Gollwater had been Roza and his friends' home for three months. The people were pleasant and quiet; they did not trouble them, though they were vagrants. Most village lords had taken advantage of the travelers instead of ordering their guardsmen to prod them out. Overworking them under the threat of expulsion was common. One of them would not let them stay unless Magdalynn served under a Carlaneus priestess, a woman named Tyla, in the village's temple. Magdalynn gladly accepted, but when they discovered her illness, their warm hearts turned to ice within half a moment. They had called her terrible things. Putrid rose was what the priestess called women with her disease. The villagers had joined in, calling her a harlot and saying how she deserved to suffer for her wantonness. He would never forget how the bastards made Magdalynn weep.
It was the kindest village they've stayed in so far, this Gollwater. Lord Frankton and his lady wife seemed to weaken at Margarida's sweetness; though the fever she had as a babe robbed her of her voice, she need not speak to persuade the lord and lady to let them stay. They had put her to work as a serving girl in the manor house. She was treated well and even made friends with Melissayn, the daughter and only child of the lord and lady.
They were no more than a mile from Gollwater when a carriage, large and fit for a renowned nobleman, passed by them. It was protected by a pair of armed men on foot. One of the guards—this one fat, pig-faced and pimply—dug in his nose with his little finger as he glared at the five. He held a spear with the other hand, and on his head, he wore a steel helmet, the sides of it covering his ears and the back of his neck. Riding on top were a crossbowman and the driver. The former, clad in boiled leather under his woolen wrappings, frowned at Roza as he scratched his leg; the driver ignored them, keeping his eyes on the four heavy black drays pulling the carriage.
Roza glanced back curiously; the pig-faced man was still watching them suspiciously. When their eyes met, the pig-faced man pressed a finger against one nostril and blew a glob of snot onto the snow. He looked forward, saying something to the crossbowman above him. He then laughed loudly at what Roza guessed was his own joke.
Osbert shook Roza by a shoulder. "Roz," he said, squinting ahead, "who's that bleedin' runnin' to us?" Roza looked ahead. A girl was screaming and shaking her fist. "Wait!" she was saying.
"God in the Stars," muttered Pedrero, pointing ahead. "It's Magdalynn!"
He was right. They ran to meet their friend. When they got to her, she fell to her knees, weak and shaking.
"You shouldn't be out here," Roza warned her as he took her under an arm to help her stand. "The cold will make you feel worse." Parttio offered Magdalynn his horse blanket.
"The carriage," she said through heavy breaths, "please stop them. Please." In her left hand, the one she was shaking, was a necklace of pearls. She forced it into Parttio's hands as he neared her. "They took Margarida … maybe they'll take this instead."
Roza's anger flared. "They what?" he screamed to no one in particular. He slammed the side of his fist against a tree, forcing a little snow to fall off an overhanging branch. He flew back to the carriage. Upton followed him closely with his fingers slipped around his throwing knife; the only other weapon he had was a dagger with a needle-like blade. Roza saw his companion run past him, tucking the knife under a sleeve; Upton had always been quick, Roza knew.
The boy stopped in front of the carriage. The driver halted, and the crossbowman cursed as he pointed his weapon at him. Upton said nothing, standing there in an oddly elegant way. He was like a food server waiting quietly for Roza to come and command him. Roza was armed as well; he had his short-axe tucked in his belt. He ran straight for the carriage's door and would have torn it open, but the pig-faced guard blocked him. The guard shoved him back with the haft of his spear. Roza stumbled backward and fell on his bottom.
"Easy there, boy," said the pig-faced guard, chortling as he watched Roza get up. "Are you bloody stupid? Do you little fools know who you're playing with here?" The other guard came around and pointed his spear at Roza.
"I don't bloody care." Roza freed his short-axe and pointed it at the pig-faced guard. "Give me back my sister!"
Osbert and the twins arrived. Pedrero, seeing Roza's axe drawn, slid his hands into his pockets. When he brought them out, his fists were wrapped around his black iron guards. Pedrero would often brawl in whatever shadow arena he could find in the cities for coin. Such events were for sport, but here, when he wore iron around his knuckles, it was no game. Parttio followed along, drawing his blacksmith's hammer. Osbert had a length of iron chain; at one end, a small solid metal ball had been forge-welded to the last link.
