Philippa Ballantine - Geist

“Did saving your life not earn me a little respect?” he snapped back. “Just like an Active to forget so quickly.”

“Yes, yes, I know . . . Without you I would be blind.” Sorcha actually looked away. “You did well, Deacon Chambers. Many newly ordained would have stumbled, faced with something so . . . unexpected.”

Merrick decided to take the compliment, and perhaps, in the interests of getting along with his partner, offer one of his own. “You handled Pyet and Yevah expertly. Many Actives would have stumbled at having to manage two runes like that.”

Her smile was slow and amused. If Deacons wore hats, she might have tipped hers. “I guess that you and I have been dumped into a maelstrom. The things that have been happening in the last few days”—she shook her head, as if only beginning to catalogue them—“we should perhaps turn back and report to the Arch Abbot.”

“You suggested that two days ago, and we decided that we have our orders.” Merrick dismounted as smoothly as possible and was glad not to collapse immediately. After two days his thighs still ached. “Think of all those people in Ulrich who are under attack. If we wait, how many more will die? Besides, with the Priory weirstone I can contact him from our destination.”

Sorcha nodded and handed the reins of her stallion to a stable-hand who had finally appeared around the corner of the building. “We go on, then.” Entering the building, both of them, not the tallest of Deacons, had to duck their heads. It was just as cramped inside. Behind a leaning desk sat a tiny old woman who was coughing so hard Merrick was worried a lung might appear at any moment. In front of the desk stood the beautiful woman from outside. When Merrick saw her, he almost straightened up—though naturally, he realized she would be in here. Without any subtlety, Sorcha elbowed him in the ribs. Only the Bones knew what the Bond was telling her about his state.

The young woman glowed to his Sensitive Sight in the dingy light. She was standing, her head only slightly bent, and her voice was soft and light when she spoke. “But surely there must be room on board. My father arranged . . .”

The old woman stopped coughing long enough to wheeze out a phlegmy reply. “We have an agreement with the Order; they take precedence.”

The young woman pressed her folded hands to her small breasts and inclined her head toward the hunched one behind the desk. “But I must get back to my father in Ulrich—he is lost without me.”

The older woman, however, had already spotted the two Deacons through her watering eyes and dismissed any further complaints. “Honored guests!” She rang a battered bell until three young men, presumably her grandsons, appeared. Before either Deacon could protest at this preferential treatment, their baggage was taken from them and they were ushered to the desk.

“You are blessed lucky,” the old woman croaked. “The tide is near to turning and my son will have to sail with it.”

Sorcha allowed herself to be guided toward the rear door but Merrick paused and glanced back. The young woman was standing stock-still, arms folded tight around her.

He swung about to face the proprietress. “Surely there is room on the ship for this lady?”

Merrick caught sight of Sorcha’s amused expression and raised eyebrow. Oh really . . .

The old woman grimaced. “The Abbey specifies that we only carry their people, and they pay very well for the privilege.”

His mouth ran away with him before his brain quite caught up. “She is part of our party.”

When the old woman glanced at Sorcha, she only shrugged her compliance, but could not quite seem to keep the smirk off her face.

“Makes no difference to me.” The crone coughed, and spat into the corner. “If you say she is part of your group, then she is your problem, not mine.”

While Sorcha started out of the building and toward the gangway, Merrick turned back to the younger woman. “Please forgive my presumption, but I hope you don’t mind being an honorary Deacon if it means getting home?”

“I’m very thankful.” From some women it might have sounded common, but she said it so quietly and with such honesty in those brown eyes, he didn’t take it at anything but face value.

He held out his hand. “Deacon Merrick Chambers.”

“Nynnia Macthcoll.” She stared at his offered hand for a minute, before putting her own much smaller one in it with a rather uncertain shake.

Only then did Merrick realize he’d done something very foolish. Dealing with Deacons for years, he’d forgotten that most well-brought-up ladies of any standing found a handshake rather offensive. Quickly he jerked his hand back, though holding hers had been a more-than-pleasant experience.

“Shall we go?” He remembered enough to let her out of the door before him. The scent when she passed was like apples and sweet spring grass; Sensitive observation was certainly a rod to bear at times like this.

Outside a brisk wind had picked up, the slate gray ocean heaving against a stony beach. A set of dark wharves thrust out into the harbor, and their small ship was the only one tied up there.

As Merrick and his new acquaintance walked up the pier toward the ship, he took note of her clothes, trying to judge what they could tell him about her. The sky blue dress she wore was covered with a dark gray cloak, and both seemed somewhat richer than a farmer’s daughter might have worn. The hem of the dress, however, was roughened and rubbed, indicating excessive wear. He began to surmise that its owner had fallen on hard times. He imagined this might be her only remaining dress out of a once-larger wardrobe. The small bag that she would not relinquish to him also had the look of being well traveled but seemed rather light for a long sojourn. Her long dark hair was carefully groomed and modestly plaited at the crown with five jet pins holding it in place, which, if she was traveling, showed a dedication to proper appearance.

Merrick ran his hand through his own curly hair, suddenly aware how uncombed it was. “Are you traveling to meet family in Ulrich, Miss Macthcoll?” he asked. The pier was slick with salt spray, and he offered her his arm as she struggled against the wind to follow the striding Sorcha.

“Yes,” she replied, leaning her slight weight against the crook of his arm, and hitching up her skirt to edge past a stack of barrels. “My father is a physician and works for the Deacons as a lay healer. I was raised in Ulrich, and now I live there assisting him.”

“Then I was not really lying.” He chuckled. “You are almost part of the Order.”

Merrick felt her stiffen a little against his side. This close, that sweet scent was very distracting, but he still caught a glance she shot him; it was frightened, or possibly angry. Either he wasn’t very good at this chitchat or something else was bothering her. Even after years of study, he couldn’t be that clumsy.

Clearing his throat, he stumbled on. “Did you come from the south?”

She nodded, pulling her dress slightly up at the hem. “Yes, from Vermillion. I was visiting a sick relative there. We lived in the city when I was a child, before—” She paused. “Before my father lost his position there.” He didn’t need to be a Sensitive to know that was a subject she was entirely unhappy with, but it explained the worn appearance of a once-beautiful dress.

Yet her revelation had finally given him something to say. “It was lucky you were ahead of us. My partner and I were attacked on the road. A rather nasty geist.”

The look she gave him made him realize the error of it immediately. “You . . . you were attacked?”

“Yes, most likely an ambush.” He tried to swallow his words but they kept tumbling out.