CHAPTER 27
Fire

It had been a mistake. Why had he made this mistake? Mud squelched underfoot, thick globs leaking through his worn boots. He shuddered, his feet weighted like lead as he slogged through the cold mire. Frigid rain coated his skin, and for the eighth time, the boy tripped on a bleeding tree root, half stumbling in the mud. He winced at the pain.

"Move along," Maurus' voice was gruff overhead. And for the eighth time, Jester cursed himself for the mistake of allowing the man to ride the horse instead of himself. At least until they were in sight of the roads.

He scowled, blinking the rainwater from his eyes.

"I'm walking here," Jester grumbled.

Maurus merely glared at him, before tugging on the rope that bound Jester's wrists.

"Not fast enough," his cousin barked, as the fool lurched forward.

Jester grimaced at the slick bindings that bit his wrists. Already, they were chafed and red from the rope. It had been Jester's idea at first – another thespian's mistake – but part of him suspected that his cousin was enjoying this far too much. The intended guise of slave and slave driver felt a hint too realistic for Jester's taste.

They had been walking scarcely a night and a half, clambering through the mud-spattered foliage that ran parallel to the main slave routes. But under the thick sheet of rain, it already felt like an eternity to Jester. Maurus had made for miserable company, and at the back of his mind, Jester could feel the nagging guilt for slipping out of camp like a thief in the night. He hadn't even told at least Octavia or Tiberinus. It would feel like a betrayal. But it was for their own good, he reminded himself. The image of Ippolito's form came to mind, and Jester blinked against the hollow feeling in his chest.

Not one more life would be lost for any of his causes.

"We break through for the road soon," Maurus said abruptly, cutting his train of thought short. "So keep your mouth shut if you want to avoid questions."

"I know the ruse," Jester said. His voice was clipped. It was his idea, after all.

Maurus yanked on the rope again, and Jester's stumbled against a low stump. The pain shot along his shins like white-hot irons.

"You really are a fool. When I say keep your mouth shut, I mean it – no talking," his cousin snapped. "Do you want us to get caught? Or worse?"

Jester glowered up at him. The plan had sounded so easy when it was only words. No, not easy. Simple. But it was another thing to live it out. With a slight limp, Jester trailed after his cousin and the horse, biting his tongue to keep the anger at bay.

They walked in silence, ducking branches and clambering over logs and roots. Stinging nettles brushed their legs, and the mud sucked at Jester's feet and the horse's hooves. What a lucky bastard Maurus was to avoid it. The thought was bitter, and for a moment, Jester thought he understood the appeal of Jane and Gunther's practice dummies back at Kippernia Castle. He could easily imagine his cousin's face atop one.

At last, the forest ahead seemed to thin, a battered road visible through the eaves of the trees. Passing through, they came out at a crossroads, where a crooked sign tilted drunkenly. Norria: 15, it indicated. Jester's heart sunk at the thought of the walk ahead, but he could also feel the prickle of adrenaline in his fingertips. The warlord's kingdom was closer than before. Which meant that Godric or Maia might be as well. So at least there was that.

"We'll stop ahead, at the usual encampment." Jester raised a brow at his cousin. "It's the usual tribute tradeoff site," Maurus continued. His voice hitched, slightly uncomfortable, on the words. "The regular… merchants will be there with their cargos. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking."

Judging from what he remembered of the map, Jester had a vague idea of where they might be in this unfamiliar countryside. Three roads converged, with a fourth adjoining trail breaking off further ahead, arcing towards a small gully. That must be the traveller's camp that Maurus spoke of, Jester thought.

"Why are we stopping there?" he asked.

Maurus snorted.

"Because it's safe," he said. His words were slow, dripping with impatience. "You want to make camp anywhere else along this stretch and have us both taken like common fools?" He snorted. "Not likely under my watch."

"Fine. Lead on," Jester replied, his eyes narrowed. There was an uneasy feeling in his gut. But without Maurus, he knew, there was little that he could do.

Beneath his feet, the road was scarcely better than the forest floor. Stones crunched underfoot, and brown puddles dotted the path. In front of him, the cob swished its muddy tail, snorting at the sullen elements around them. Jester's shoulders ached, and his feet felt raw. He wanted nothing more than for his hands to be free to massage the tense muscles.

