The Silvered (39 page)

She asked a question. Remembered. Asked it again in Imperial. “What are you doing?”

“Being overwhelmed by an escaping mage.”

“I can’t go without…”

“I don’t expect you to.”

He could almost hear her trying to choose her next question. No surprise she cut straight to the point. “Why?”

“I’m a soldier.” The light was bad and the coarse fibers of the rope made it difficult to feel how the pattern had twisted. “I have been since I was fifteen. I’ve fought in pitched battles and skirmishes. I’ve waited in ambush; been caught in one. Although I’ve done what I could to adjust the consequences of bad orders, I’ve still followed them. I honestly don’t know how many people I’ve killed.” Threading the dangling length of rope back through a loop unraveled the knot. “But there’s a difference between killing and murdering.” He unwound the rope, stroked a thumb over the unmarked skin on her inner wrist just once, then backed away. “If you cross the border with me, you don’t have a chance. Tomas has less of one.” Major Halyss had called him “the boy,” and when he’d flatly said the emperor might be making rugs, he’d meant the emperor might be making rugs. Not a metaphor. Tomas couldn’t be left at the Abyek garrison, and Reiter’d been warned what would happen to him if he was taken to Karis. When the mage stared at him, confused, he sighed. “Look, it’s never just one thing that changes a man’s mind. It’s a hundred small things adding up. I know you have no reason to think good of me, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill me when you take me out.”

“When I what?”

“If I just let you go, I’m a dead man. Too many people know I have you. Too many people know what my orders were. You have to escape.”

She glanced down at her hands, then up. “I have to make it look like I…we escaped. How?”

Was he going to have to knock himself out, Reiter wondered. “You’re the mage.”

“Not much of one.”

“Not much…The scene in the market says different.” He frowned as she frowned, clearly not understanding what he referred to. “You don’t know about what happened in the market?” He’d wondered at the time if she’d known what she was doing; it hadn’t occurred to him she had no memory of it.

“That farm worker was going to skin Tomas. I took hold of a man in a leather vest, and he threw me back. He kicked me. I think…” She pressed a hand against her side. “I
thought
he broke my ribs. And then I woke up in the garrison next to Tomas, and that woman drugged us. I thought the solders had come because of all the shouting.”
Her pale eyes widened. “You came. That’s why Tomas isn’t dead. Isn’t skinned.”

“You think I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen?”

She spread her hands and looked at him like he was a little slow. “You
didn’t
.”

No, he didn’t. Hadn’t.

Chard would wonder soon what was taking them so long, so Reiter told her quickly what he’d seen when he entered the market. Her face showed horror when he briefly described the burning man, but not regret. As he sketched out the rest, she looked confused, listened without asking questions, then twisted her foot into the light and stared down at the back of her heel. “He had a knife. I wasn’t thinking…”

“You have to start.”

“Funny.” Her smile held no humor. “Usually people tell me I think too much.”

Reiter wanted to see her smile, her actual smile. He knew he never would, but he wanted it so much it sat like a rock in his chest. “Chard doesn’t know about this…escape. He can’t lie for shit. Try not to hurt him. He runs on at the mouth, but he’s a good kid.” Chard still hadn’t called out to ask if there was a problem. What the fuck did he think they were doing out here? “A fire of any size,” he added, “will draw attention from the border. And you want as much of a head start as you can get.”

“We’ll be…”

“Don’t tell me! I’m a very good liar,” he explained. “But they won’t ask nicely.”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. In spite of shadows, he could actually see her thinking of what she was going to do. There was still a chance she could kill both him and Chard. He’d gambled she didn’t have it in her. If he got in her way, yes, but not coldly and deliberately after he’d released her and armed her with what she was capable of. She’d slept Armin and walked away when she had less reason to think kindly of him.

He could tell the moment she came to a decision. It hadn’t taken her long and there’d only be one way to find out if that worked in his favor.

She squared her shoulders, paused as though something had just occurred to her, and said, “You asked earlier; my name is Mirian.”

“Sleep.” The captain’s forehead felt warm and dry under her fingers and Mirian watched him crumple to the ground, feeling confused as much as anything. Her ribs were whole, her heels unbloodied, and, when it came down to it, Captain Reiter had no reason to lie about what he’d seen in the market. She had tested very high, multiple times, so perhaps that meant low levels at very high power. But in every craft? She’d never heard of that happening.

Still, whatever it meant, it didn’t matter now. What mattered now was making the most of this opportunity. Somehow. Perhaps she should have used the captain’s experience in strategy and tactics rather than put him to sleep, but she couldn’t think while he was watching her.

First, she had to deal with Chard.

Leaving the lantern where the captain had hung it, she picked her way carefully through the underbrush. The firelight showed Chard sitting on the side of the wagon box. From the angle of the musket, he had it pointed up under Tomas’ chin. He was staring at Tomas, not watching for them to come out of the woods, and he didn’t look happy.

If she emerged alone, he’d shoot Tomas. If she called to him, he’d shoot Tomas. He might not want to and he’d likely feel guilty about it, but he’d do it. Bottom line, that was all that mattered.

Captain Reiter was right. She had to start thinking like a mage.

Raising a hand into the breeze, she sent a puff of it toward the wagon, into the wagon box, over Tomas, and out to where the horse grazed on the end of a rope tied to a wagon wheel. In the end, it was nothing more than blowing out a long, curving line of candles….

Military horses might be the most phlegmatic known—and given that this horse had been transporting one of the Pack for two days suggested
might
wasn’t entirely accurate—but Mirian suspected that the fresh, immediate scent of predator had to be entirely different than a faint scent woven into the other scents of the road.

