III.

Any gratitude the boy felt certainly didn't show in his face. He gave her a black look, and stood up, brushing his clothes nonchalantly.

"What do you want?" he snapped impatiently "If you're after money, forget it. I'm not a rich man, and most of what I did have those ghouls' friends have taken. Search their carcasses if you like."

There was something disturbing about him as he spoke, a stamped selfishness that stood out starkly on the young face that repulsed her. But intimidation was something she wasn't going to put up with, not on her own road, and she hid the unease with a sharp snap of her own."I'm not interested in money! And you don't give permission for me to do anything here, boy. The land here doesn't belong to you, you are not part of it and you certainly aren't welcome in it!" She stepped up to him and jabbed a finger at his face. "You're the trespasser here, and the only thing that stops you being handed right back over to those clansmen's kin is my permission, as sidon for this place, for you to stay in the Order's lands. The only thing!"

His hand fell to his weapon in surprise.

"And what if I just killed you now?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"I'd like to see you do that," she sneered "And what if you did? You can't go back across the border can you? Try it. They'd find you inside a day and hang you from the nearest tree."

"Who would? Who are you?" he asked, suddenly plaintive "What is this place?"

"You are in the wardlands of the Order of the Mountain Path. The villages all around here owe fealty to Zhanna Monastery. I am Sidon Hunnah Zhanna. You may call me Sidon," she spoke bluntly "Welcome to our lands stranger."

She added the ritual greeting perfunctorily.

"Zhanna? You mean those mad mountain monks rule here?"

The stranger's face wrinkled, clearly disgusted at the turn of events. Hunnah was torn between amusement and irritation at his expression. Had she been so arrogant when she was his age? Probably. At least she'd goaded him out of his disturbing blankness.

"I am one of those 'mad monks'," she pointed out, allowing a touch of frost to creep into her voice. Time for this boy to lose some of his swagger and answer some of her questions. "But what are you? An outlander? You've the coastal look about you. From one of the Sea League cities I'd think."

The stranger looked startled. She didn't tell him they received Sea League traders every year up at the Monastery for the fruit crop. Let him think she'd travelled a bit. It wouldn't hurt to raise herself in his opinion.

"My name is Coin," he said finally "I have no line-name, I never knew my parents. Probably they didn't have one either." There was an undertone of old bitterness in his voice. "I am from the coast- from Mitras originally," he paused and gave her a significant look "I'm not welcome amongst them anymore."

An outlaw then, she thought. Well, the lands west of Mitras were still wild enough to hide a fugitive or two. Most of them didn't travel this far though.

"A habit you seem to have brought with you," she said dryly, and he smiled slightly at the grim humour. He was a rogue all right, but at least he didn't beat his chest and declare his innocence at every opportunity. "Why were the clansmen chasing you?" she asked suddenly.

He met her eyes before he replied, honesty seeping from every pore of his face.

"I stole some food from a village," he confessed "I was starving. Those peasants wouldn't accept money for food, and I had nothing to barter with. Ignorant savages! Those men chased me for hours. I probably broke one of their bloody guest-customs."

Placidly she agreed with him that it was a terrible state of affairs to be caught in. Kauldsmen would never chase a man into the wardlands over a stolen hunk of cheese and a fresh loaf, but he wasn't to know that. Food was important in the Barrens. It probably sounded like a plausible tale to him. She'd get him back to Two Pines and Pankelta could find out whatever the real reason these men were dead was. Runners never told a straight story the first time anyway.

"You can rest at the Monastery's waystation in Two Pines tonight. We don't let strangers cross our lands unsupported," she gave him a thin smile "We do kill thieves though."

A strange look of pride crossed the boy's face, suddenly making him look even younger. He clutched his pack and scabbard more closely as he drew himself up.

"I am not a thief," he said firmly "Well," for a moment he looked uncomfortable "Not just a thief anyway. I'm a priest of Fir."

IV.

Coin enjoyed the astonished look the halfling gave him as he spoke. Priests of all faiths were feared, and, usually respected. Figures of authority weren't usually gawky sixteen-year old boys. At a city temple, Coin would have been a humble novice, barely two years into his training. Only at eighteen could he have petitioned to join the powerful ranks of the clergy. But the Church of Fir didn't work like that. The god of night, shadows, theft and deception made enemies easily, and inevitably the authorities persecuted his worshippers. It was the price you paid for the Faith.

Daeron had plucked Coin from the pack of street-children he'd been running with since he could walk. At eleven he was already a survivor. Disease, starvation and violence had carried off half the children his own age. The pimps amongst the Shoreditch alleys had been after him for months. In any case, another three winters at best and he'd have been a knife-carrying tough in one of the street-gangs, with no money and no future.

But he'd been lucky.

Daeron had given Coin himself. He'd given him his name first, and then taught him how to read and write it. From there the lessons ran smoothly onto his letters and the tricks of numbers. He taught him how to use a sword, how to shoot a bow, which poisons could kill a man, and which would knock him out. He didn't need to teach him how to kill. Coin had already learned that when a drunken pimp had tried to drag him down an alley. Daeron just raised him above the mindless pack-savagery of Mitran street-life. Then, in eight days of darkness, fasting, hidden whispers and incense, he had brought him to the Faith.

