Halla shook her head again. “It is not what I wanted. I did not imagine it would happen.”
I examined Halla’s face. It could have happened to any sorcerer. It could have happened to me. It wasn’t her fault.
I thrust my dagger forward with all my strength. I buried the blade four inches deep in the wooden hull next to Halla’s ribs. “If you’re smart, which I doubt, you’ll stay the hell away from me. I don’t care if you have yourself towed on a rope to do it.” I left my dagger in the hull and stomped aft. I must have put on a mean face, because nobody dared talk to me.
Later in the afternoon, I saw Halla sitting on the deck in the bow with Bea kneeling beside her. Bea was arranging and rearranging her arms around Halla and patting her hand, but Halla sat so stiff that it must have been like trying to comfort an old tree trunk.
When we docked in Dunhold, Halla bought horses, gathered her nephews, and waved to me. “Buy a belt buckle. I do not want you to die.”
I ground my teeth and kicked the dirt for a few seconds. Then I called out, “Don’t monopolize the conversation with those boys. I know you can talk about any subject forever.”
They rode east and were out of sight in a minute.
Whistler purchased us horses as well as four wagons and mules to pull them. He argued hard and loud that we should buy just two wagons, since ten children could fit well, if cozy, in each. Bea shouted and berated him until at last he gave in. He cursed the unnecessary expense the rest of the day and part of the next.
We made poor time pulling four wagons, but we had no urgent tasks. Seven days of travel were sunny and pleasant, much cooler than the northern kingdoms. Then three days of heavy rain and violent storms brought us to the Eastern Crossroads, where the fair had been held. Pil had named that event the Slaughter of the Breakfast Animals. Whistler found that amusing enough to regain most of his good humor.
The crossroads was peppered with white stone mounds about two feet high. I assumed that each stood where a family had found a dead relation after that murderous festival day.
I pointed to a mound and said to Pil, “The crossroads seems a poor place to stack rocks, even memorial rocks.”
She smiled at me. “People could stack the rocks someplace else, I guess, but these places are where the people died. They didn’t die over there in the grass, or beside their front door.”
“Still, the rocks will all be scattered before long.”
“Bib!” She ginned at me as if she were telling her younger brother a secret. “It doesn’t matter whether one is there for a minute or forever.”
The weather had turned fair again on the day we reached Bindle. Word spread fast, and families snatched up their missing children within thirty minutes. Citizens crowded us, smiling, shouting thanks, and pushing drinks into our hands. I decided not to insult them by refusing their drinks.
The accolades that people heaped upon me were just a piddly nod compared to the adulation Bea received. She explained everybody’s role in the rescue. She described it all several times with listeners exclaiming at all the exciting parts. No matter what she said, she was their hero. When the celebration moved to the town square, a carpenter knocked together a dais for her, and she told the story twice more, holding Tobi in her arms. She soon pulled Whistler up to stand beside her, and a few merrymakers called out suggestions that had them both blushing.
Pil and I had found a quiet corner of the town square and were leaning against the whitewashed wall of the bakery when Paul walked past. He stopped and stared back at me. “Bib, it’s proper that you made things right by bringing these children back. That’s good.” He looked thoughtful. “Of course, you wouldn’t have had to rescue anybody if you hadn’t made such a turd pie out of everything. You sure wouldn’t.” He gazed around and then walked off into the crowd.
“Time to leave,” I said.
“Why?”
I walked around the bakery and down the street toward the stable, with Pil following. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll have to kill a dozen of these people to get away.”
“But they’re happy.” She ran to catch up and walk beside me. “They thanked us. They’re giving us drinks! They’re grateful.”
I laughed hard. “Pil, they’re never grateful. At least not for long. If you want gratitude, become a blacksmith. Everybody appreciates a good horseshoe.”
We walked along in silence for a minute. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the stables.” I waved my hand. “You can go wherever you want from there.”
“Can I go with you?”
I laughed again. “Think twice about it. I’m off to start a war and break my friend’s heart.”
CONTINUE THE STORY IN THE NEXT BOOK:
DEATH’S COLLECTOR: VOID-WALKER
Hero and worst role model ever.
I’m the sorcerer Bib. I admit to a speck of vanity and to an ocean of sarcastic, rude behavior. At least I don’t mope. Sorcerers act wise and superior, but if you want to see an extravaganza of weepy anguish, get a few sorcerers together with some hard liquor and a fellow playing sad songs on his lute.
Sorcerers aren’t so special. But arrogant? They are that, and I may be the most arrogant one of all.
After years of struggle and grief, Bib wants only to rest. But the petty, vicious gods demand that he lure his friend, the young king, into a losing war. Bib thinks he’s clever enough to arrange things so that the king is defeated yet keeps his throne - and his head.
But the king won’t listen until Bib crushes some traitors for him. Faced with rebellious nobles, mystical killers, and allies he can’t control, Bib finds that cleverness needs a
