As though enervated by the conviction of his words, Patzer inhaled the smoke-filled air too deeply, then coughed hard.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be in the women’s hut tonight. If any of them are willing to speak to me, I’ll ask them.” Well, she would make a genuine effort. But so few would speak to her.
Patzer rolled his eyes and pushed more nuts into his mouth.
His cynicism was reasonable, for she’d had very little luck when attempting to initiate conversations with the Sumadans in the women’s huts. Some women were perfectly polite, but most clearly didn’t want her near. Quite often she’d been ignored outright, or answered with hostility, or like a child who was in the wrong place.
Cenephans weren’t treated remotely like this back in Armer. Well, those few who still identified as Cenephan weren’t. Despite Terese’s accent, withering comments behind her back, which she was obviously supposed to hear, were that ‘they’ should stay in their Walls and worship there.
She’d wanted to explain, to yell, that she was from Armer, and even if she were Cenephan, human beings shouldn’t treat one another like some other species.
But what was the point? She couldn’t change these people’s minds, and they’d likely have her removed from the hill for disturbing the peace.
“Will it be another late start in the morning?” she asked, feigning a drink from her empty cup.
“I imagine so, lass. Yes, Patzer, you will start late tomorrow.”
“And where then? More hills? Lijjen wanted results. I have to give him something!”
Patzer shook his head “Don’t worry about him, Saarg. I have… a way with the Seekers of Sumad Reach. I’ll phrase everything so it’s clear you did your duty.”
It wasn’t the first time Patzer had hinted he was more than just a bounty hunter. He believed he outranked Keeper Lijjen and possibly Holder Mathra, he ran some sort of elite smuggling group, and he had ‘contacts’ who knew something about the renegades she didn’t.
And of all people to have the Holder’s ear? A man who hated so easily, whether that hate was directed at the Royals or the renegades or the Sumadan monks and pilgrims. Even she didn’t hate the renegades, regardless of the fact that they were responsible for her abominable year.
“Well,” she said, pretending to not worry, “just so long as you know what you’re doing.” Making Patzer believe he knew what he was doing helped pacify him when his mood swung into rage, but they were no closer to the renegades than when she’d arrived in Sumad.
“That’s certain, lass. Now, did I ever tell you about the cadver barrow filled with dolls? Damnedest thing I ever saw. Not Cenephan rag dolls, but the upmarket ones the Sumadans have over the border. Some had fallen apart, others were brand new. Now obviously, cadvers don’t play with dolls, but—”
The door to the common area crashed open. Two Cenephan men rushed in, one with a flaming torch in his hand and the other with a shoddy shockpole.
Conversation died.
“Please, anyone,” the man with the shockpole shouted. “We’re from YanderWall.” He pointed east. “Our weavers found an active barrow! Two mornings ago, we found a slaughtered lion, and this morning were tracks right beside the Wall. We might be besieged tonight. We’ll pay as best we can.”
Terese didn’t realize she’d begun rising until a vice-grip squeezed her forearm. Patzer’s eyes bored into hers and he shook his head. And slowly, forcing every muscle to agree, she lowered herself back to the chair, her gaze stuck on the table. A slow quiet descended on the room, and she couldn’t look up for shame.
“Ahem.”
A monk stood. Long of beard, painted yellow from head to bare foot, the paint flaking to show the dark skin beneath. His ribs stood out proudly.
“I’m unable to take arms against the living or undead.” His voice was heartier than his age suggested. “I am only one, but I will come.” The monk stroked the circular length of cotton fabric slung around his neck and shoulder. Terese sensed the belt’s vibrations even from this distance.
Three white-painted monks who had been chanting at the center of the room rose to their feet. Their beards were shorter, and they too stroked their cotton belts. The yellow monk followed the YanderWall recruiters out the door, followed by the white ones. The room stayed quiet.
“Relax, Saarg,” said Patzer. “Four monks? They’ll have enough vibrations in their stones to make any cadver get the itches and run. YanderWall’ll be fine. It’s a sturdy enough cluster.”
Terese wanted to yell at Patzer. Instead, she hissed: “But it’s not as good as having weavers or Seekers!”
Patzer shrugged. “Better than nothing. They’ll be fine.”
She sagged back on her chair, unable to put words to her frustrations.
Why was protocol being ignored? What part of chaos tracking and hunting required secrecy? None, because Seekers executed their jobs in the public eye and were praised for it. She’d never considered the need to hide anything until Holder Moorcam had summoned her for a private meeting a few years earlier. Missionary Saarg, ambitious daughter of Armer Spire’s Holder Saarg. The solo mother desperate to prove she was capable of more than trading on her family name.
Moorcam’s explanation had made sense at the time. But sitting across from Patzer, those explanations were lacking.
“Saarg,” he interrupted her thoughts. “You’ve had a rough year. Traveling, failing that taking, and being all but officially demoted. You put on a brave face when you explain, but it’s eating you up. You say you’re the youngest head in Armer for a long time? I believe you. But I’ll give you some advice. Just pretend, for eight more months, that you’re no longer a Seeker.”
She couldn’t think what to say. What did he mean?
“Polis Sumad’s been a disaster for you,” he went on, “and all because you’ve carried out your tasks as they’re done in Armer Stone. So just between you and me, stop being a Seeker. Pretend you’re a schoolgirl again. Or back at
