"Forget that," she scowled. "How does he know her?"

"How does he know Darrow?" I countered. "Why did Darrow arrange with the Halderians to meet you at that inn? He obviously didn't share that detail."

She bit down on her lip and looked away. Clearly, that bothered her, a vulnerability I would absolutely use to my advantage.

I continued, "Darrow apologized to you last night. Why?"

"Maybe for failing to protect me from you."

"Maybe for turning you over to the Halderians."

She fell silent, and stubbornly faced forward without saying another word. Good. I needed the break.

After another hour of riding, we passed through a dismal market that looked like the center of what had been a nice town once, probably before the war. A grand fountain had dried up and filled with leaves, its foundation cracked. A church in the distance had been looted down to its frame and steeple. The few homes that remained had disintegrated into little more than dried mud and bundled-reed shacks. The coming winter rains would destroy what was left of them.

A fair number of people were here, so it was likely the only market within miles. I heard a passerby call this place Pitwill. A sad name for an even sadder place.

I leaned toward Kestra to whisper in her ear, "Keep your head down. A Dallisor shouldn't be alone in a group like this."

"I'm not alone, I have you and Trina." She tilted her head. "Oh, I see what you mean. I might as well be alone."

She could mock me if she wanted, but I'd been trying to help. "What I mean is that nearly everyone here is trying to survive beneath the might of Lord Endrick's immortal fist. They know the Dallisors enforce his cruelty, and nobody here would lose any sleep if they showed you what being crushed feels like."

"They wouldn't dare."

I hoped her show of arrogance was a mask to soothe her nerves. If it wasn't, this simple ride through town could go badly. I tried again. "Stop looking around. And cover your dress with your cloak. It's too elegant for these parts."

"You chose it. I'd be better off in the ripped one from last night."

"I hardly think a skirt ripped halfway up your thigh would keep people from noticing you." I followed that with a chuckle that sounded fake and forced. Which it was.

We rode deeper into the market, passing vendors selling cloth and bonnets that a lot of women were staring at but nobody was buying, and fat cuts of meat that practically made the men drool. Disk bows were laid out on another counter, but they were cheaply made with blunt-edged disks that wouldn't cut through a summer breeze. No one had money for luxuries here, although payment wasn't always made in coins. To avoid the heavy taxes, a lot of under-the-table bargaining happened in places like this. Kestra probably had no idea of any of it. In her world, she ordered what she wanted from a servant and never saw the faces of those who were slowly starving to death.

Proof of that was in her next question. "Why are the people so poor here?"

"Here?" Trina, riding near us, scoffed. "Get five minutes of distance from Highwyn, and you'll see it's like this everywhere. Last year, Endrick demanded three-quarters of everything the people produced. When they protested, he came in and took all of it. There was a lot of starvation over the winter, and a lot of deaths. Simon and I both lost friends."

"Fewer rebels in Antora? Good." But as she spoke, Kestra's shoulders slumped a little. I knew firsthand how winters passed in the Dallisor households. No family member ever suffered a hungry or cold night. If they lacked something, they sent soldiers to pilfer it from the defenseless. If Kestra had never wondered where all her niceties came from, then it was about time for her to find out. There was a reason the only line in this market was for the cheapest item available: bread.

The girl selling it couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve, and I overheard as she introduced herself as Rosalie to a customer in line. The hems of her skirt were frayed and dirty, but she was clean otherwise. Not that it mattered. I smelled her bread from here, and even if she were covered in dung, I'd still have wanted a loaf. I'd eaten worse before.

At the moment, Rosalie was being pestered by a woman who insisted she should get a better price because she bought bread every day.

"I can't," Rosalie protested. "I don't set the price."

The woman got louder and Rosalie more anxious, enough that she didn't see a young boy sneaking up on the back of the stall. He took one loaf, and when he got away with that, he put three more loaves under his arm and scampered away.

Kestra had been observing him too. I asked, "Is he a criminal? Or is he simply hungry?"

"I suspect he's both." Then with a humbler tone, she added, "But I see

your point. He should be fed, not arrested."

"Rosalie, you stupid girl!" A man appeared from a small tent behind us, putrid enough to offend the common pig. "We just had more bread stolen! I warned you last time." He shoved her to the ground, yelling, "You'll pay for that!"

"No, she won't," Kestra mumbled. Before I realized her intentions, she slipped beneath my arms and jumped off the horse.

The man hadn't yet noticed Kestra. Instead, he picked up a stick from the ground and raised it against Rosalie. From behind, Kestra grabbed his upraised arm and locked it with hers while with the other arm she put a knife against his throat.

Tags: Jennifer A. Nielsen The Traitor's Game Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net