maybe I'll try giving out rolls of pennies next time instead."

Pulling her cowl's hood over her head, Ciara tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. This, of course, drew more attention to her than if she'd walked into the town square and burped the Hold's anthem. "Let 'em all go to hell, except for Aldershan!"

Luckily, she walked slightly in front of the boy who could vanish in a crowd of one. It had always been difficult for his nurses to punish Aldrin because they forget who they were talking to halfway through a "And you'll get such a caning for...who broke this vase?"

The town was settling down after a hard day of trying to pretend they didn't just watch the castle go up in flames and avoiding anything political outside of who the mayor was sticking it to
⁹
. Only a strong light poured out of a set of hanging doors that marked the town's pub, inn, rec center, and hospital
¹⁰
.
 

It wasn't that the doors were supposed to be perched so precariously upon their hinges, the owner was simply going through a bit of a post-modern moment and got his level from the lady of the drainage ditch. If you didn't grip on tightly while sitting at the bar, you were likely to find yourself sliding into your neighbor. All of the furniture in the west room on the third floor was nailed to the ceiling, and it's best to not talk about what happens to anyone who visits the midden.

The rest of the town was closing, the grocer sweeping all the apples that crashed to the floor into a bucket labeled, "Free or best offer." And the extremely exquisite clothing store "Liarta's Garments," so fancy she makes you take your shoes off before you can try the pants on, flickered its lights once for last call.

Ciara sized up the garment store, a satin dress with mouse holes cut into the bodice on prime display in the window; and, grabbing Aldrin, dragged him in. A bell jangled greedily to welcome fresh money and Liarta looked up.

She couldn't have been much past thirty, but the spackle on her face gave the illusion she'd seen her 60
th
winter. Nearly an inch thick, the white reminded Ciara less of Marna's haunting face and more the saddest specimen to take to the performing arts, a Bard that never learned any stories. The bright dots on her cheeks and swipe of kohl both over and below her eyes completed the mime look.

"How may I be of service today?" Her smile was faker than the blush on her cheeks as she surveyed the state of these guests, coated in dung and leaves as if they'd just had a roll in the fertilizer. Or worse, were professional peasants.
 

Ciara steadied herself, "We'd like to sell you something."

Liarta snarled, "I don't do trades. I have all the bruised fruit I could need thanks to that ninny next door refusing to fix the leg on her tables."

But the girl was undeterred; she leaned in as if she had some major secret. Subconsciously, Liarta joined her until their heads almost touched. "Now, I shouldn't be telling you this. My mistress would throw a right fit she would, but for you, and just for you, I'm offering velvet. Royal velvet."

The shopkeep snorted, "Show me?"

Ciara pointed a finger to the boy who up until this point had been counting the buttons in the case beneath the counter.

Liarta leaned back, her hands sliding under the counter, "You must be joking."

"No, no," Ciara grabbed Aldrin by the shoulders and pushed him into her waning sight. Pulling upon his doublet, she wiped some of the ground in mud away, showing the plum hidden beneath. "See, real velvet."

"It's more mud than velvet," the shopkeep scoffed, even as her own fingers wandered over the soft allure.

Aldrin tried to squirm away from two women pawing over his clothes, but Ciara held him fast. "It's an aging technique," the girl was thinking quickly, her mind trying to piece together every inane bit of psychology she'd picked up from existing beside the rich, "you put a young boy in your best attire, send him out to roll in the mud, and then you wash it."

Ciara smiled wide, her teeth dazzling in the brown sugar mouth full of pure sweetness and honesty. Liarta narrowed her eyes, still poking at the small spot of pure velvet. "Why?"

"What?"

"Why the whole mud, boy, rigmarole?"

"To make it softer," Aldrin said, catching both women by surprise.

The shopkeeper had assumed the boy was dumb at best, a walking sack of potatoes at worst. But Ciara picked up his string and knitted away, "Yes, yes, to make it far softer than any other fabric that has ever graced skin. It was started by Lady Diane of Magi."

Liarta seemed swayed by the stranger's words and cautiously opened negotiations, "How much?"

Ciara counted on her fingers, "A set of winter coats, mittens and boots, a pair of cloaks..."

The shopkeep nodded, she had some useless, moth eaten rags she could pass off for this treasure. But Ciara wasn't done yet, "And three Ravens."