After that, his lessons had really begun. He was taught how to stand in a street, hidden in plain sight. He was shown how to craft a mask of complete anonymity, how to become instantly forgettable, and how to enter and leave a place leaving no clue he had ever been. And he learnt to channel the divine power of Fir. Daeron had chosen his acolyte well.

But Daeron was dead these four months. So. That was that. The Knights Redemptioners had been fanatically devoted to their founder's relics. The fury at their thefts and at the perpetrators knew no bounds. Coin would never be going back to Mitras, at least not alive. He'd fled any lands hosting a branch of the Knights as fast as he could.

"Please! You aren't a priest," said the monk in a derisive voice "You don't have to lie to me you know. I've said I'm taking you to Two Pines, like any other runner. You're the local headwoman's problem now."

A sense of resentment passed through him, at his situation, at the hectoring monk, about everything. Why couldn't she just let him go on his way then? Even the simplest jobs ended up taking three times as long as they needed to with guards. Why did life always have to be so difficult ?

"Why, does it make any difference?" he asked sullenly, grandstanding gone, "Why would you care one way or the other?"

The monk looked at him strangely for a moment, and opened her mouth as if to speak. Then she seemed to shake herself, and said quietly instead "Meddling with priests is bad luck. We sacrifice to placate Fir to keep our homes and flocks safe just as your people do. If you are his priest you are welcome to pass straight through here, and no-one would stop you."

V.

Coin smiled slowly. Finally, something going his way.

"Let me show you something," he suggested, making his voice friendly "And you can decide for yourself."

He started to reach for his belt, keeping his face nice and reasonable. The halfling's hand flashed inside her robe, and came out holding something metallic that glinted in the weak spring sunshine. Coin's hand paused, startled by her sudden movement. She watched him intently, a throwing star pinched between index finger and thumb.

"Slowly," she smiled, with false geniality.

Coin nodded, and plucked out his pick-bag. Inside was a strip of black cloth, neatly rolled. Secure in tiny hoops and pockets, the unrolled strip held a selection of picks, needles and other little tools a person might need to open a locked door. He took a needle at random and, holding his hand out flat so the monk could see, pricked the meat of his thumb.

He made a small sound at the back of the throat as the tip of the needle went in, and cursed himself. Pinching his thumb, he made a bead of blood ooze up and let it trickle off his hand. The needle he returned to its place in the cloth belt, before he straightened up and let the monk see the pink prick of blood on his hand.

"What?" she asked, but he thought she guessed what he was doing. It was after all, magic only a priest could claim.

He didn't reply, but closed his hand into a fist, and passed over it with his other hand. The words of the spell came automatically to his lips, and his felt a tiny flush of warmth creep through his hand and up his arm.

Blinking away the after-glare of spell-light, he uncurled his hand and presented it to the watchful halfling. The blood had vanished, leaving a tiny spot of new pink skin. The throwing star vanished back inside her robe, and he thought a tiny flash of respect passed grudgingly across her face. Power often bought it he'd found. But monks are very good at looking inscrutable, and the small face defeated him.

"That's a priests' trick all right," she said slowly "Well… Coin, that's a great skill in one so young. Pity you didn't think to trade on this for your meals. It might have saved you some running."

"I've learnt not to show my magic unless I have to," he said steadily. Did she suspect? Or was that just a casual comment? "Peasants are suppositious and scared of strangers. And there are always the local Seigne's men wanting to drag you off to clear the boils off the great man's arse."

As he'd hoped she laughed, and he changed the subject before she could continue her questions, hoping the matter was dropped.

"Can you show mw where to buy supplies in the village?" he asked quickly "I lost my horse when I escaped; it took most of my gear with it. I'll need to buy food, water skins, anything. I'm planning on moving on pretty soon."

Hunnah answered him patiently "The waystations are kept well-stocked by the villages they're in. You can search for what you need there; I doubt you'll need to barter with the locals. I'll act as your escort to our eastern border as soon as I've warned Pankelta- she's the local headwoman- I'll be gone for a few days."

"You'll be following me? All the time?"

Abruptly, Coin was an outraged adolescent again. Hunnah's lips quirked.

"Yes, don't you remember what you were told? You are free to cross our lands… but not unescorted. I'm a sidon, a travelling monk. It's our job; we watch the border, passing through all the villages that might need us. Sometimes we come across travellers. It's our job then to guide them off the monastery's lands, and make sure nobody comes to harm."

Meaning, make sure the visitors caused no trouble, thought Coin to himself. He was still seething at being corralled like this, but he held onto his temper. Impatience and haste got so many people into unnecessary trouble. He'd keep quiet, walk quickly and with luck be through these valleys in two days. Then we'll see, he thought to himself.

Hunnah stooped and picked up her pack and staff. She seemed to take his acquiescence for granted. Dusting her robes off, she gestured at him to follow, and set off along the old road. The bodies she left where they had fallen, for the wild animals to pick over. Coin rolled his eyes at the crudity of Barrens customs. He bent down and pulled his dagger out of its foot sheath. Kneeling down, he began to cut off one of the wooden battle pins from his victim's ear. It would make a good trophy to remind him of today's fighting- he'd follow on after the monk when he was good and ready.