Laurell Hamilton - Never After

“But not in front of the lady,” added the juggler.

“Don’t mind me,” replied Sally weakly.

The mercenaries looked at each other, and then at their dead companions on the ground, both of whom had finally stopped twitching.

Slowly, carefully, they put down their swords, unbuckled their knives, dropped their helmets and then their trousers (at which point Sally had to look away, because a nude man was not nearly as startling as one that appeared to have never washed), and pulled off the rest of their raggedy clothing, which gave off a remarkable odor that would have been funny if Sally had not still been so shaken by everything she had just witnessed.

“Run along,” said the juggler, when they were finally disarmed, and disrobed. “I hope you meet some lovesick bears. ’Tis the season, and you would make excellent fathers.”

The mercenaries ran. Sally watched them go, but only until she was convinced that they would not be returning. Humans, she thought, were far more attractive with clothes than without.

She sagged against the wagon’s edge, unpeeling her fingers from the knife hilt. Her knees felt shaky, and she was breathless. She glanced at the dead, who were being searched by the bearded man, and had to look away.

A water skin was shoved in front of her face. It was the juggler, peering down at her with a peculiar compassion that was utterly at odds with the coldness she had seen in his face; or the wolf’s smile; or the cheerful, even madcap glint that had filled his eyes while distracting those mercenaries with his tricks.

“You’ve been ill,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I would be sorrier if I hadn’t,” she replied. “Who are you?”

“Oh,” he said, with a grin. “We’re just actors.”

They were the Traveling Troupe of Twister Riddle, which was a name that Sally told them made no sense, but that (when they prodded her for additional commentary) was rather catchy, in a crazed sort of way. The juggler was supposed to be Lord Twister Riddle himself, though his real name (or as real as Sally could only assume it to be) was Mickel Thorn.

The small bear of a bearded man was called Rumble, and the giant—when he returned from the forest with a deer slung over his shoulders—introduced himself as Patric. Neither seemed capable of performing anything more complicated than a good beating, but Sally knew better than to judge.

“There used to be more of us—” began Mickel.

“But there’s no such thing as loyalty anymore,” interrupted Rumble. “One little whiff of gold—”

“And the years mean nothing,” said Patric, who folded himself down upon on a fallen tree to begin skinning the dead animal. “They left us for another troupe. Without a word, in the night. I nearly drowned in tears.”

He said it with a straight face. Sally frowned, unsure what to make of them. They were most certainly dangerous, but not rough or coarse, which was an odd contradiction—and an odd atmosphere between them all. She had always considered herself to be a good judge of character, but that had been at home—and she had never, not once in seventeen years, been on her own beyond the protection of her father’s lands. Sally was not entirely certain she could trust her judgment. And yet she thought—she was quite sure—that she was safe with these men.

For now. She thought of her dream, her dream that had felt so real: that little girl with her ancient eyes, and the children in the trees. A shiver ripped through her, and she gritted her teeth as she glanced behind at the woods—feeling as though someone was watching her. The hairs on her neck prickled. It was not quite the afternoon, and the weather was chilly, though clear. If she could backtrack to the Tangleroot…

“I should go,” Sally said reluctantly. “But thank you for your help.”

Patric’s hands paused. Rumble gave her a quick look of surprise. Mickel, however, reached inside his coat for a small metal spoon, which he waved his hand over. It appeared to bend. “Are you running from something?”

“Of course not.” Sally peered at the spoon, trying to get a closer look. Mickel hid it in his fist, and when he opened his hand it had vanished.

“You’re a trickster,” she said. “Sleight of hand, games of illusion.”

“Not magic?” Mickel placed a hand over his heart. “I’m shocked. Most people think I have unnatural powers.”

Sally tried not to smile. “You have an unnatural gift for words. Anything else is suspect.”

Rumble grunted, picking at his teeth. “Won’t be safe with mercenaries still out there. Not for you, lass.”

“Too many of them,” Patric said absently. “More than I imagined.”

Chilly words. Her father was losing control over his land. For a moment Sally considered returning home, but stopped that thought. She would have to make a choice soon—but not yet. Not until she stepped into the Tangleroot and discovered whether a power was there that could make a difference.

Sally forced herself to stand. Her legs were still unsteady. Mickel stood as well, and kicked dirt over the fire. “We were also leaving.” Rumble and Patric stared, and he gave them a hard look. “What direction are you headed?”

Sally folded her arms over her chest. “South.”

“Remarkable. Fate has conspired. We’re also headed that way.”

Rumble coughed, shaking his head. Patric sawed at the deer a bit harder. Glancing at them, Sally said, “Really.”

“And tomorrow we’ll begin ambling north.” Mickel tilted his head, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Where are you from?”

“I don’t think it matters,” she replied curtly. “If I asked you the same question, I suspect you would feel the same.”

“Home is just a place?” he replied, smiling. “You’re jaded.”

“And you smell,” Rumble said, peering up at her.

“Like manure,” Patric added. “Very alluring.” Sally frowned. “You three… saved my life. I think. And I appreciate that. But—”

“But nothing. No harm will come to you. If you travel with us, you are one of us.” Mickel held her gaze, as if he wanted her to understand. When she finally nodded, he turned away to nudge Rumble with his boot. “Come on, then. We’ll go to Gatis. It’s not far.”

No, not far at all. Only two days’ ride from home. She could be recognized, or her father might find her there—assuming he had begun looking.

But it was also close to the Tangleroot.

Sally held out her hand to Mickel, who stared for one long moment before taking it with solemn dignity. His grip was warm and strong, and a tingle rode up her arm. From the way he flinched, she thought he felt it, too.

“My name is Sally,” she told him.

“Sally,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the family.”

She began seeing ravens in the trees as they drew close to Gatis. Hardly noticeable at first, until one of them launched off a branch in a burst of black feathers, cawing in a voice so piercing, the sound seemed to run straight down into her heart. Images flashed through her mind—ravens and horns, and silver frozen water—making Sally sway with dizziness. She leaned hard against the edge of the rickety wagon, holding her head.

Mickel rode close on a swift black mare that was surprisingly fine-boned and sleek; a lovely creature, and a surprise. She had seen such horses only once before, those from a trader who had come from south of the mountains. The Warlord’s territory.

She would not have guessed a mere performer would have such a horse; nor Patric or Rumble. Rumble’s mount was tied to the back of the wagon. He sat up front, holding the reins of the mules.

Sally caught Mickel’s eye. “You said you found me near the Tangleroot.”