A voice to his left spoke first, one he recognized from the day before, and his heart beat a little harder under his breastbone. “I’m not cross, Mama. I saw what happened. Nothing here was your fault.”
He turned to see the woman the factor spat at approach them, her expression a mix of sorrow, fury, and gratitude. So this was Hali, whom Asil so obviously loved and held in esteem.
Asil offered the cake she held. “I wanted to get you something nice, but I smashed one of the flowers when I almost fell.” Her eyes welled with disappointed tears.
Hali took the cake before gently enfolding Asil in a close embrace. “I’m a fortunate daughter to have you,” she said softly. The taller of the two, she straightened and rested her chin on Asil’s head before mouthing a “thank you” to both Malachus and the vendor. She leaned back to meet Asil’s eyes. “I don’t care if all the flowers got ruined, Mama. It will still taste wonderful, and you can share with me.”
Fascinated by the interplay between this particular parent and adult child, with their uniquely reversed roles, Malachus motioned to the vendor. “Pack all those the factor ruined and paid for and give them to these two,” he whispered. “If they have more family, they can share with them.”
The other man nodded and set about wrapping up a dozen small cakes and hand pies in towels to send off with Asil and her daughter.
Once more Malachus found it difficult not to stare too long at the woman called Hali, seeing again her image as the lightning had shown it. The sense of his mother-bond hadn’t changed with her proximity, though he again heard the notes of her magic sing to his spirit.
She must have sensed or heard hints of his power as well, for the grateful spark in her eyes took on the glitter of the same wariness he’d seen there yesterday. “My name is Halani, serdah, and I appreciate what you and Telkak here did for my mother,” she said.
Halani, then. The longer formal version of Asil’s more affectionate diminutive. Malachus liked it. A gracious name, it suited her.
Asil, no longer teary-eyed, planted her hands on her hips and gave Malachus an arch look. “And that arsewipe was a liar. I’m not a cuntmonger.”
Halani gasped, her outrage ignited by Asil’s revelation. “He called you that?” She hid her hands in the folds of her skirt, but not before Malachus saw them curl into fists. Her gray eyes no longer possessed that somber softness he found so beguiling, turning instead as hard and flat as unpolished steel.
Malachus offered Asil a short bow. “I believe you, madam. And for what it’s worth, even if that were your profession, I suspect you’d have better taste than to choose his ilk as your customers.”
Halani gave a delicate snort, and the vendor she referred to as Telkak guffawed. Asil offered him a sweet grin.
At first refusing the cloth-wrapped packages Telkak held out to her, Halani readily accepted them when he told her, “Take them. They’re paid for with the factor’s coin. That’ll make them taste even better.”
“Thank you, friend,” she replied. “They will indeed.” She met Malachus’s eyes. “Twice you’ve offered and given us aid, and still I don’t know your name so I may properly thank you, serdah.”
“I’m Malachus, and no thanks necessary, madam. Some people are in desperate need of a comeuppance. I’m happy to oblige.” He wasn’t a hero by any stretch. Force-feeding the Guild factor a helping of his own contempt had been a pleasure.
“I like your name,” Asil declared.
He grinned. “I’m glad you approve, Madam Asil. I like yours, too.”
“Come, Mama.” Halani nudged her away from Telkak’s table and toward the street. “Uncle sent me to find you.” She handed her gift of the flower cake back to Asil. “Hold on to this until we reach camp. It will be just for you and me. Marata can make tea, and we’ll share the rest of the bounty with everyone.” She thanked both men a third time, reminding Asil to do the same.
Malachus bowed in acknowledgment, watching the two women walk away until the growing crowd blocked them from view.
“That was a decent thing you did, serdah,” Telkak said.
Malachus stepped to the side so that other customers could approach the table and place their orders. One of Telkak’s assistants took over, leaving Telkak with a few free moments to chat. He joined Malachus. “A lot of folks will try and take advantage of Asil and those like her. I’m sure you figured out why quick enough. Her kin do a good job of protecting her, especially her daughter, but sometimes the most loving family can’t shield them from arsewipes like that Guild factor.”
Malachus frowned. “I saw him yesterday in the market. He spat at Halani when she passed him on the street. It was unprovoked. Do you know why he’d do it?”
Telkak eyed him curiously. “You’re definitely an outlander if you need to ask such a question. Halani and Asil are part of a free trader band, merchants who refuse to join and abide by the rules of the Empire’s Trade Guild. Until recently, the Guild controlled all trade on the Golden Serpent, the road cutting through all the territories under Kraelian rule, and they used the Kraelian army as their sword to strengthen their grip. It barred all free traders from working the Serpent. It’s lucrative business. Keeping the free traders restricted to the drover paths and less traveled roads to do their trading stops them from rising in wealth and power.”