"What?! Are you out of your mind? Your skin isn't worth that price."

"Fine," she pulled the velvet scrap away from Liarta's fingers, causing a sigh of relief from Aldrin, "we'll take our business elsewhere."

Turning the boy, Ciara got as far as opening the door, the bell jangling in discomfort, before a harried voice called, "Wait. What about the winter clothing, the boots, the mittens and this lovely hat? It was worn by the Empress herself." She raised a pile of felt woven into an old basket handle that had a few vulture feathers stuffed into the top for good measure.
 

Ciara folded her arms and tried to not look at the damn thing, "How about the winter clothes, a fresh set of tunics, the boots, the mittens and 50 Salamanders?"

Liarta twisted in the wind, her mind already churning with what she could transform that tantalizing velvet into. A simple slit down the back, a little letting out of the seams, and she may just have created Arda's first muumuu. "The clothes, the tunics, the boots, the mittens, the hat, and 15 Chickpeas. My final offer."

It wasn't anywhere close to the amount she'd been hoping for, but Ciara needed that coin, and she suspected there'd be a lot less gullible people through the pass. "Sold."

Liarta vanished into the backroom to cobble together the trade while Aldrin looked up at Ciara, "What just happened?"

"Take your shirt off."

"Beg your pardon?" the boy's hands flew up to cover himself.

But she wasn't about to lose what small gains they'd made that day, "We need money, we need supplies. We can get both money and supplies if you take your Balta damned shirt off and give it to the nearsighted woman who just bought it."

He glared up at her, unwilling to part with what was his, "No."

"If you don't sell her your shirt, we don't eat."

"No!"

Ciara leaned back, crossing her arms, "Very well, we'll sell her your pants instead."

His fingers fumbled with the collar trying to unlace it and slide it over his large head. The mud soaked velvet landed with a thud on the countertop just as the shopkeep returned, her arms overburdened with packages.

She tried to snatch up the mud laying on the counter, but Ciara got the velvet away first. Resigned to the trade, Liarta deposited the packages in Aldrin's cold arms. He welcomed the bundle that obscured his undershirt no longer so under anymore.

Holding out her hand, Ciara waited as the shopkeep excruciatingly counted out each chickpea, the coins landing with a wooden thud on top of the other. With the final fifteenth, Ciara passed the velvet to the woman's lusting arms and pushed Aldrin out the door before the woman could realize the bag of mud soaked magic beans she'd just been sold.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Ciara called out as the bell gave one last mournful cry; no one ever accepts business advice from the greeter.

What remained of the sun as they'd entered town had passed and they found themselves standing on a deserted street with an oversized package and a fuller purse. Ciara began to rifle through the find, most of the coats would at best last a month, the boots were in even worse shape and
Oh gods
of course she snuck that damn hat in there. Luckily, the tunics weren't too itchy and probably didn't have lice, severely upping the chances someone died in them, but she didn't mention that to Aldrin as she passed him one.

"Here, put this on."

He still glared, a face that was hard to maintain by one without a chin, even as he pulled the shirt over his head. But this was a tunic sewn for a man who'd already gone far past puberty. The hem fell down to his knees.

Ciara tried to stifle a giggle as the large neck cut into a V almost slipped over narrow shoulders. Aldrin struggled, but without saying a word undid his belt and rebuckled it over the tunic, his sword from Marna still tucked safely in the leather.

"At least we got a lot of coin out of the sale. Enough to hire a carriage to Tumbler's End, I'm sure."

This time Ciara didn't bother holding back and barked a laugh at the boy who had probably never handled a coin in his life.

"A pair of horses, then?"

The laughing grew harder, her giggles coming in bursts as she tried to keep breath flowing.

"At least a good night's rest at the inn."

Ciara managed to compose herself, gently resting her hand upon the shoulders barely covered by tunic. "We'll be lucky if we can get a pile of straw in the barn."

"But..."

"The reason we call them chickpeas is because that's about all one'll buy, a chickpea. Come on, help me grab the coats. We need to make for the inn before we get marked."

Aldrin tried to mutter something about how unfair it all was, how could anyone live when the choices were clothing or food? Ciara simply thought,
No wonder the kingdom's in the shape it is, they wouldn't know a good deal if a plate of gold landed on their heads.