Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

Paedrin glanced back at the Romani, offered a mocking smile, and then followed Hettie into the crush of bodies laying their bets at the various tables.

“Fortunes come and go and are as slippery as morning frost,” Paedrin said. “I don’t care how rich he is—his day will come sooner than later. There is more at work in this grand world than one man’s will.”

“You are an idiot,” Hettie said in a low, menacing voice. “No, you are worse than an idiot. You are the droppings caked in the underside of an idiot’s boot! Do you want to get us all killed, Bhikhu?”

Paedrin felt her fingers digging into his arm, but he ignored the pain as nothing more than an indifferent mosquito buzz.

“There was not a man at that table who I would fear to face or any five of them together. They are lazy, mostly drunk, and do not know the ways of the Bhikhu.” He looked back at the table again, snorting with derision. Then he hooked his arm around Hettie’s neck and pulled her suddenly close so that his lips pressed against the hair at her ear. “I’m drawing their attention to us and not to Annon. I think he’s found Erasmus. Over in the far corner, but do not look. Let’s give them a few more moments.”

The startled look in her eyes pleased him. She shoved him away from herself, and he gave her an angry stare.

“That man has no right to treat you that way. They are all cowards, as you can see.” He lifted his voice haughtily, glancing back defiantly at the table. He could see many of the Preachán nearby nudge away from him, as if expecting lightning to strike.

“This is not a game!” Hettie snarled, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Her features had not softened, but her eyes had. She realized what he was doing. A distraction. A ruse. In a moment, she was playing along. “If I do not get that medicine, then all is wasted! You are only making it worse!”

“It is your own fault you need that medicine. If you would stop flashing your eyes at every man you see along the road, you may not need…”

“It was your fault we lost our way on the road. If you had not dropped the purse, we would not have needed to beg a ride. Flashing my eyes, you make me sick! It was better than walking here…”

“I saw how close you were sitting to the wagon master. Any closer and it would have been on his lap, and do not tell me you would not have fancied that.”

“And here I thought that Bhikhu were immune to jealousy. I see that they failed to teach that at the temple. You are such a hypocrite.”

“I am a hypocrite?”

“Yes! For all your fine talk of being truly free of obligations and misery, you are the most miserable man I have ever met. A girl wants a compliment, not sermons. Why did we even come here?”

Paedrin lowered his voice. “Keep it up.” A little louder, he said, “This is your fault we need the root. And this is the only place it can be bought out of season.” He glanced quickly at the table and found Annon sitting alone, watching them.

Paedrin scowled. “It is a waste of breath even speaking to you. You never listen.”

“And your jealousy may have ruined all chance of getting it,” she shot back in an equally lethal tone. “You never insult a Romani. Never! A grudge given is never yielded but with great interest.”

Paedrin threw up his hands and started walking toward the table where Annon was waiting.

Why would Tyrus have sent them to a place like Havenrook? Annon had felt uncomfortable in the city of Kenatos. What he experienced in the Preachán homeland could not even be described. It was the very opposite of the Druidecht way, and because it was, he knew he was bereft of any of the skills he had learned.

He recognized immediately that survival would come by his wits more than his Druidecht lore. How to find Erasmus quickly? The answer came immediately to his mind, and he recognized it as soon as a half-sober Preachán accosted him.

“Six ducats for your talisman,” the man insisted. “Seven.”

Annon reached into a pouch tied to his belt and withdrew the talisman he had taken off the man earlier. He dangled it in front of the man’s eyes, who promptly began fumbling in his pouch for coins, but Annon grabbed his shoulder.

“It’s worth more than seven. We both know that. Tell me where Erasmus sits.”

“You are a cheat!” the man complained. “Erasmus knows the price of everything.”

“Why do you think I came to see him then? Hmm? Where does he sit?”

He knew the Preachán was going to lie to him, but he betrayed himself first because his eyes darted furtively to the northeast corner in the back.