The man looked confused for a moment, then kindly answered, “Well, I’m going to Redbramble. Would you like a ride?”
She stared through the man and thought about his offer. The idea of riding in a carriage was very appealing, especially after all she had experienced. “Okay,” she answered, and began to make her way to the carriage door.
“I’m afraid the buggy is full,” the man said before Maren could open the door. “You’ll have to ride up front with me.”
Tentatively, Maren climbed up onto the seat of the carriage next to the man, giving herself ample space between them.
“It’s okay, I won’t bite,” the man said. “I’m Treyvin. What’s your name?”
“Maren,” she answered, still pinching her ear and examining the man’s head.
The man prodded the horses forward again. Once they were rolling along, he explained, “Sorry about the carriage. I’m an abacus maker and I’m making a delivery. The old wagon is full of…what’s the plural of abacus?”
Maren shrugged her shoulders, uncertain of the answer. “Abacuses?”
“Abaci?” the man suggested. “No, wait, abacoocoo!”
Maren suppressed a smile upon hearing the absurd word.
“I sure would like some abacocoa to drink!” Treyvin continued, laughing.
Maren couldn’t help but giggle at the driver’s humor. “Abacocoa,” she whispered to herself.
“Look out, my horse is going abaca-ca!” the man chuckled as his face turned red.
Maren finally let loose with a belly laugh, repeating the words and holding her side. “You’re funny!” she declared.
“Aww, thanks,” Treyvin gushed. “But if you think I’m funny, you should meet my brother.”
“Your brother? Where is he?”
“He’s in the carriage sleeping underneath all of that abaca-ca,” the man joked, and bellowed with more laughter.
Maren laughed too, but nervously, because she couldn’t discern whether he was being funny or not. As she considered if there really was a man sleeping beneath a pile of abaci, she observed his smooth head some more, studying every contour and blemish.
“Do you like my head?” the man asked.
“Uh huh,” she admitted as her checks turned red.
“Do you know how I lost my hair?”
“How?”
“I fell asleep in a sheep’s pasture and they ate my hair!” the man said, guffawing.
Maren began laughing again and added, “They licked it clean!”
Treyvin slapped his knee and almost dropped the reins. “Hey, look!” he said in his best sheep’s voice. “That guy’s hair looks delicious!”
The young girl laughed so hard she could barely speak as she listened to the man’s imitation of a hair-eating lamb. When her laughter subsided, she whispered the imitation to herself and massaged her ear.
“Say there, I noticed that you really like to squeeze that ear,” Treyvin observed.
Embarrassed, Maren sheepishly took her hand from her ear and placed it on her lap, curling it into a ball.
“Don’t stop on my account,” the man said. “I was just thinking about giving it a try myself.”
The girl pushed her forehead down, not knowing whether or not he was telling the truth. “What?”
“Well, it looks rather comforting,” he said. “I’m going to give it a try.” He then reached up with his left hand and began massaging his ear. “Why, this is rather nice!” he exclaimed.
Maren smiled, resumed squeezing her ear, and leaned back in the carriage seat. The two of them joked, told stories, and rubbed their ears all the way to Redbramble.
“So, what are you going to say?” Faymia asked.
“I suppose that I was in the area and wanted to discuss some new recruitment ideas,” Tcharron answered.
The four of them were huddled in their previous scouting place behind the fallen tree. The air was cool and damp, and Faymia felt uneasy about their plan. “So, you’re just going to walk up to the gate, tell the guard that you’d like to speak to the old man, and waltz right in?”
The man grinned and shook his head. “I have brought Ocmallum more fortune than any other slaver in Aun. He will be ecstatic to see me.”
“Even so,” Dulnear interrupted, “You need to have your story clear so as not to raise suspicion.”
“Okay,” Tcharron grunted. “I will say that I have ways to make the festivals more enticing and less expensive.”
Faymia remembered the festival that lured her into slavery. She detested even speaking of them. “And how will you find out where Maren is?” she asked.
As Tcharron rubbed his chin in thought, Son leaned in, waiting for the answer with great interest. “Well?” he said, hoping to hurry the answer.
“I’ll tell him that I heard the Laor fair was very inefficient,” the man reckoned. “This should make for an easy movement into asking about your friend.”
“Sevuss,” the boy added. “I heard the name Sevuss when I was looking for Maren.”
The slaver smirked. “So, your friend was taken by that old piece of flotsam. I don’t know where he makes camp, but it should be easy enough to find out once I’m inside.”
“Good,” the man from the north said. “And when you have gathered all of the information we need, you will meet us at the tavern.”
“Yes, I’ll meet you at that wretched little pub. Then I must get back to my own,” he said.
Knowing that the plan was about to be put in motion, Faymia’s hands began to sweat and her heart seemed to be causing her entire chest to flutter. She tried to come up with one more question that might cause her to feel more at ease, but none came to her. “All right,” she said. “Go. And be careful.”
Tcharron looked at his three companions and began to say something before cutting himself off. He pushed the corners of his mouth up into an uncertain grin. “See you later,” he said, and made his way through the brush toward the path leading to the castle gate.
Faymia, Dulnear, and Son crouched, peeking over the giant tree trunk, waiting for the slaver to arrive at the portcullis. Though afraid and tense, the woman felt an excitement growing in her as she thought about reuniting with Maren.
Suddenly, a voice barked, “Identify yourself!”
Faymia could see that
