There was indeed, but not to this extent. “Hardly, and I’ll thank you not to say that too loud. We can’t stay here forever, and I don’t fancy being burned on a pyre or hanged just because I harvested a potent patch of feverfew.” He was a terrible distraction, scattering her thoughts with compliments. She stood abruptly and stepped away, putting some much-needed distance between them.
He frowned. “Are the people of the Empire such zealots about sorcery?”
Halani paused in straightening his blankets to give him a puzzled look. “You haven’t been long in these lands, have you?”
“Less than a month, though I’m not ignorant of its edicts and laws. Sorcery is outlawed, punishable by death, but so is horse thieving and swiving a justiciar’s wife, yet both of those happen regularly and are rarely penalized. Why would this be different?”
It was a legitimate question, one Halani wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to herself. “Maybe because a horse thief and the lover of a justiciar’s wife aren’t considered threats to the Empire. Sorcery is, at least to Empress Dalvila, who isn’t known for her mercy. I don’t possess magic, nor do I practice it,” she lied through her teeth.
The long side-eye he bestowed on her made her stiffen. “Is that so?”
She refused to be baited into defending her claim, and changed the subject. “If you feel well enough this evening, you’re welcome to join us at the communal fire for supper and a story.” She tried not to get her hopes up that he might offer to read aloud again. He had a fine voice for it.
“An invitation I’d be a fool to refuse,” he said. “Asil says you’re a skilled storyteller.”
“My mother likes to praise everything about me, which is lovely, but treat it for what it is—the love of a parent for a child.”
One black eyebrow slid upward. “Your mother just said I smelled like the arse end of a mule, and no one will sit by me. Her honesty is, without question, lacking delicacy or partiality. If she says something, it’s because she believes it. She says you tell the best stories. I believe her and wish to hear them for myself.”
Halani stared at him. She had incurred her uncle’s wrath for him, risked banishment, and questioned her own judgment in the decisions she’d made so far where he was concerned. His words reminded her why he fascinated her so. No one outside their caravan had ever viewed Asil the way Malachus did, and even then that view differed from theirs. Differed from hers. He was patient with Asil, kind, and most stunning of all, respectful. He recognized the child living within the woman’s body and still treated her observations with the consideration reserved for an adult. He had called both mother and daughter unique. Despite her efforts to remain aloof, Halani began to think him extraordinary.
“I promise I’ll sit by you if no one else does, no matter how horrid you smell,” she said in her most solemn tones.
Malachus laughed. “Then I’ll be sure to save you a place.”
When Asil returned, Halani left him to attend to the many tasks she’d put off to visit Hamod in the Savatar encampment. When word got out that Malachus might join their group to share food and hear the nightly story, several people volunteered to keep him company, despite Asil’s flat assertion that he smelled bad. Halani suspected she’d have to fight for a seat next to him.
The meeting she’d called prior to their evening meal promised a flurry of questions and protests, and it fulfilled that promise. Halani relayed Hamod’s instructions for splitting the camp but kept his secret regarding the sale of the draga bone.
“I still don’t understand the hurry,” Kursak said. “Trading in the towns runs heavy the entire summer, and we’re still in the beginning of it. It won’t take that long to reach Domora from here. There’s no need to split the camp while we finish our trading here, buy more carts for the new goods Azarion gave us.” He gave a brief bow in the general direction of the Savatar camp, at which the others cheered. “There’s decent wild pasture for the livestock, and the weather’s been more or less agreeable.”
“Malachus is too injured to make the trip with us,” she said, bracing herself for the response to that statement.
“Why does that matter?” Marata frowned. “He’s lucky we didn’t just leave him in the field with the other two. What if we were in a hurry? Are we supposed to sit here and twiddle our thumbs until we can have the provender wagon back? Dump Malachus at a boardinghouse or brothel in the nearest town. He’s a fat enough purse to cover any care they give him. Besides, I don’t like the idea of someone cursed among us. What if it rubs off on one of us?”
His question elicited grumbles of agreement, though fewer than Halani expected. She’d prepared beforehand for this and been coached by Hamod on how to answer a question like Kursak’s. “How many times have we all ‘visited’ a barrow, knowing there was probably a basket full of protection curses laid upon it? And now suddenly you’re frightened of one?” The cook’s face pinkened as a sheepish expression chased away his frown. “He’s no danger to us, and except for that one moment, which was nothing more than a bit of smoke and a lot of unnecessary panic from all of us, he’s been a model patient and guest.”
