From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [50]
Gren shoved Noam again.
He clapped a hand to his chest. “What now?”
“Achan is Prince Gidon, not that pigheaded…” She pushed Noam. “Evil…” She pushed him again.
He grabbed her arms and pulled her into a hug. “All right, Grenny. I know it, you hear? It just slipped out. I meant Esek. He’s who Lord Nathak plans to help rule.”
“You have seen Esek recently?” Vrell asked.
“No, m’lady. Not here. Not for months.”
Praise Arman. “But Lord Nathak is here?”
“Aye. And I urge you take care, m’lady. There’s a ransom on your head. They seek a woman dressed as a lad. You’d both be wise to change and fast.”
“A peasant’s dress,” Gren said, approaching Vrell. “I’ll do your hair in pigtail braids.”
Vrell felt queasy. People were hunting her. Stopping in Sitna had been a mistake. “Is my hair long enough?”
Gren fingered Vrell’s stubby tail. “Just.”
“Stray!” a man yelled from the back. “Put those horses up and get on with the stalls!”
“Yes, sir!” Noam took the bridles of both horses. “Until tonight, then.”
“Farewell.” Gren pulled Vrell by the hand, outside and across the crowded bailey. Vrell kept her head down and pulled her hand away. Men holding hands would surely seem odd.
In Carmine, the armory had its own building. Here it was a shelter with two walls on the back corner and the front corner open, held up with a wooden post.
An old man wearing a leather apron held a stick of white hot iron with tongs and swung a hammer on it again and again. Each strike sent dozens of sparks into the air.
Vrell did not want to remain out in the open. “What are we doing here?” she whispered to Gren.
“Looking for Harnu.”
“I thought we wanted to change? Pigtail braids?” Vrell’s nerves tingled at the idea that Lord Nathak was so near.
“Stand behind me if you’re worried.” Gren walked up to the old man. “Master Poe, have you seen Harnu?”
“Grenny girl! Haven’t seen yer father. When yeh get back?” The man set down his hammer and brushed his hands on his apron. “How’s the baby comin’ along? And why yeh dressed like a man?”
“Father’s not here, Master Poe. Just me and my friend. And please keep your voice down. We’re trying to blend in.”
Vrell’s lips parted, breath frozen in anticipation. Surely the girl would not introduce her to every old friend in Sitna. These peasants likely needed money enough to turn her in.
The old man looked Vrell up and down. “I’ve seen yeh before. Not ’n the flesh, but on Nathak’s scrolls. Ever’ day some soldier comes sniffin’ fer yeh an’ the pawn. S’prised I was to hear yeh stole the pawn’s heart. Didn’t think that boy’d ever get over losin’ Grenny to Riga Hoff.”
“The pawn?” Vrell’s apprehension grew. If there were scrolls bearing her likeness, she needed to hide her face.
“That’s what the people in Sitna call Achan now that the truth is known,” Gren said. “There’s even a song.”
“Beg yer forgiveness, m’lady,” Master Poe said. “It ain’t fittin’ to speak ill o’ the dead.” He nodded to Gren. “An’ I mean no disrespect to yeh or yer unborn child. But Harnu was always a simple lad. Did what he was told. Followed that Riga like a lost pup. Ever’ idea’r those two got into sparked with Riga Hoff. My son’s changed since the pawn’s days here. Like to think I beat enough sense into ’im.”
“Master Poe.” Vrell kept her voice low and her eyes on the people passing by the armory. “I harbor no ill will toward you or your son. And I assure you, Achan is kind and forgiving. I am certain he would be willing to pardon your son for any wrongdoings in the past.”
The old man laughed. “Well, I’ll be forged. She calls ’im Achan.”
“Gren?” a man’s voice said.
Vrell spun around. But instead of a soldier holding a scroll, as Vrell feared, a strong young man stood outside holding two buckets of water, frowning at Gren. He had a plain, pockmarked face and dark hair. He too wore a leather apron over a brown tunic and trousers.
“Hello, Harnu.” Gren’s cool tone lacked the familiarity she shared with Noam and Master Poe.
Vrell looked between Harnu and Gren, intrigued by Gren’s behavior. Was it Harnu’s past treatment of Achan