But then, on other nights, the past would snuggle close as she lay in bed, unable to sleep, so close that she could feel its breath on her neck. And she would see them again, all of them as they had been fifteen years ago. She would see the blood, too, would smell it. And of course, there were the screams. Screams the echoes of which she thought she could almost hear even now.
She gave her head a shake and pushed her hands into the soil once more and with a bit more force than was technically necessary. That was when she heard the voice.
“Hi, Maeve.”
She knew it at once, that voice, had heard it often enough that it would have been hard not to, and never mind that fifteen years had passed since last she’d heard it. Still, she told herself that it couldn’t be, that it was impossible. Yet, when she looked up, there he was. Chall the Charmer, as he’d once been called. A man whose handsome looks had only been eclipsed by his honeyed tongue. But there was little left of the charmer to him now. The years, she saw, had not been kind. But then, are they ever?
He stood in tight, purple trousers that looked as if they were prepared to burst, and his shirt was stained with what she would have guessed was spilled ale. Different in so many ways from the man he had been, but the smile he gave her, one that at once seemed flirtatious and mocking, was one she remembered well, one that had often made her want to kiss him and kill him at turns. “Chall,” she said, sitting back and letting her arms rest on her folded knees. “You’ve gotten fat.”
He smiled ruefully. “Same old sweet Maeve. Sure, I might have put on a few pounds—”
“Fifty at least.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, it isn’t just me that’s changed, is it? I never would have thought to see Maeve the Marvelous wrist deep in dirt. And on her knees, too, though perhaps that last bit isn’t so unusual.”
She frowned. “I always hated that name.”
“I know.”
It was her turn to sigh. “So. What are you doing here—” She was interrupted by the sound of a heavy trod behind her.
“Loretta?” a voice asked in a low growl, like a bear warning someone away from its territory. “Who’s your friend?”
She turned back to see her husband scowling, his big arms folded across his thick barrel chest. “Ah, Hank,” she said, “I thought you’d gone out drinking with your friends.”
“The boys, Lorrie,” he corrected. “I told you, they’re not friends. They’re the boys.”
“Of course,” she said. “My mistake.”
He gave a snort, glancing at Chall. “Women. If it weren’t for what was between their legs, we’d have gotten rid of ‘em ages ago, ain’t that right?”
Chall grew pale, glancing at her as if he expected her to draw a dagger—admittedly, she used to keep several secreted on her person—and cut the apology out of Hank’s flesh. “I uh…” He hesitated. “That is, I’ve always found myself appreciative of what’s between their ears.” Hank only stared at him, blinking, and Chall chose to clarify. “You know, their minds.”
Hank stared at the fat magician as if he were some alien species, then noted the pants with a grin. “Well, wearin’ trousers like that, can’t say as I’m surprised. What was her name?”
“I’m sorry,” Chall said, “whose name?”
“Well, the woman you stole those trousers from, of course,” Hank said, barking a laugh at his own joke.
Chall gave what might have been a laugh, if one ignored the sarcasm and disgust in it. “Oh, it’s hard to say. Women, you know? I don’t usually bother keeping up with their names. What’s the point, right?”
Hank frowned at that, as if trying to decide whether or not he was being mocked which, knowing Chall, he most certainly was. Then he turned back to her. “Who is this fucker, Lorrie?”
She scrambled for an excuse. She had never told her husband about her past, had never told anyone, in fact, having no desire to unearth memories she’d been trying to bury for years—or, for that matter, to risk someone taking it in their mind to get the not insubstantial reward that was offered for her head or the heads of those she’d once traveled with. “Tax collector,” she said finally, wincing inwardly as she did.
“Tax collector?” Hank said, frowning suspiciously at Chall. “We’ve already paid our taxes.”
“Right,” Chall said, as quick as he always was—thankfully, being grossly overweight didn’t interfere with the speed of a man’s thoughts, “well, this isn’t for taxes, see, more to assess the profit potential in earnings for some of the outlying farms.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Hank demanded. “Do we owe any money or not?”
Chall glanced at her in disbelief then back to Hank, giving him a sickly smile. “You…do not.”
Hank grunted. “Well, why not just say that then? Anyway, all tax collectors dress like you?”
“Oh yes,” Chall said, nodding, a sober expression on his face, “it’s the new uniform.”
Hank shook his head. “Damn this world we live in. Folks getting weirder and weirder every day.”
“And dumber too,” Chall offered, nodding.
Hank scowled again, still trying to decide if he were being mocked. Then he made a point of eyeing Chall up and down. “Well. Maybe I ought to get into the tax collectin’ business. You ain’t starvin’ that’s for damn sure. Anyway, I thought you folk usually came around in twos, with a partner.”
“Oh, that. Well, I’m afraid I got hungry,” Chall said dryly. “I had to eat him.”
Hank stared at him for several seconds, and Maeve was left wondering
