Abner patted her shoulder. “You poor kid. I’m sure we could—” He didn’t get a chance to finish. The girl gripped his shoulder and spun him about. She was icily furious now. “Don’t you say another word!”
Abner looked surprised. “What?”
“This is important, and it’s Master Payne’s decision, not yours.”
“I was just—”
“Just about to say something stupid!” the girl snapped. “Get Master Payne!” The girl turned to Agatha, who was taken aback to see that her face was now as warm and friendly as any Agatha had ever seen. “You should wait here, my dear,” she said sweetly.
Abner tried a final time. “We should—”
The friendliness vanished in an instant as she rounded on Abner. “If you say another word I will kick you in the fork and set your hair on fire,” she hissed.
Abner opened his mouth. There was a pause. He closed his mouth. The two of them hurried off.
Agatha and the others watched them go. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” she murmured.
There was a snort from behind her. “The only people who don’t cause trouble are the dead.”
The speaker was a lean, well-muscled girl. Her face should have been pretty, but her expression was sullen, and there was an odd look in her eye that Agatha found uncomfortable to meet.
Her skin was a warm, golden color that Agatha found beautiful, but very unusual. She was dressed in a hard-used set of blue leather pants and a vest. Her arms were bare, except for a set of dingy gold bands around her upper arms. Agatha noted with a small, embarrassed shock, that the girl wasn’t even wearing a shirt.
Strapped across her front and around her shoulders was a sturdy leather and metal harness that held two sword scabbards on her back. The unusual handles of the swords they held bracketed her head. These at least, had been well cared for. They looked as if they had been recently polished and oiled. Her hair was twisted in a severe braid, tied in place with rags and bits of twine. For a sickening moment, Agatha thought that the girl’s hair was so dirty that it had turned green. A closer look revealed that this was apparently its natural color.
Across her forehead ran a leather circlet—a small golden face mounted in the center. This was so cleverly- worked that Agatha momentarily thought it was moving.
The green-haired girl hooked a thumb at the departing pair. “Those two have been like that with each other ever since Pix—that’s the girl in the tart dress—joined up. She’s got a hard bite, but Abner, there, he keeps trying to talk to her. I guess he likes the abuse or something.”
She was sitting on a log that had been dragged up to a fire pit, and now she moved sideways and waved Agatha over. A large iron cauldron hung from a chain and tripod arrangement. She snagged a wooden bowl from a stack and ladled in a huge helping of some sort of porridge, handing it to Agatha along with an elegantly hand- carved wooden spoon.
“She’s a great actress though,” the girl conceded. She reached down and produced a blue enameled metal pitcher. She leaned over and poured a dollop of thick cream into Agatha’s bowl. “Here. Eat.” She set the pitcher down. “I am Zeetha. Daughter of Chump.”
Agatha’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. The porridge smelled delicious, but—“Chump?”
Zeetha rolled her eyes. She looked like there was more she wanted to say, but all that came out was, “Just eat.”
Agatha thought she should at least show willing. “I am Agatha Clay. Daughter of blacksmith.”
Zeetha looked at her levelly and took a long slow breath through her nose. “No, really...” she said. “Just eat.”
The porridge was delicious. It was thick, warm and filling. Agatha thought about Krosp and his rat, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply, enjoying her breakfast’s rich nutty scent and delightful lack of rodent.
Agatha saw that Abner had been serious about moving out. People were scurrying everywhere, carrying supplies and equipment. Looking closely, Agatha saw that the chaos was, in fact, not chaos at all. What outwardly appeared to be a disorganized swarm of people would descend upon a section of the camp, and begin sorting, organizing, packing and stowing everything upon one of the waiting wagons—all with a grace and breathtaking efficiency that made the whole thing seem like it was part of a performance. She mentioned this out to Zeetha, who nodded grudgingly.
“Right the first time. This was all choreographed by Gospodin Rasmussin over there.” She pointed to a small, intense-looking man who was striding through the camp, rhythmically striking the ground with an ornately topped dance-master’s cane. As he went past, Agatha could hear that he was counting under his breath in Russian.
Zeetha grinned. “We can get the whole camp packed and ready in less than six waltzes, or three polkas, if we’re actually under attack.”
Agatha finished her breakfast just as a crew swept in and began collecting the various cooking implements. She surrendered her bowl and watched as it skimmed through the air to land in a tub of similar bowls. Agatha had a sudden realization, and guiltily looked around. “Are we the only ones not doing anything?”
Zeetha leaned back and nodded. “You’re a guest. I’m kept around to kill things, and at the moment,” she said frankly, “I’m keeping an eye on you in case I have to kill you.” She saw Agatha’s expression and shrugged. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
Agatha had to admit that, up until recently, this had been the case.
Zeetha snorted. “You really escaped from Castle Wulfenbach?”
Agatha nodded. “Yes.”
Zeetha eyed her speculatively. “You must be tougher than you look.”
Agatha considered this statement. “I had help,” she admitted.
Zeetha grinned. Agatha noticed that she had disquietingly large canines. “So? That’s a mark in your favor. My people say that a good friend is like a strong sword.”
“Your people?”
The momentary jocularity left Zeetha and she slumped a bit. For a moment, Agatha thought she wasn’t going to say anything, then she sighed. “I’m from Skifander. Ever heard of it?”
Agatha blinked. She suddenly remembered a small cabin high in some heavily-forested mountains. It had snowed furiously earlier in the day, drifts piling up around the carved wooden walls. Agatha had been young, very young, and had returned from building an army of snow minions to find her Uncle Barry leaning against the cabin. Night was falling, and he was watching the stars emerge in the night sky. They had gazed at them together, and Agatha had said something about the night revealing her hidden jewels.
This turn of phrase had delighted her uncle, and that night, while they ate in front of the crackling fire, he had told her fabulous stories for half the night about—
“Skifander!” Agatha declared with a nostalgic smile. “The Warrior Queen’s Hidden Jewel! Guardian of the Red Mountain! Oh, I remember that!”
The words had an electric effect. Zeetha’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She stared at Agatha as if she had spontaneously grown a second nose.
Agatha was surprised. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Did I get it wrong? It’s been so long—”
Suddenly hands like iron gripped her arms. Zeetha’s face was centimeters from her own. Her eyes were wild. “You know where Skifander is?”
Agatha blinked—“No! I—”
Zeetha shouted her down. “WHO DOES?”
“My uncle! He told me stories—”
“Where is he?” Zeetha was frantic.
“I don’t know!” Agatha shouted. “He disappeared years ago!”
Zeetha staggered back, her eyes wide. “No!” she whispered. With a shimmer of steel, her swords appeared in her hands. “No, No, NO! NOOOO!” she screamed like an animal as the swords wove a glittering arc around them. Suddenly, Zeetha seemed to catch herself. Eyes still wild, she slammed her swords back into their scabbards and ran off, howling.
All around Agatha, objects began to fall apart. The people nearby slowly unfroze and turned to stare at Agatha.
The old man with the vest remarked, “Huh. She’s never done that before.”
A tall girl with a great mass of dark curly hair and an astonishing amount of exposed cleavage burst from the nearest caravan. “Smoke and the devil! What was that all about?”
