Because we didn’t have any better strategy, or a strategy at all, we followed the path northward, deeper into the musty, rot-smelling swamp of stale water, sharp grass, and low, mossy trees. I am ashamed to admit that even though I am a Caller and should appreciate nature, swamps do not enchant me. The Graplinger Bog struck me as one of the most depressing I had experienced.
As we walked, I shifted from blaming the swamp for my unhappiness to blaming my companions. I scrutinized each of them from the corners of my eyes and got more pissed off about my situation. “May all of them eat snake heads off their mother’s clean floor,” I murmured. Why was I with them, anyway? To be their loyal companion? Bugger that. I could bring back those kids, and that was worth doing. And at some point, Harik would demand I take his book across the sea. Despite my intentions, I was headed in the right direction for that. So, screw everybody else. Halla too. Let somebody else poke her with a stick.
I made myself breathe deep and admitted that my attitude might be improved by a hot fire and a few drinks.
What I really wanted was to kill the shit out of Memweck, whoever he was. I would carve out his heart and feed it to the nastiest rats I could find in the Empire’s sewers. I savored that thought for a few seconds and then shook it away to concentrate on the boggy muck around us. It would be cruel and sad for Memweck to be saved by some slimy, callous beast that seized my foot while I wasn’t looking.
Half an hour later, we set our horses loose after picking through the packs and bags for water, food, and useful items. The path was narrowing, and we’d never be able to lead the horses across the bog without broken legs or horrible sinkhole accidents. They could wander back out and make friends with Leddie’s horses.
Before the horses were out of sight, Halla dropped back beside me. She cleared her throat, an uncommon sign of discomfort for her. Staring straight ahead, she said, “I am sorry.” That was all.
Maybe she meant it. Or maybe she said it to mollify me and avoid problems. Maybe she would rub up against a fallen tree and say she loved it, if that would move it out of her way. Maybe everything she’d said and done since she returned had just been to manipulate me. “That’s all right. Your meanness made you apologize to me twice in the same week. You’ve never done it twice in the same year before this.”
Halla didn’t comment on that. She walked faster to outpace me, but I kept up by walking fast and jogging a little, even though my head wasn’t pleased.
I chided myself for my earlier whining, which was unworthy of a sorcerer. Now was a good time to start poking Halla. “Let’s return to the subject of your fleeing into the night, with no message or even a dead chicken on my porch, and staying gone for ten years.”
“No.”
“It was uncivil behavior in a guest.”
“No.” Halla sped up. I was almost running.
I stared at the side of her head and raised my voice. “I killed two horses looking for you!”
“This is tiresome. Go bother your manservant.”
“Bett drew a picture of you and then burned it.”
Halla shook her head. “She did not.”
I touched her arm. “No, she didn’t. You hurt Lin’s feelings, though.”
Halla’s voice was steady. “You hurt her far worse.”
“All right! I’m going over to the other edge of the trail and walking along until I kick a hundred snakes, or frogs, or muskrats. Then maybe I’ll be able to continue this conversation without smashing in your head!” I shook my manacles and chains at her while edging to the other side of the path, a full six feet away.
After two silent minutes, Halla slowed down and said, “I thought my meaning was clear.”
“When you left? Yes, you were clear that my buckle was rusty!”
She finally met my eyes. “It was. Next, you might let your sword rust, and then your attention wander. And then you would die.”
I gaped at her. “You meant nothing of the kind! It’s a story! You’re making that shit up!”
Halla stopped short. Her voice was stiff. “Yes, I am making it up now. But if I had not cared at all, I would have said nothing.”
That might almost have made sense, but it didn’t explain anything. “Your blabbering just now made me miss kicking two frogs! Just . . . hush and let me be mad.”
Halla walked off, and I let her walk. I couldn’t decide whether it had been a successful stick-poking.
Late in the afternoon, the path became narrower in a hurry. Soon, Halla nudged me and nodded toward a spot twenty feet off the trail. I peered and spotted a deadfall trap mostly hidden by reeds. It was about the right size for catching a swamp rat or an opossum.
I flexed my numb fingers, nudged my sword loose in the scabbard, and started wrapping my chains around my arms. Somebody lived close by, and if they didn’t like swamp rats, they might not like me, either.
We spotted more traps during the next ten minutes. Halla stopped and turned her head. I stopped and heard it too, a rhythmic clank of metal hitting metal, filtered through some unknown distance of reeds and moss-dripping tree limbs.
“Trap?” I whispered to Halla. “Or just careless?”
Whistler poked his head right in between us. “Maybe he’s so ferocious he doesn’t care who hears him. Maybe those are his balls banging together.”
Halla nodded at Whistler. “Go find out. We will wait here.”
Whistler stepped back. “I might not know exactly where to put my feet so as not to get sucked down.”
I said, “If you’re cowed by a stretch of muddy trail, then you’re likely