At first, Roza's demand made the fat man twist his face in anger, but then he guffawed. "Ha! You hear that, men?" he shouted to his fellows, "The dumb bitch is his sister!"
The slight made Roza bare his teeth like a dog ready to bite. "You son of a whore!" Roza snarled. The guard spat on his cheek in response.
The other guardsman spoke up. "Leave him alone, Brogan," he said to the pig-faced man. He turned to Roza, his own spear still leveled. "Just go home, boy," he urged solemnly. Unlike his companion, he took no pleasure in the quarrel. "There's no need to die."
Upton and Roza's eyes met; just one slight nod and the boy would let his knife fly. Upton was keen; Roza had seen him snag falling tree leaves at night with only the moon's light to guide him. The crossbowman was as good as dead if he nodded. Yet Roza didn't let his anger get the best of him. If one of us gets hurt, Roza knew, it would go badly for us in the future. If one of us gets killed …
Even if the fight weighed in their favor, they would undoubtedly use Margarida as a hostage. Still, he would have loved nothing more than to at least break the pig-faced guard's nose with the flat of his axe.
Roza took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. "May … may I buy back my sister?" The words were hard to voice, talking about his sister as if she was something to be purchased. He had heard rumors in Gollwater about a cruel mursant of Greater Vior who sent men out to snatch up young girls in the villages. She will never be used as I was on that ship, reflected Roza, never. He remembered the smell of Sweet Illecks in the captain's breath as he tore his clothes off and forced him down. But he also remembered the captain's muffled cries for mercy as Upton buried his dagger in him.
Brogan scratched his chins and smirked. "Aye, sure, sure," he said, "I'm a man of business. What'd you all steal for us, eh? Give it here."
Roza asked Parttio for Magdalynn's necklace. Brogan snatched it out of Roza's hands and eyed it.
"Aye," mused Brogan as he rubbed the pearls of the necklace with one another. "That's fine." He tapped on the window of the carriage. Roza couldn't see too well through the green glass, but even from where he stood, he could see the shape of the passenger's head. Brogan brought the necklace up to the window. "It's enough," Brogan finally said, as he pocketed the pearls, "enough for wasting our time, that is." When Roza glowered at him, Brogan shrugged, "Mur Garrysom is an impatient man. His time is valuable." He jerked his head at Parttio. "What else d'you have, you?"
Magdalynn had finally caught up with them. It seemed the pearl necklace was all she had to offer.
"Damn it," uttered Roza, "damn it all." He turned and frowned at Pedrero. His friend understood and immediately took out the rings and silver necklace. Smiling stupidly, Brogan took the treasures out of Pedrero's hands.
"M'wife loves rubies," he mumbled merrily to his fellow guardsman, who returned no interest in the red stone.
Brogan once again brought the jewelry to the window. "Mur Nytchall," he called through the window, "What'd you think?"
This time the window slid open sideways. There was a man inside, young—perhaps in the dawn of his twenties—and handsome with curly chestnut hair. He was everything Roza and his band of vagrants were not: he looked like the kind of man who washed three times a day, his face clean and unblemished. Where the brigands wore soiled rags and huddled themselves in horse blankets and winnowing sheets, this princely passenger swaddled himself with woolen blankets and furs. This man's chambers must be as warm as spring in every winter, Roza mused silently as he hugged himself. His garb was vermillion and violet, which matched the paint of the carriage.
The young mursant, this Nytchall, stuck out a hand, his fingernails well-trimmed and polished. "Give it here," he said brusquely. Despite his magnificence, he looked as sorrowful as the gang stopping him. Brogan obeyed, but Nytchall only seized the necklace; Brogan still had his arm stretched out awkwardly, the mursant ignoring the rings. "This is Snowvale Silver," He said out loud. His eyes widened at the shimmering metal. For about a minute, he slowly stroked the length of it as if to count every link by touch. His wild eyes shot to Roza. "How — " Nytchall began, " — where did you get this?"
Roza only twisted his face in loathing. "I want my sister." He said each word slowly as if the young mursant was dim.
Mur Nytchall grinned ruefully and exhaled. He turned back to the silver. "Open the door," he ordered Brogan without looking at him.