Finally, they rounded a bend, breaking away on to an uneven forest trail. Even through the rain, Jester thought he caught the scent of wood smoke and cooking meat. His hollow stomach gurgled at the thought, and his mouth grew parched. What he would give for good venison and a flask of ale. They pressed deeper along the path, past the thick trees. There was something gloomy about these deep forests, Jester thought.

"Hail!" The greeting was a harsh warning, and suddenly a hooded man with a notched bow stood in the path before them. "Who goes there?"

"Peace, Justus. Just old Maury," Maurus raised a hand in greeting. "Late, but with a prize fit for the king."

The man lowered his weapon, a puzzled expression on his brow. He was clearly familiar with Maurus, Jester realized.

"Maurus. You dog. Didn't expect to see you here this late in the tribute run. Usually your tips are with Cliff's lads. But when they came through the other night… well, I heard you wouldn't come 'round no more. Heard you were facedown, dead in a ditch somewhere." His rough face broke into a split grin, and he shook his head. "It's good to see them wrong."

"I'm a hard one to kill," Maurus grunted. He indicated at his arm in the sling. "Battered, maybe, but it's just part of the life."

The other man – Justus – laughed.

"Truth, that is. You were always dependable, Maurus. Best tips for the ripest picks. Didn't know you delivered too, but even late is better than never." He chuckled to himself as if he'd told some marvellous joke. Jester's lips curled in disgust, but the man carried on. "God's bones, though, what am I saying. Late? Ha, you're not even late this season. There's a new run coming in from the south, and we're expecting tributes from Leif and Marl within the fortnight. Went to the Emerald Isle, they did. Or so I heard." The man scratched his chin. "But say. Is it just the one you've brought? Small haul, ain't it?"

Maurus tugged on Jester's rope, as if he were a horse at market.

"Aye. Special case. I wanted to hand deliver him to the King. Tide is turning among the big lords, old friend. Can't be letting Cliff be the only one currying favour with his Majesty."

Justus eyed Jester curiously.

"Peculiar," was all that he said. His brows drew together, as he sized Jester up. "He doesn't look like much of a soldier. Fit, but too… small. Still more of a boy than a man." He turned to Jester's captor. "I'd give good coin to know what game you're running, Maury, with a meagre offering like that."

Meagre? Meagre?! Jester opened his mouth, ready to inform him of his many skills, but Maurus yanked the rope instead. The man laughed, a dark chuckle, as Jester threw him a dirty look. Well, clearly he was enjoying this.

"I wouldn't have the best tips if I went around and gave them out for any man's coin to buy, now would I?" He said. "We both know you've a gabber's tongue, Justus, and bless you for it."

Justus grinned.

"Come on, old man. Let's get you and your cargo settled," he said. "Good old Maury. You never change."

The fire crackled with heat, and for the first time since they had left his family's camp, Jester was almost relieved. He sat hunched before the blaze, scraping the mud from his feet and rubbing circulation back into his cold limbs. At least he could be grateful for the warmth, he thought with a snort. He had stripped out of his sodden tunic, which lay flat to dry beside him on the cold stone of the cavern floor along with his ragged boots. Now if only he could shake the deeper chill from his bones.

Around him, other captives sat huddled in the fenced off enclosure at the back of the cave. Some slept, bruised and gaunt, and others eyed their neighbors with wary expressions. There were fourteen of them, Jester counted. One woman dozed, old and stooped with silvery braids, while a sharp-faced young man clutched her spotted hand with protective zeal. His angry eyes dared the others to get close. Another man seemed to be muttering silent words beneath his breath – praying perhaps, while a slip of a girl child barely older than Princess Lavinia sullenly threw tiny pebbles into the heart of the flames. She looked more bored than upset to be there, Jester thought.

