The boys (les boys, by their own naming) had called it a street, but the northbound road was a raw, rutted trail that would have been a mudslide on a rainy day. Sandover had tried to ride on the wagon with the crates but gave up after half an hour of having his bones shaken out of his body. Cary relished the ratbag’s discomfort, his feet growing lighter with the mage’s every complaint, every baleful glance, every time Sandover had to stop to take a stone out of his fancy shoes then run to catch up with the creaking wagon and its undeclared cargo.
Fair recompense for his persistent sense of being caged in, as they traded the smoke and steel of the city for this narrow cut through the dense forest. Every hill they crested revealed another tree-covered hill, the road a single ribbon of ruddy brown against the endless green. There were many such hills, and despite his talents Sandover was panting and covered in dust by the time they stopped for lunch in the busy village of Newmarket.
They parked in the shade of a row of oaks planted along the edge of the village square. Loaded wagons similar to theirs trundled up and down the road, a steady stream of people passing through the doors of the trading hall and the other brokerages: farmers, hunters, backcountry men in fringed buckskin jackets, buyers for city greengrocers in their dusty frock coats, here for the produce grown in the rich soils of the Holland Marsh.
Sandover had vanished as soon as they stopped, as had Patrice and his silent friend Cesar. Gordo had laid down on the grass and was now snoring like a rip-saw. The two others in their crew—Coyne, a stringy Devon-born fellow, and Tench, also an Englishman but from the opposite end, hailing from Lindisfarne—followed his lead and had soon added their notes to the honking chorus.
Cary joined Jaime where he sat on the tail of the wagon. “There’s a tannery here,” Jaime mused, lifting his nose.
“Is that what I can smell?” Cary asked, for the air had a rank pungency.
“That and the herd of pigs someone’s driving to town.”
“I don’t see any—Ah.” For now he could hear it, the stomp of many little feet and the odd squeal. “ Any other hidden talents?” he asked.
“You knew about that,” Jaime murmured, kicking his dangling feet.
“Not really. I don’t know much about you at all.”
Jaime didn’t answer, his lips twitching. It was for the best, really, that they not pretend at friendship, not when Cary had to be prepared at any minute to treat him like the prisoner he was.
Sandover returned shortly, having magicked the dirt from his clothes. Cesar and Patrice came back just after, Patrice with an impressive bruise on his cheek and his satin coat missing a sleeve. “You should have seen the other gens,” he said to their wall-eyed friend, whose name was Gordo.
“Gah, Patrice, that’s not the point,” Gordo fumed, prodding his friend’s naked shoulder. “Why did you not stop him?” he said to Cesar, who merely shrugged, uncapping his battered flask for another swig.
“Don’t be hard on him,” Patrice scolded, throwing his bare arm round Cesar’s shoulders. “As if he can stop me.”
“Entre nous,” Gordo said more quietly, “should we be getting out of here quick on account of whatever you two arseholes did?”
“D’accord. Hey boys, get up,” Patrice called to the crew. “Let’s get her going.”
They had reached a plateau and the road no longer climbed so steeply. To keep things interesting, it began to rain. Sandover had grumbled about the expense of having such a large crew, but as the cart’s wheels began to sink into the softened road surface the whole gang were needed to unstick it. Cary did not offer to help, reasoning that his duty lay in keeping an eye on Jaime, who had conjured a protection from the rain, a hazy field of irregular light that clung to his skin and clothes, the water beading as if trickling over glass. Sandover as well, though he was making more of a fuss, steaming the water so that he walked in a boiling cloud of vapour lit a soft rose by his pink suit.
Everyone else got wet, including Cary. A working like that used you up if you did it too long. He was no stranger to discomfort, to long, boring marches through unknown territory with a promise of danger at the end. Already Sandover’s warding was losing its intensity, the plume on his tricorn draggled and damp, his face rigid with effort. Jaime remained dry somewhat longer, but by evening-time he was squelching in his boots.
Gordo and one of the lesser crew members made a deal with a farmer for the use of his barn for the night. Sandover returned from the stone farmhouse shortly after them with a churlish expression.
“I thought your lordship was gonna bunk at the big house,” Patrice asked him over the back of the horse he was currying. “They not have fancy enough a bed for you?”
“There was a disagreement,” Sandover muttered. “I do not wish to indulge the hostility of superstitious peasants.” He started up the ladder to the hayloft, pausing halfway. “And I am not to be disturbed. Is that clear?”
“I’ll try, but you’re always a little disturbed,” Patrice said, stroking the bristly brush over the horse’s rump in smooth circles.
“You know what I mean.”
“Bon nuit.”
The boys soon opened a cask of grog, and by midnight were roaring drunk. It might have been done out of spite of Sandover, but Cary expected they’d be no different any other night. He and Jaime stayed aloof, having found a corner where several hay bales were stacked together, providing a dry if prickly bench.
As the crew broke out in a stomping, clapping chorus a shriek rose from the hayloft. Sandover appeared at the edge, straw sticking out of his hair, violence in his wheeling eyes. He scrambled down the ladder like a silky pink rat and broke through the circle of drunken men.
“Assez!” he cried, stomping his foot. A ripple of subtle force swept outwards, knocking the men off their perches and making the fire flare. Sparks landed on a nearby clump of straw and dung which caught alight.
“For God’s sake,” Jamie hissed. He jumped down from the shelf of hay. Sandover was dancing about, flapping his arms and doing nothing to stop the fire, which had jumped to another bit of straw and was racing towards a main beam.
“Sacre cœur, Patrice, put that down,” Gordo said as Patrice made to heave the barrel of liquor at the flames. “I told you, fire loves the liquor.”
“Stand back,” Jaime said sharply. His feet planted, he stared at the flames, reached out his hand, then made a downward motion like striking a drum. The flames flattened and died, leaving a thin trail of wet-smelling smoke.
“Bravo, Mr. Skye,” Sandover crowed as the rest began to mutter amongst themselves. “I am pleased to see you take command of your abilities.” He made to shake hands with Jaime, who jerked away from him with a look of disgust.
“Just know that if I wanted to, I could have let you burn.”