exactly fit for city-building. Also, your leg’s hurt.”
Brin scowled. He shifted to his feet and stood, gingerly applying weight to the leg. It bore him, even though it smarted. The axe handle hadn’t hit his knee. He could walk well enough until it could be healed.
“You’re still not about to clear a volcano’s remains,” Havilar said.
“It’s not all hauling stones and hammering posts,” Brin said. “Which I
could
do. It’s planning. And … constructing things. Opening stores. Making it a place worth staying in.” He dusted off his breeches. “It’s better than hunting criminals.”
Criminals. Constancia—Loyal Fury, it tore at him to think of casting her off to hunters like these. He wondered if Constancia rodewith the holy champions. He wondered if it mattered against Havilar, quick and eager as she was with that glaive; stern Mehen; and Farideh with her magic. He’d never met a wizard who cast spells like that.
Sorcerer, he corrected himself. Wizards have books. Sorcerers just have magic.
Regardless, he owed Constancia. And now he owed these two—better they shouldn’t meet his cousin with her keen blade.
“If …” He hesitated deliberately. “Look, I haven’t seen your bounty, but if I were her and I were heading North … probably I’d go to Luskan.”
Havilar shook her head. “We do
not
want to go to Luskan.”
“It could be worse,” Farideh said, her eyes back on the cart behind them. “At least Luskan is the sort of place where no one cares what you look like.”
“It’s also the sort of place where you get stabbed in the night by
pirates
for no reason.”
“You’ve never even met someone who’s
been
to Luskan,” Farideh murmured. “You’re just repeating things you like the sound of.”
“Why are you such—”
Mehen returned then in a fouler temper than he’d left. After showing his leaflet to as many of the former refugees as would listen, he’d discovered that none of them had seen Constancia. Or at least, none would admit to it. And a fair number of them went out of their way not to talk to him at all.
“Brin says we should go to Luskan,” Havilar said.
Mehen scowled at Brin. “Did he? Which are you, boy, a thug or a hunter?”
“N-Neither?”
“Then I suppose I won’t be taking your advice,” he said. “Luskan can wait until we run out of options.
Nobody’s
going to help us in Luskan. It’s a Hellhole.”
See?
Havilar mouthed to Brin.
Mehen looked up at her, then over her head, back at the caravan. “Farideh! Get back here! What in the Hells is wrong with you?”
Farideh was hurrying back from the lead cart, her cheeks scarlet. Brin hadn’t even seen her leave. The lead cart had been hit hard—the driver lay splayed across the seat with an arrow protruding from hisribs while his sister pressed a hand to the wound. Fortunately, she was also pouring a healing draft into his mouth.
Brin frowned.
The healing draft was in the same metal vial Farideh had been trying to press on him.
“Are you all right?” Mehen demanded.
“I’m
fine,
” she said. She turned rather deliberately away, to fuss with her haversack.
On the cart, the woman wrenched the arrow from her brother’s chest and he gasped. He sat up, wiping at the blood that slicked his skin, and breathing heavily—but breathing.
“Time to go,” Mehen said with a pointed look at Brin. He herded both twins ahead of him and down the road, without so much as a farewell. Both sisters glanced back once—Havilar with a jaunty wave, Farideh with a more solemn look—and it was only moments before they were down the road, and out of sight.
Brin went back to the cart. The cart owner was still alive—though nursing a wounded arm—and so were his daughters, and Brin said a little prayer of thanks.
“Monsters,” the man said, watching as the tieflings and the dragonborn headed down the road. “As if anyone with any sense would hand someone over to a pair of devil-children.
Brin scowled. He shifted to his feet and stood, gingerly applying weight to the leg. It bore him, even though it smarted. The axe handle hadn’t hit his knee. He could walk well enough until it could be healed.
“You’re still not about to clear a volcano’s remains,” Havilar said.
“It’s not all hauling stones and hammering posts,” Brin said. “Which I
could
do. It’s planning. And … constructing things. Opening stores. Making it a place worth staying in.” He dusted off his breeches. “It’s better than hunting criminals.”
Criminals. Constancia—Loyal Fury, it tore at him to think of casting her off to hunters like these. He wondered if Constancia rodewith the holy champions. He wondered if it mattered against Havilar, quick and eager as she was with that glaive; stern Mehen; and Farideh with her magic. He’d never met a wizard who cast spells like that.
Sorcerer, he corrected himself. Wizards have books. Sorcerers just have magic.
Regardless, he owed Constancia. And now he owed these two—better they shouldn’t meet his cousin with her keen blade.
“If …” He hesitated deliberately. “Look, I haven’t seen your bounty, but if I were her and I were heading North … probably I’d go to Luskan.”
Havilar shook her head. “We do
not
want to go to Luskan.”
“It could be worse,” Farideh said, her eyes back on the cart behind them. “At least Luskan is the sort of place where no one cares what you look like.”
“It’s also the sort of place where you get stabbed in the night by
pirates
for no reason.”
“You’ve never even met someone who’s
been
to Luskan,” Farideh murmured. “You’re just repeating things you like the sound of.”
“Why are you such—”
Mehen returned then in a fouler temper than he’d left. After showing his leaflet to as many of the former refugees as would listen, he’d discovered that none of them had seen Constancia. Or at least, none would admit to it. And a fair number of them went out of their way not to talk to him at all.
“Brin says we should go to Luskan,” Havilar said.
Mehen scowled at Brin. “Did he? Which are you, boy, a thug or a hunter?”
“N-Neither?”
“Then I suppose I won’t be taking your advice,” he said. “Luskan can wait until we run out of options.
Nobody’s
going to help us in Luskan. It’s a Hellhole.”
See?
Havilar mouthed to Brin.
Mehen looked up at her, then over her head, back at the caravan. “Farideh! Get back here! What in the Hells is wrong with you?”
Farideh was hurrying back from the lead cart, her cheeks scarlet. Brin hadn’t even seen her leave. The lead cart had been hit hard—the driver lay splayed across the seat with an arrow protruding from hisribs while his sister pressed a hand to the wound. Fortunately, she was also pouring a healing draft into his mouth.
Brin frowned.
The healing draft was in the same metal vial Farideh had been trying to press on him.
“Are you all right?” Mehen demanded.
“I’m
fine,
” she said. She turned rather deliberately away, to fuss with her haversack.
On the cart, the woman wrenched the arrow from her brother’s chest and he gasped. He sat up, wiping at the blood that slicked his skin, and breathing heavily—but breathing.
“Time to go,” Mehen said with a pointed look at Brin. He herded both twins ahead of him and down the road, without so much as a farewell. Both sisters glanced back once—Havilar with a jaunty wave, Farideh with a more solemn look—and it was only moments before they were down the road, and out of sight.
Brin went back to the cart. The cart owner was still alive—though nursing a wounded arm—and so were his daughters, and Brin said a little prayer of thanks.
“Monsters,” the man said, watching as the tieflings and the dragonborn headed down the road. “As if anyone with any sense would hand someone over to a pair of devil-children.
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