The fat guardsman was taken aback. He laughed nervously. "Mur Nytchall," he began, "surely the price hasn't been met?"
The young mursant rested his elbow on the sill and glared at him, irritation obvious in his hazel eyes. Even the crossbowman, forsaking his watch on Upton, could not help but look back to fully admire Brogan's insolence and idiocy. Realizing he erred, Brogan rushed to open the door. "'Was just a j-j-jest, Mur Nytchall," he mumbled more to himself than to the mursant. Despite the cold, the pig-faced guard's reddened face glistened with sweat. Behind him, Roza could hear Parttio and Pedrero try to stifle their laughter.
Margarida sat inside on a soft red cushion and furs over her lap. She had the same red-and-black hair as her brother, though hers was cut short and unruly. She was not alone with Mur Nytchall. There was another girl about the same age as her—a girl of ten. Her hair was black, and she had a long scar on her left cheek.
Inside, Mur Nytchall waved them toward the door, the necklace still in his hand. "You two," he said to the girls, "run along. Go home."
The scarred girl spoke up. "I can? I can go back to momma?"
Mur Nytchall smiled and nodded. "Yes," he assured, "and when you get home, tell them all the other girls will return soon as well." He reached out and offered them something wrapped in linen, "take the rest of the food with you, if you wish."
Brogan could hold his words of complaint in no longer. "Mur Nytchall," he said with dismay, watching Margarida and the other girl gently descend the carriage's steps, "Mur Nytchall … your brother will not be pleased! You know how much he needs his serving girls about."
Mur Nytchall jingled the necklace. "His slave girls," he corrected, "and he will have none when I free them all. These poor village girls … we will have no more of these extortions."
Brogan wiped his brow, confusion and fear plain on his face. "Mur Garrysom will not allow it! You should not turn against your brother's wishes."
The pig-faced guard's words seemed to pierce the young mursant; he looked at him with a viciousness cold enough to burn. "You are to advise me, are you?" When all Brogan did was swallow his spit and shiver, Mur Nytchall went on. "No? Well, let me advise you. If you say one more thing to anger me, Tavey, up there—" he pointed at the crossbowman, "—will put a bolt in your leg. We'll leave you behind, and these boys will be your new masters."
Brogan clenched his jaw, his face jiggling as it went back and forth between the gang and the mursant. "You wouldn't dare," he declared, shuddering, "Mur Gerrystom … your elder brother and I have been friends since we were children. He loves me!"
Mur Nytchall sighed. He looked as if though he was listening to a child tell the most obvious of lies. "Nobody loves you, Brogan," remarked Mur Nytchall with the elegance of a poet, "Nobody."
Brogan looked to each of his companions. Tavey, the crossbowman, indeed aimed at him. His fellow guard just stared at him coolly. The young mursant was right. His delusions shattered, Brogan kept his silence as he slipped the rings into his own pockets.
Mur Nytchall turned to face Roza once more. "You don't know how much this changes things for me, brigand." The young mursant looked up to the darkening skies. "Our stars shine more brightly than the rest. The heavens have great things in store for you and me." The silver caught the light of a lantern within the carriage. "May I at least know your name?"
"Bugger off," snarled Roza. He had no interest in having this man's friendship.
"A pleasure to meet you, bugger off." When Roza didn't return his friendly smile, he apologized. "Forgive me," he said, "my superstitiousness begged me to ask you." He reached out and slapped the wood of the carriage. "We've wasted enough of each other's time," he said loud enough for both the driver and Upton to hear, "and it's getting dark." Lastly, he nodded at Margarida, who had run to Roza's side. She held the bundled-up food in both hands. "Farewell, gentle Margarida."
The driver continued its journey back home; Upton rejoined them.
"Bleedin' rough day," cursed Osbert quietly.
"Still got our coin," said Parttio, giving a consoling pat on Osbert's back. "Though, looks like you got more to share." Osbert chuckled and elbowed him playfully.
From the linen bundle, Margarida pulled out a biscuit. She handed it to Roza, nodding and grinning. He returned her smile, took it, and thanked her. Soon the twins and their jests had them all laughing again. Together, they all walked back to Gollwater, the last sliver of the sun and the coming stars dimly lighting their way home.
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