The horse half reared and tried to run, dragging the wagon forward and throwing Chard off the side into the box. He popped up again almost immediately and leaped to the ground, stumbled, grabbed for the rope, and murmured a long string of calming nonsense
as the horse reared and plunged around him. He was brave, Mirian would give him that. She couldn’t have stood so close to those hooves.

Whether it was because the scent wasn’t repeated or because the horse found Chard reassuring, he calmed fairly quickly. Snorting and blowing, he allowed Chard to get one hand on his bridle and the other up under his mane.

“There now, you stupid git. What were you all up in yourself for, huh? You catch scent of…”

When he turned, Mirian put him to sleep.

Chard dropped and rolled between the horse’s legs.

The horse looked down, looked at Mirian, and shook his head hard enough the wagon creaked.

Tomas moaned.

If the horse got another less deliberate nose full of Pack…Mirian untied the end of his lead rope from the wagon and started around to the other side of the fire. The horse watched her go, stretched out his neck as the rope came up taut, and refused to move. Pulling didn’t help. Coaxing didn’t help.

Tomas moaned again.

“Fine. Have it your way.” As she sidled in close, he rolled his eyes but continued to stand right where he was. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” The clip attaching the rope to the bridle was too stiff for her too open. What difference did it make if he dragged the rope with him? So what if it got caught; he was huge. Someone would find him. Except…

She couldn’t leave him tied. Not having been tied.

The clip was brass. Brass felt bright. Sharp. The taste of vinegar across her tongue and she held a cooling sphere in her hand. The rope dropped to the ground. Another moment to drag Chard away, then she was up in the wagon, murmuring much the same calming nonsense as Tomas began to thrash.

One hand gripping his hip, Mirian burned the rope securing Tomas to the side of the wagon. He lay panting but still, so she jumped down to get the lantern and Chard’s knife. It would be safer to cut the ropes around his wrists and ankles. The knife was sharp, but the ropes were thick…

“I’m sorry! Oh, Tomas, I’m so sorry.” Blood dripped onto the
wagon as she pulled the pieces of rope away from skin rubbed raw and red. His ankles were no better than his wrists except that she’d managed not to cut him while freeing them. Although she’d been tied the same way, her own skin—wrists and ankles—had been completely unmarked. She stared at her wrist and pushed the memory of Reiter’s touch to the back of her mind. Evidently, she could heal herself. That didn’t mean she should experiment on Tomas. The hole in his shoulder had closed when he changed, and these injuries were nothing in comparison.

When he changed…

The skin around the silver pin felt red and puffy. He keened as she hooked her fingernails under the head and yanked it out.

“Tomas? Tomas, can you hear me?”

No. Though his eyes moved back and forth under closed lids, the muttering hadn’t yet become words.

Thrusting the pin through a fold in her skirt, she wondered if he’d change as he began to shake off the drug. Would his body recognize what it needed? Mirian had no idea. She stripped him out of his shirt and stopped, hands on the waistband of his trousers. Tomas wouldn’t care. Would, in fact, prefer to be out of all clothing when he changed. Depending on how much or how little of his mind had returned, he might even be panicked by the feeling of being trapped in the cloth.

Mirian managed to get both sides of the flap unbuttoned without touching anything but the buttons. Leaving it lying closed, she took the lantern down to his feet, grabbed his trousers and pulled only to find Tomas’ weight held them in place.

“Fine.”

She’d been nearly drowned, captured by the Imperial army—twice—tied, drugged, and she’d killed two men. She wasn’t going to be recaptured because she was too missish to take off a man’s trousers, particularly when she’d seen that man naked on more than one occasion. Tugging the rough wool over damp skin, she clenched her teeth and kept her eyes locked on her hands. There was, after all, a difference between seeing and looking.

Like between killing and murdering.

Hysteria began bubbling up through the cracks. Mirian shoved it back down.

Untied and unclothed, Tomas began to thrash in earnest, arms
and legs flung wide. Mirian rescued the lantern and slid back to the very end of the wagon. Mouth open, Tomas panted, every exhale a small cry that sounded equal parts pain and anger. He rocked up until he was half sitting, his eyes so wide they showed white all around—Mirian doubted he saw her—then he fell onto his side and changed.

He continued to pant in fur form, whining, still under the control of the drug.

Leaving the lantern where it was, Mirian crawled up beside him and lifted his head onto her lap. “Change again, Tomas. Please. One more time.” Curling forward, she pressed her face to his, breathing with him then slowing the rhythm. He slowed with her. They were breathing the same air. From her mouth into his. “Change, Tomas.”

A paw pushed at her leg, then a hand grabbed her skirt. “Mirian?”

Forehead to forehead, she kept breathing with him. “I’m here.”

“Head hurts.”

“I know.”

“Hungry.”

Her stomach growled and she straightened. “Me, too.” How long since they’d eaten? “Stay here. I’ll go get food.”

He started a protest but didn’t manage to finish it. While no longer under the control of the drug, he hadn’t managed to quite make it back to himself. By the time Mirian returned with a hunk of salt pork and half a loaf of dark bread, he’d changed again and gone to sleep. His tail twitched, but he didn’t wake when she stroked his shoulder.

She brought the lantern closer.

His fur now had a silver streak over the place the pin had been for the last two and a half days. The silver that had shattered his shoulder hadn’t left a mark, so this must have been the result of time.

“Tomas?”

His nose twitched when she waved the pork in front of it, but he didn’t wake. He’d slept after the last time he’d healed himself, so she stroked his head and backed away.

She was a little worried about the food. If she could purify water, could she purify pork? Would it be like water because it was being purified, or would it be healing because it was meat?

“Maybe they teach something useful in second year,” she muttered,
leaving most of the meat and half the bread for Tomas. She emptied a canteen, set the last full one by the meat, and gathered up the rest.