“Not far. If we hurry, I’m sure we can catch them,” Eloise says.
“No.” I tug on the reins, slowing Borus to a stop. “If they see us running toward them, they’ll be on the defensive.”
“Mr. Deep Thoughts is right,” Warbill adds, with an obvious jab at my sullen mood this morning. “Rivertoads do not like surprises or overeager guests. Eventually, they’ll stop for the night to make camp. If we continue inthat direction, we’ll happen upon them without any need for haste.”
I nudge Borus into a slow walk again, and we cut across the field toward the end of the caravan of wagons. “If I’m Mr. Deep Thoughts, you’re Mr. No Thoughts,” I murmur.
Warbill snorts. “Was that a joke? Eloise, record this date for posterity. This moment may never come again.”
She laughs the first real laugh I’ve heard from her in days, and I’m instantly jealous that it took Warbill to get it out of her. And then my jealousy is buried in a heaping helping of self-loathing that this war has completely ruined my sense of humor. “It must be easy for you to make others laugh, Warbill, given your natural appearance, but some of us need to exercise our wit.”
Eloise laughs even harder, while Warbill takes a moment to puzzle out that I just called him funny-looking, and then he hits me with a lopsided scowl. “Two jokes in one day. He’s truly going for a record.”
“Should I stop now? Or make a reference to the size of your marriage material?” I ask him.
“Ah, but your queen mother would know all about that.”
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to jump off this rabble beast and wring his bloody neck.
“Shh,” Eloise says, raising her finger to her lips. “They’re slowing down.”
Sure enough, the bright-red wagon slows to a stop not more than a mile in front of us. Surrounded as we are by thick woods, it’s hard to tell what’s happening, but my ears pick up a flurry of activity.
“Looks like they’re making camp. Everyone in character. It’s showtime.” I slow Borus’s walk, and we creep up on the Rivertoad camp. By the time we’ve reached it, I see something I’ve never seen before. They’ve parked the wagons in a large circle and erected a tent between them. The sound of lively music drifts out from under the white canvas.
We dismount and secure our rabble beasts to a nearby tree, then walk toward the flap of the tent, propped open to reveal a dozen or more tables inside.
“Hold it right there, stranger.” I stop when I feel the cold edge of a blade press into my throat and, out of the corner of my eye, see the glint of a second one pressed into Eloise’s. Warbill, slightly behind us, goes absolutely still. “What brings you to our family?” the Rivertoad asks. He’s a lanky specimen, with long, sandy-brown curls and a subtly hollowed-out look, as if he could do with a good meal.
“We’ve been traveling all day,” I say, “And we need food and drink. We’ve heard you have a kitchen. We smelled roasting meat.”
“Where are you from, strangers?” The voice is soft and ominously low.
“Covellton, northwest Borderlands,” I say. They will have heard what happened there by now.
“Covellton.” The man lowers his blade and gestures to his friend to do the same. Behind Eloise, a bald man sheathes the weapon he’d held to her neck. “We heard what happened there but held out little hope for survivors.”
Eloise’s eyes grow haunted as she adds. “There are always survivors, sir. The trick is getting them to trustyou enough to share their survival. These days, I think it’s safer to be from nowhere.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He rubs his nose. “Very well. You’re welcome to share a table with us.”
“Do you have a place for our rabble beasts?” I ask. Borus and Romulus will need tending.
“There’s a pen built between the southeast spokes. So there’s no confusion, the fire is free, but if you want food or drink, it will cost you. If you want to rent a wagon, that’s available for a price as well.”
“Thank you,” Warbill says. “I’m Valarian, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”
The man’s smile fades. “I didn’t give it.” He and his bald compatriot drift out of the tent.
“Well, he was friendly,” Warbill says.
“Do you blame him?” Eloise says. “They have to be careful, especially now.”
We find a table next to a fire pit constructed out of freshly laid stones and take a seat. Rows of glass-encased candles are strung above our heads, casting the tent in a mustard-colored glow. An old woman with a handkerchief covering her hair and a full skirt decorated with a few stains of mysterious origin comes over with a pitcher of some kind of ale.
“Name’s Maggie. Welcome to my hot pot. The ale will be five quill for the three of ya. If you want something to fill your bellies, ya best double it.”
“What’s on the menu?” Eloise asks.