There were more grumbles but no counterarguments put forth. Satisfied she’d cut the legs out from under Marata’s protests, Halani turned to Kursak. “If we leave earlier than the other merchants, we won’t have the same competition in selling our wares than if we left when everyone else did. Uncle will take half the caravan and travel ahead with those goods most desired and earn the biggest profit. The remaining half will follow with the supplies we plan to keep for ourselves.”
“No one has a nose for making the best profit like Hamod,” Marata said.
Kursak nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll decide who goes with Hamod and who stays with me.” He nodded toward the place where the provender wagon was parked. “I’m assuming since you’re his nurse, you’ll be traveling with me.”
“Aye, though Mama will go with Uncle.” Halani’s throat closed up. She’d made sure Asil wasn’t here to protest, tasking her with keeping Malachus company.
Surprised looks greeted her statement, and Kursak’s scrutiny made her squirm inside. “Are you sure about that, Halani? She’ll throw a fit and wonder why you’re sending her away.”
“I’ll talk to her. No one say anything to her until I get a chance to speak with her about it.” An unpleasant task requiring a delicacy Halani wasn’t sure she possessed. She’d wait until tomorrow to approach Asil. With any luck and the blessings of the gods, her mother wouldn’t pitch a tantrum and would be agreeable to leaving not only her daughter but her new favorite friend.
Later, when the cool breeze eased the day’s heat and swept away the clouds of biting midges, Halani paid a visit to Malachus’s mare. Batraza whickered a greeting, her ears swiveling forward when Halani held out her offering of a carrot. It hadn’t taken long for the camp to realize that while the other horses refused to tolerate her presence in the corral with them, she didn’t require staking or hobbling to keep from wandering. It was as if she sensed her master’s presence nearby and chose to stay close.
She crunched contentedly on the carrot while Halani petted her neck and ruffled her mane.
“You’ve made a friend of her forever. Carrots are her favorite food.”
Halani turned as Malachus approached, noting how he still favored his side and put most of his weight on his uninjured leg.
“I pilfered them from Marata’s stores,” she admitted, taking another carrot from her apron pocket to give to the mare. “Say nothing or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Malachus chuckled, a melodious sound that sent a pleasurable tingle down Halani’s arms. “And what would Marata say if he knew?”
Halani stroked Batraza’s nose. “That we’ll all starve now and be forced to eat your horse. And of course he’ll blame it on me.” She laughed when both Malachus and the mare snorted at the same time.
“If your camp is one carrot away from starvation, Batraza here would be in the stewpot.” Malachus ran a hand down the mare’s withers, gliding around Halani’s hand. “Your cook has a flair for the dramatic.”
Before Halani had taken on the role of their band’s principal storyteller, Marata had been the one who entertained them after supper with tales fantastic, tragic, humorous, and glorious. Halani had learned them all from him, a legacy he’d passed on to her and encouraged over the years.
She’d been too busy looking after Malachus to treat the camp to her usual nightly storytelling, leaving the task to Marata. Tonight, if Malachus didn’t need her, she’d resume that duty.
“Is all well with you and your folk?” He searched her face with a steady gaze. “You still wear a troubled look.”
The plan to split the camp wasn’t a secret. The impetus for doing so was, and Halani kept that between her and Hamod. “The Savatar ataman was very generous to us for bringing Gilene here.” They were still sorting through the piles of gifts. “We have more goods now than wagons to transport them. A lot of what we bought in the Goban market will be resold within Empire borders. Selling for a profit is often a matter of timing. Half of the camp will leave tomorrow for the capital, Domora. The other half will stay here with the supplies we keep, buy a couple more wagons and mules, and meet the others later.”
A stillness settled over him. “And you?” he said. “Do you leave first or stay with the second group?”
Butterfly wings fluttered in her belly. Halani ignored them, admonishing herself for even recognizing their presence. “You needn’t be concerned. I’m staying to see you healed enough to continue wherever your journey takes you.”
Somehow his ink-dark eyes managed to turn even blacker. “I’m glad you’re staying. I enjoy your company, Halani of the Lightning, and hope to prolong it.”