Davith rolled off Wren and grabbed for his leg. “My foot! My beautiful foot! It’s attached!”
“Barely, by the look of things,” Shane said. “Let me take a look.”
“May I suggest that we first move off this patch of ground that appears to have random mouths in it?” asked Marguerite.
“Yes. Please, yes. I’ll hop.”
Davith leaned heavily on Shane as they made their way up the hillside. “Do you think this is far enough?” Wren asked, when they reached the summit.
“How would we even know?”
Shane checked the ground for suspicious holes or suspicious movements, but found nothing.
Would the dirt need to move, though? Would the mouth tunnel like a mole, or would more dirt just
open up? Hell, for all we know, the whole hillside is alive and covered in mouths.
This was an unpleasant thought. However, after half a minute of standing, nothing tried to swallow them. Good enough. The paladin helped Davith sit and felt his leg for breaks. “Does this hurt?”
“Yes, of course it hurts! The dirt bit me! Dirt shouldn’t bite people!”
Shane reached, with some difficulty, for the paladin’s voice. “Does it hurt like a break? Here?
How about here?”
It was not broken, nor, thankfully, sprained. A bad sprain could have been worse than a break, as Shane knew all too well. “You’re going to have a fantastic set of bruises,” he warned.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get my boot back?”
“Errr…” Wren held up the top half of what had previously been a rather expensive boot. “I went back. I think it’s digesting the rest.”
“Now we know why that bandit wanted our boots so badly,” said Marguerite.
“I hate this place,” said Davith, to no one in particular.
“Can you walk?” asked Shane. “The village isn’t far.”
“I can hop,” said Davith grimly. “If it gets me away from that damned hole, I’ll even crawl.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Shane pushed open the door to the inn. Davith limped through and didn’t stop.
He made a bee line for the bar, grabbed the edge to hold himself up, and hissed, “Do you know that there are holes that bite people here?”
The bartender gazed at him with clear astonishment. “Aye?” he said finally. “Ground-wights? Did you run afoul of one?”
“You knew about this.” Davith’s voice trembled with emotion. Shane started forward and Marguerite caught his shoulder.
“I think he’s earned this one,” she murmured. Shane relented.
“Aye?” The bartender glanced over at the other three, as if seeking backup. “They get a sheep now and again, so they do.”
“…A…sheep.”
“You pour water down the hole, they back right off. Do they not have ground-wights where you’re from?”
Davith drew himself up as tall as he could without relinquishing his grip on the bar. “If you live in a country with holes that randomly eat you, you have to warn people,” he hissed. Shane could not remember the last time he’d seen anyone so incandescently angry. Davith’s finger stabbed against the bar. “You tell people. You tell everyone. There should be laws.”
The bartender gazed at him in silence for a long, long moment, methodically cleaning the mug in his hands. Finally he said, “Do you have badgers back home?”
“Yes,” said Davith, with wonderful restraint. “We have badgers. Why?”
“Figured I’d warn you about ’em if you didn’t, ’cos we’ve got those too.” He set the mug down.
“How about wolves?”
Davith hitched himself sideways onto a stool, put his head down on the bar, and whispered,
“Whiskey. Neat.”
Despite his general distaste for Davith, Shane found himself moved to pity. The man seemed genuinely broken. He turned to Marguerite. “If you’ll arrange the rooms and the meals, I’ll see if I can locate a cobbler.”
“The town’s probably too small for that,” Marguerite said, “but I suppose we can’t let him hop on one foot all the way to Cambraith.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” muttered Wren.
“It’d slow us down,” said Shane.
“I suppose there’s that.”
“And here I thought that paladins weren’t vindictive sorts,” said Marguerite, clearly amused.
“I have no idea where you got that impression,” Shane said.
“Hmm, now that you mention it, neither do I.” She grinned at him and sauntered toward the bar.
Mindful of Davith’s advice about ogling, Shane took himself off into the dusk in pursuit of a replacement boot and a scabbard for what was left of his sword.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DAVITH WAS hungover the next day, but kept pace nonetheless. “It was worth it,” he said, even though his eyes were bloodshot and he had viewed breakfast with loathing. “I regret nothing. Except stepping in that damned hole.” He eyed the side of the road suspiciously, as if it might suddenly open up to swallow him. “Predatory dirt. What the hell.”
Credit where it was due, Marguerite thought, Davith hadn’t slowed them down significantly, even limping. Possibly he was afraid that if he didn’t move fast enough, the ground would bite his other foot. Still, whatever the reason, they were only a day away from Cambraith, and there was still no sign of the Red Sail.
They stopped at the last inn before Cambraith proper. Marguerite drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. Were they ahead or far behind? Did the Sail know that they’d gone into the highlands instead of bolting to safety? What did they make of Davith’s apparent defection?
The questions occupied only half her mind. She was watching Shane out of the corner of her eye.
This was the third time in as many days that she had moved near him—not even touched him—and he’d started to lean toward her, then jumped back like a startled cat. It was getting on her nerves.
She wondered what was going on inside his head. Something, clearly. Probably something paladinly, god help them all.
If he’s regretting rolling around on the floor with me, he could just say so. Or if he wants to do it again, he could just say that. Though it’s not like we can share a room anyway—I’d have to rent separate rooms for Wren and Davith, or they’d murder each other, and I don’t want Davith left unsupervised.
The thought that Shane might regret bedding her sent an unexpected pang through her. She stamped it down. These things happen. Just because you want to do it again…as soon as possible…
preferably several times, and preferably not on a stone floor…doesn’t mean he’s obligated to feel the same. Sometimes good and decent people just aren’t interested in you.
She snorted. Good and decent people probably shouldn’t be interested in her. Spies and paladins did not mix. Most of the time, she knew that. It’s probably for the best if he isn’t interested. But it would be nice if he didn’t act like I was about to stick him with a pin.
Assuming that’s what he’s thinking at all.
She laughed at herself. Here we are, the future of the world’s economy at stake, probably being chased by people with murder on their minds, and I keep thinking ‘But does he like me?’”