A trio of girls were huddled at the far side of the fire, their faces ensconced in shadows. Two slept, while the third stared furiously at the man beside her, who snored obliviously. His rotund belly rose and fell with the capacity to challenge even Dragon's snores. At Jester's elbow, two young boys – perhaps eleven and eight – were curled up together, their feet pointed towards the fire. Brothers, maybe, Jester thought. The scattered bones of the meagre pheasant haunches they had been given to sup on were scattered around them. Perhaps a grander meal than they've ever eaten in their lives. The thought rose with a pang of pity as he eyed their bony frames, and Jester returned his gaze to the flames, unable to bear imagining the stories of the rest of the prisoners. Their pasts were near on irrelevant now, as long as they sat in this cage. But their futures were ubiquitously the same: to be marched to the warlord's court.

From beyond the confinement of the slave pen, Jester could hear Maurus' laughter intermingled with that of the other slave drivers. Something whirled in his gut, some wary feeling, and he could only pray that his cousin would hold to the plan. He could only pray that he could trust him.

God knew there was little else he could do at this point. Jester massaged his chafed wrists with a sombre expression.

Diagonally from where he sat, the praying man had stopped his silent muttering.

"There's no escape now," he murmured, at first as if to no one. But then the girl child looked up at him and sighed.

"You've said that before, but I'm hardly convinced," she said, in a lofty tone that suggested capability beyond her childish appearance.

"They killed him, Marley," the man sighed. "Shot dead. It should have been simple to get him out. I paid them in silver. SILVER. That's my life's wages, all gone in a blink, and you and me both with it. But the bloody guard didn't care. Took my coin, then shot him right through the gullet as he slipped out the gate, he did. And now Dorian's dead." His shoulders shook with a silent sob. "The ransoms mean nothing to them. Might as well just throw coin at the villains and roll over to die at their feet. And it's all my damned fault."

Marley said nothing.

"The warlord will have his due," the angry girl on the other side of the fire said. She kicked at the snoring man beside her, who spluttered a moment before continuing on his droning. He slept like the dead, apparently. The girl's voice sounded hopeless. "There's only one way out, you know," she said.

"And what's that?" the praying man asked.

The angry girl mimed taking a knife to her own throat in reply.

"Only way," she said. "They got my aunt Mirri and killed my brother Lachlan outside my village when Baltor started creeping in on the border lands. Or well, they would've got her, if she hadn't…you know." She mimed the action again. "But it's the same difference, whether it's them or her. She's gone, rest her soul."

The little girl, Marley, cocked her head with a frown. She threw a bigger rock into the fire, sending up a spiral of sparks.

"Well, that's plain stupid," the child snapped. There was something hard and knowing to her tone. "You can't change anything when you're dead. You can't get free. That's what living's for."

The angry girl looked Marley square in the face.

"There is no living in the citadel, child. Not the way you know it."

"There will be when I get out," the little girl retorted. She turned, and Jester caught the defiance burning in her gaze. "Dorian didn't make it, but Angus Briar did. Auntie Lydia said so. He's a freeman now. I'm going to be a freeman just like Angus."

Jester gave the girl a tired smile.

All at once, there was a rattling on the door – a sword blade clanged against the bars.

"Oi. Pipe down in there. Cargo ain't to be speaking," the guard drawled.

Marley flashed him an obscene gesture as soon as his back was turned.

"I hope the maggots get you," she hissed at the guard, lower than the man could hear. There was something infectiously plucky about the child. Some spark of passion beneath her hardened shell that reminded Jester of Jane, defiantly refusing the gowns her mother had once ordained as her fate. At the thought of his green-eyed girl, Jester vaguely wondered if his lady had read his note yet.

He hoped so. The thought of leaving her alone, without a real explanation, with what would seem like strangers tore him in two. But it needed to be done, he knew. He ran a hand through his matted hair.

"And what about you?" The praying man turned to Jester. "New lad. What do you figure our chances are?"

The blond boy looked deep into the fire. It danced, never staying still enough to make out the forms within its burning heart. But there was something settling about it, something certain about knowing that it would keep burning with just a little more wood. His eyes drifted to the child, burning with hope.

"This King Baltor or whatever he's bally called has my parents," he said quietly. "My siblings too, I imagine." He looked back to the praying man. "But I know this: when I get there, I'll find them. And then we're all leaving together. One way or another. We're all getting out of there."

Marley grinned wide. It was a gappy smile of measured hope. The smile of a child.

"I like this one, Rufus," she said to her companion. "Finally, someone with more than rocks for brains."