He nodded. He’d also paid a fee that allowed him the security of the merchant caravan and their mercenary guards. ‘Where do your relatives live?’
‘Er, in a village not far from Devden.’
He’d heard the hesitation in her voice. She was lying. Why? More to the point, what was her interest in him?
‘How long will you stay?’
She grinned. ‘All these questions, Master Felt!’
He shrugged. ‘Just passing the time, Lily.’
‘Somehow I feel your life is far more exotic and interesting than my boring existence in Francham.’
‘Nothing boring about Francham, surely?’
‘Well, I’ve been there all my life. How about you? Are you originally from the city?’
‘No, Port Killen on Medhaven,’ he lied, unsure why but driven by instinct now.
‘Far away,’ she sighed. ‘You’re lucky to see so much of our lands.’
‘You’d like to travel?’
‘Yes, of course. But it is unseemly for a woman to roam the compasses. I envy you. And I hope you find your friend.’
‘Your brother is very silent.’
‘He never says much. And he didn’t really want to make this journey but we feel obliged.’
‘And you live together?’
‘Er, yes, we do.’
The hesitation each time he asked a personal question was telling. He was now convinced her easy conversation with him was contrived. She was also very pretty, which only served to make him even more self-conscious.
‘How come you’re not married, Lily?’
She shrugged, seemingly embarrassed. ‘How come you aren’t?’
‘I didn’t say that I wasn’t.’
‘You didn’t say that you were either. I’m guessing not.’
‘Why?’
She smiled softly. ‘The way you look at me.’
Kirin bristled. ‘My apologies, I didn’t—’
‘You misunderstand, Master Felt,’ she reassured. ‘Married men tend to have a hungry look in their eyes.’
He stared at her, only just able to see the amused expression through the murky light of the few lanterns they hung from the carts. ‘And I don’t look hungry?’
‘Let’s just say you aren’t looking at all from what I can tell. Perhaps I should have said the way you don’t look at me.’
Kirin swallowed. She was absolutely right. ‘Should I start apologising again?’ ‘Not at all. I can’t be offended by your lack of interest. I’m seeing a good man,’ she said, her gaze as direct as her words.
‘Will you marry him?’
‘That’s overly curious of you,’ she admonished, looking for the first time as self-conscious as he was feeling.
It was Kirin’s turn to shrug. ‘Don’t feel obliged to answer—’ He stopped, looking ahead. ‘People are coming. Quite a few.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Trust me.’ As they both sat up straighter to peer ahead, the sound of hooves and the squeak and groan of approaching carts came out of the darkness.
The merchant caravan hauled to a stop.
‘Emperor’s soldiers,’ Kirin breathed, feeling immediately nervous. He couldn’t risk being recognised. He turned to Lily and noticed her pulling her shawl over her head, tying it under her chin. He frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just taking precautions,’ she murmured. ‘I’m a woman, Master Felt. It doesn’t hurt to be wary.’
Kirin’s puzzlement deepened. Lily was not travelling alone. Apart from the fourteen or so travellers alongside them both, she was with her brother, who was armed. Why would she feel so suddenly nervous? Kirin felt his earlier suspicions confirmed. Lily was not only hiding something, he could tell she wanted to hide herself along with it. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Let’s not talk.’
‘I’m sure you have nothing to fear from these men.’ The soldiers, he could see, were escorting two carts holding people, none of whom bore tatua or looked at all like tribal folk. The man at the front waved a hand, asking the merchants to move to one side of the road. Kirin watched the leader of his caravan gladly acquiesce, obediently waving the group to shift as best they could.
‘Who are these people?’ Lily spoke softly for his hearing only, although the question was clearly rhetorical.
Kirin shook his head in reply but as he did so felt an assault on his mind. Though this had never happened to him before, he instinctively shepherded the probing magic, deflecting it he knew not where. It was gone no sooner than it had arrived and, startled, he wondered if he’d imagined it. His curiosity pricked, he risked a very small trickle of prying magic. He had been practising this over the last seven anni, teaching himself how to control the flow with precision, never allowing it to rush from him. It had taken much of his courage to risk the headaches, the nausea, fainting, and loss of his rationality that accompanied the use of his talent and he had learned that to let it flow from him too fast—no matter how small the trickle—was to invite pain and sickness. Using it still meant repercussions but he knew now how to control it with exquisite care so that he knew exactly how much it took from him to wield it.
He cast as gently as he knew how, stealing over time and distance, through flesh and bone, creeping invisibly into the mind of the man bearing the tatua of the Green who seemed to be leading this strange group. And in this man’s jumbled, slightly angry, definitely alert thoughts, he thought he sensed what he sought. He pulled back with equal care and stealth and took a long slow breath to stem the inevitable rush of dizziness.
‘Whoops, Master Kirin,’ Lily warned, reaching for him. ‘What’s wrong?’
Kirin closed his eyes to steady the swaying sensation. ‘Forgive me, I feel a bit unwell.’
‘Nothing to forgive,’ she said, sounding worried. ‘Can I help?’
He pushed the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘No,’ he replied tightly. ‘This is probably the effects of the wine I drank in rather hefty quantity this afternoon.’
‘Then I no longer feel quite so sympathetic,’ she whispered, not unkindly.
He forced himself to focus. ‘Lily, have you heard of the Vested?’
She shot him a glance as the soldiers’ group began to advance again.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I think the people ahead in the carts are Vested.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
He tried to shrug. ‘I think I recognise one or two of the folk. I’ve—’
‘You!’ the lead soldier yelled, pointing.
Kirin looked over and noticed with a rush of fright that the man pointed at him. ‘Me?’
He watched the man consult with another, who was not a soldier but wore distinctive scars, painted violet, that marked him as Wikken, a so-called seer of the Steppes. The Wikken whispered something to the soldier.
‘Name?’ the soldier demanded.
Truth was best, Kirin decided. ‘I am Kirin Felt.’
‘From?’
‘Penraven.’