Rolan heaved himself out of the tub, his hand closing around the butter knife he’d kept with him all this time. Naked and terrified, he rolled through the grass, coming up on the other side of the tub. The water sloshed between him and the Arcanist, who stood gaping, a pair of sheep shears in his hand. Rolan snatched his soaking shirt from the ground and held it up to cover himself.
Luc glanced from Rolan’s terrified face to the pitiful knife in his hand, then his expression went slack. He dropped the shears and raised his empty hands.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said, as if Rolan were a panicking colt.
“You were going to chop me up for the Cryptics!” Rolan shouted. He was shivering now, but only partly from the cool air on his bare skin. “That’s why you made me bathe! They probably like their dinner washed first!”
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Luc said again, raising his hands higher for emphasis. “I was going to cut your hair.”
Rolan stiffened, reaching for the wet brown locks that hung past his shoulders. “I like my hair the way it is.”
“It’smatted.”
“And that’s how I like it!”
Luc sighed heavily, resting his hands on the edge of the tub. “Wait here. I’ll get you clothes. We can talk about it inside.”
Rolan kept his knife held high until Luc went into the house. Then he started for the path to the city, before remembering hehadn’t a stitch of clothing on him. With a snarl of frustration, Rolan crawled back into the tub, lurking there until the warm water eased the shivers from his body. Luc returned a minute later and set down a pile of clothes on the ground.
“When you’re dressed,” he said, “come inside. I’ll make lunch.”
Rolan said nothing. He watched the man until he’d gone in, then lunged out of the tub and hurriedly dressed. The clothes were clearly Luc’s and enormous, but at least they were dry. The shirt hung below his knees. The pants were never going to work. But there was a fawn-colored jerkin that went on like a tent, and a belt to cinch it all together. He rolled the shirt sleeves about a hundred times before he finally found his hands. If anyone saw him in this getup, they’d laugh themselves blue, and he wouldn’t blame them. Finally, he pulled on the boots.
“Right.” Rolan looked around and saw Supper watching him from the grass, his head cocked to the side and his eyes staring in two different directions. “What areyoulooking at? Maybe you’re gonna sit around and be somebody’s dinner, but I’m not!”
With that, Rolan started for the path.
He walked quickly, with many glances over his shoulder, but there was no sign that the Arcanist was following. In minutes, the house had vanished entirely, and Rolan laughed.
“So long,Luc! You’ll have to chop up some other stupid kid. Rolan Strider lives another day!” He chuckled, reveling in his own cleverness. He’d lost his clothes, but he’d gotten new boots,twogood meals, a butter knife, and a bar of soap which was currently sudsing up the jerkin’s left pocket. Not a bad haul. Not bad in the least. Rolan whistled as he walked, feeling downright jaunty.
Now. If he could just figure out which way Crisanth was—
Rolan cried out as the ground beneath him suddenlywasn’tbeneath him any longer. He dropped, his stomach lurching, then landed with a gasp as the ground knocked the air from his lungs.
Lying on his back, his vision white, he coughed until he could see again. His breath took longer to return. When it did, he sat up, groaning.
He’d fallen into apit.
Looking around at the canvas crumpled beneath him and the too-slick sides of the pit, he revised his assessment. This wasn’t just a pit. It was atrap.
He’d walked into a blastedtrap. One with walls so high and smooth, his attempts to climb out only landed him on his butt, repeatedly, in defeat.
“What thrice-cursed idiot is laying traps outhere?” he howled to the sky.
“That thrice-cursed idiot,” replied a gruff voice, “would be me.”
Rolan shrank back as a shadow fell across the pit.
The Arcanist’s big gray horse gazed down at him, with the Arcanist atop him.
“Is that what you were doing all last night?” Rolan demanded. “Building traps for me?”
The Arcanist grunted. He seemed to do that a lot. “Trap’s not for you. It’s for Cryptics.”
Rolan looked around him and shivered.
“If you’re going to the city,” the Arcanist said, “you should have hooked a left back that way. Not that you would’ve gotten far in that direction either. There are… a lot more traps.”
