“Getting an early start are you?” Chall asked, glancing up at the early afternoon sun.
Hank let out a growl—one Maeve had heard before—and started toward the magician, but Maeve stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please, Hank, no trouble. Did you find the money you needed?”
Hank continued to scowl at Chall for several seconds before turning back to her. “I did, never mind that you tried to hide it under the bed. Honestly, Lorrie, sometimes I think you ain’t got any sense except what I beat into you.”
She gave him a smile. “Sorry, Hank. I wasn’t trying to make you angry. Only, we’ll need to buy groceries soon, and I was trying to keep—”
“Never mind what you were tryin’ to keep,” he snapped. Then he glanced back at Chall. “You’re still here.”
“Um…yes,” the magician said, fidgeting. “Yes, I am.”
“Right,” Hank said. “Well. Best not be. Off with you, fat man.”
Chall turned to her, incredulous, but she gave a slight shake of her head. “Best leave, Cha—sir. Everything is in order here. We pay our taxes every yea—”
“I had a vision, Maeve,” he interrupted. “Of him. He’s in trouble.”
Maeve felt as if she’d been struck by lightning, and she stared at the mage in shock. Chall always enjoyed joking—was notorious for it, in fact—and she’d long since lost track of the men and women who’d wanted to kill him thanks to his “jokes.” But the mage was not laughing or smiling now, and if it was a joke, it wasn’t a very funny one, even for him. Instead, he only stared at her, the import of his words obvious in his steady gaze.
A vision. Chall was many things—a philanderer, a fraud, and a liar chief among them—but he also happened to be a powerful illusionist, perhaps the best who had ever lived, and that wasn’t all. He was also blessed—or cursed, to hear him tell it—with the ability to sometimes see into the future, to catch glimpses of it. Often these glimpses were unclear were, according to what he’d told her years ago, like catching sight of a fish’s ass before it swims away. But this vision, whatever its contents, had obviously been clear enough to drag him out of whatever brothel or farmer’s daughter’s bed he’d been sleeping in and bring him all the way here, purple trousers and all. That worried her. She had told herself she was done with her past, done, too, with all those people who had been a part of it. But then, she had always been good at lying to herself.
“Go on and drink with your friends, Hank,” she said, so worried by Chall’s tone, by the worry in his gaze, too, that she didn’t take care to honey her words as she often did with her husband.
He noticed. In another moment, Hank was jerking her up by her shirt sleeve. “Who you think you’re talkin’ to that way, Lorrie?” he demanded. Then he shook his head. “Damn me, but I thought that the last lesson I taught you would be the last. Seems like you’re just too stupid to learn.”
She brushed his hand free with a practiced flick of her arm. “Not now, Hank,” she said. “We’ll talk. Later, alright? But not now, now I—” She cut off as he slapped her a ringing blow across the face, and she stumbled, nearly falling.
“Hey—” Chall began, stepping forward, but she held up a hand, stopping him. The magician was many things, but a warrior was not one of them. She tasted blood in her mouth—Hank was a big man, strong, and, as everyone in the village knew, prone to use his fists instead of his words.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “look, Hank, I didn’t mean anything, alright? I’ll just finish talking to Cha…to the tax collector here and then get back to work. Please, go have a fun time with your friends, okay?”
“No,” he growled, his fisted hands on his hips like some obstinate child. “No, I don’t think I will. You’ve got a lesson comin’, Lorrie. Had one comin’ for a while, it seems, and high past time you learnt it.”
He reached out to slap her again, but this time, Maeve did not let him. Sometimes, the body remembers what the mind forgets, and she ducked underneath the telegraphed blow with ease, then rose, bringing the ridge of her hand to his throat, pulling the blow at the last moment to keep it from being lethal. Hank grunted, stumbling away as a hand went to his throat, but instead of stopping, he let out a roar like some angry bear and charged her.
Maeve was impatient to hear about what news Chall brought and so she decided she didn’t have time to waste humoring her fool of a husband, not today. He grabbed for her, but she pivoted, slapping his arms away contemptuously before grabbing a handful of his fruits and giving them a squeeze. That stopped him quickly enough, as it did all men, and he gasped in a sharp intake of breath.
“Enough,” she growled at her husband who was watching her with wide, terrified eyes, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Now, I am going to have a conversation with my friend here, Hank—that’s right, my friend, or at least, not a tax collector. And you are going to go and drink with your friends. Isn’t that right?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered through the pain. “L-Lorrie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind that,” she said, releasing him with a shove that made him cry out. “Just go on—away with you.”
He stood there trying to scowl at her—an effort made more difficult by the fact that one hand was cupping his fruits tenderly, the other