“And stifles competition for the Guild.”
“Just so.” Telkak thrust his chin in the direction Halani and Asil went. “There’s no love lost between the Guild and the free traders. The factor and the nest of wasps he reports to are probably spinning on their thumbs at no longer having the Serpent under their watch in these parts now that the Goban and Savatar destroyed this garrison and the other three that once held this territory for the Empire.”
Telkak’s explanation solved the mystery of the Guild factor’s reaction to the women and shed light on some of everyday life in these unfamiliar lands. Malachus didn’t ask about Asil’s behavior. Anything from a head injury to emotional trauma to a mishap during her mother’s labor might explain why Asil had the face and body of a woman old enough to bounce grandchildren on her knees but not the maturity of a grandmother. It was none of his business, though he was tempted to ask more about Halani.
Unless it led him to the mother-bond, such curiosity served no purpose. While he didn’t regret coming to Asil’s defense, it had taken away valuable time from his search. He eyed the table with its newest offerings of sweets. His stomach rumbled even louder in anticipation as he reached into his own coin bag for a belsha to purchase a pie.
Telkak stopped him with a shake of his head, chose two pies, and wrapped them himself before presenting them with a flourish. “Already paid for by His Royal Shithead himself,” he said with a grin. “I heard your belly chatting you up while you were choking the life out of him and counted out an extra belsha or two to pay for your breakfast as well. Enjoy.”
Malachus returned the grin, thanked Telkak for the food, and saluted him before leaving the stall.
He ate as he continued scouting the market, using the cloth Telkak had wrapped around the pies to clean his hands and later dunk into a barrel of rainwater. He wiped his face as the sun beat down on him and the crowd filling the market’s streets.
The more sparsely populated outskirts offered a welcome respite from the heat and smells of sweating bodies packed too closely together. Here, on the southern side of the market, the ground didn’t drain as well, and while the breeze cooled the air, it carried with it swarms of biting insects that bred by the millions in standing pools of water. Malachus adopted the same mode of dress as other travelers he’d seen in a bid to reduce the number of bites to his face, turning his kerchief into a face shield.
If the men he hunted wore the same, his task of finding them had just gotten a lot harder. By the same token, they’d have a harder time spotting him.
His search took him close to an encampment defined by numerous wagons parked nose to tail in a large ring. The wagons perched on large axles that raised the structures high enough off the ground that they required steps to reach their interiors. They were small homes on large wheels, complete with arched roofs, windows dressed in flower boxes, and ornately decorated doors. Some had the required steps folded down from the thresholds, while others lacked an entry without taking a running leap that guaranteed a painful face-plant if the door was closed. Temporary livestock pens occupied the protected space within the ring, with corrals for the bigger animals, such as the horses and oxen, hugging the outer perimeter.
A half dozen people moved about the camp, occupied with various tasks. The camp’s size suggested that a greater population of people occupied the spot. He guessed the majority worked the market at whatever tables and booths they’d set up. Malachus retraced his steps, picking a path to the camp that was shielded from watchful eyes by the thick barricades of wild rye with its slender stalks and bristled flower heads, which grew taller than a man and hid one with ease.
The draga within him suddenly convulsed, and Malachus’s breath crashed in his lungs as the beacon of his mother-bond went from a steady siren’s song with only a general sense of place to a javelin of shrieking command, and it came directly from this camp. Overwhelmed by its forceful pull, he didn’t hear or sense the danger behind him until too late.
Three rapid-fire thwangs teased his ear for a split second before powerful blows slammed into his body, striking his side, his hip, and just below his collarbone. The impacts hammered a shock wave of agony through him, leaving him with only the ability to gasp. He crashed to his side and rolled. A stuttered moan spilled past his lips, and his hands automatically reached for the arrow shaft sticking out from just below his collarbone, its fletching still shivering from the force of its penetration through skin and muscle.
He wrapped a hand around its length and tugged, nearly blacking out with the effort. Broadhead or bodkin tip, the arrowhead was buried deep. If he yanked it out, he’d likely bleed to death before the power of his magic could heal him. The frailty of his human body was as troublesome as the imprisoned strength of his draga one. Worse, a suspicious tingling spread from the injury points, oozing into his bones, turning them into water. Poisoned. His thoughts dragged as if caught in a river current. Whoever shot him had poisoned the arrowheads.