I lingered in the copse, within sight of the man who watched me, giving no sign I was disturbed, going over and over in my head the words Mavin had left for my guide. “Befriend the shadows and beware of friends.” She had warned me, and I had not been alert to the warning. Well. So and so. Time enough to be wary now.
I adjusted my clothing and wandered back to the wagons, pausing now and then to look at a tree or a bush. Were there shadows? If so, where? I saw none, could find none, and was greeted by Laggy Nap at the fire as though I had been away for a year and we were lovers. My throat was dry as autumn grass, and I was afraid. Well, I would learn nothing to help me by silence. It was time to play their Game and hope I had time to yet win something to my benefit.
So that evening I drank with him, talked with him, told him long tales of Betand, including three thousand things which had not happened there with at least a hundred maidens who did not exist. All the while his wide mouth smiled while his eyes looked coldly into my heart. All the while I kept my eyes away from Izia, praying I had not already harmed her by my interest. Finally, I pretended drunkenness, asked him about this and that. “Have you heard of magicians?” I hiccupped to show that the question was not of importance. “In Betand they talk of … hic … magicians.”
His hand twitched. I saw the jaw tighten over his smile and Izia, where she crouched by the fire, started touching her legs as though wounded, looking up as though she had heard an ugly voice call her name. I put my nose in the cup and made gulping sounds. Something wrong. Well, I would take time to consider it later.
“Magicians,” he said cheerfully. “No. I don’t think I’ve heard of magicians.”
“Nor I before,” I babbled, all bibulous naivete. “But there in Betand they talk much of magicians. Why is that, do you think?”
“Oh, well, it’s a parochial place, after all. Most of the people there are ignorant, superstitious. They must talk of something, and it is amusing to talk of wonders, freaks, Gifters … yes, Gifters. They talk much of Gifters, but has any one of them ever seen a Gifter?” His eyes watched me over the top of his cup. I met them with a stare in which no glimmer of intelligence showed.
“No, you know, you’re right!” I slapped my knee, laughed. “No Gifters either, you think? Wonderful. Everyone lighting candles to something which doesn’t exist … marvelous.” I laughed myself into a long stretching movement which let me see Izia. Yes. She still stroked her legs, still frowned into the fire as though in pain. Well. Cold certainty seeped into me. The man meant me no good, no good at all.
I knew I was right when he came to my blanket to offer me a wineskin, saying, “Some of the vintage we carry to the cities away west. Not that stuff we’ve been drinking. No. Something very special. Thought you’d enjoy it.” Smile, smile, smile. I smiled stuporously in return, took the wineskin and laid it beside me.
“Generous of you, Trader. Generous. I’ll have a sip of it in a bit. Oh, yes, soon as this last bit settles.” I laughed a little, let my eyes close as though I were too drowsy to stay awake, watching him from beneath my lids. The smiling mouth of him snarled, then took up its perpetual cheer.
“Sleep well,” he wished me. “Drink deep, and sleep well.”
“Ah, yes, yes, I will. I will, indeed.” If I drank his gift, I would probably not wake, I told myself. How in the name of Towering Tamor was I to get out of this? A little time went by. Darkness settled. I heard someone going by the place I lay and reached out to catch an ankle. It was Izia, and she crouched beside me saying, “What would you, fool?”
“Izia, I may be a fool indeed to ask you, but—am I in danger?”