Chapter 6

They had finally reached the town of Gyueson around dusk, stumbling into town alongside the miners and hunters returning after a hard day’s work. The wheeze of the bellows and clank of hammer and anvil lent a rhythm to their tired steps, the music of a decades old, daily dance. The smells of molten metal and tanning leather competed for supremacy, a potent and decidedly unpleasant cocktail. 

“So, “ Fyr asked, tugging her to a stop. “Think it’s safe to sleep here tonight?”

Jerika turned in place, studying her surroundings with a practiced eye. She had never been sent to this town on assignment before, but she saw no openly displayed marks, so this town was not a mage haven. Would folks here at least keep their mouths shut? She felt the curious and somewhat judgemental glances her mark received.

 “No. But we can purchase provisions and camp nearby. Now that they can no longer track my sigils, they’ll have to use portraits and ask around in each town to learn where we’re headed. That’s good, it’ll slow them, but we need to alter our appearance as much as possible. Even if it’s only enough to make those questioned hesitate in their answer, that’s a few seconds earned. Seconds add up to minutes, add up to hours.”

Fyron stared at her as if she’d grown a second head, “Seconds? We’re gonna waste time changing our appearance to gain mere seconds?”

She knew it was hard to understand, but it would pay off, he’d see. Perhaps if she framed it in such a way that a young lord might understand better…

“Think of it as an investment, a slow growing but almost certain investment.”

When his eyes grew unfocused and he began to nod, she could practically see the wheels turning, the calculations being done. She shook her head with a rueful grin, and used his distraction to tug him toward a clothier. She knew the moment he finished his calculations as he began to slow, as if taking in their surroundings again.

“A clothier?”

She simply nodded in answer. The reason should be fairly obvious. She needed longer sleeves, and gloves. As for Fyr, his simple clothes, seemingly provided by a friend along the way, were fine. All he really needed was a haircut. His long hair marked him as higher class, only the nobility or wealthier merchants wore their hair long, because only they could afford to care for such an impractical style. Her own hair was worn long only because it was a symbol of her favored status in Feol’s organization. She sighed, fingering the dry ends of her chestnut brown hair, perhaps they both needed a cut.

But clothes first. Stopping just outside the shop, she tore a strip from the hem of her tunic, now short enough to expose skin if she stretched the wrong way and dirty enough that if she hadn’t known its original color was a rich buttery yellow, she could never have guessed. She wound the strip around her left hand and up her arm, stopping just shy of the elbow and tucked in the frayed end. She held the arm close to her body as if injured, hoping to avoid any intrusive questions.

She grabbed hold of Fyr’s elbow once more, and dragged the man inside, ignoring his mumbled protests. Once inside she was at a loss. Yes, she knew what they needed but she had precious little money and she had yet to ask about Fyron’s financial situation. Prices here were better than in the city, but still more than she’d like to spend on disguises that may have to be discarded in a few days.

The woman behind the counter smiled faintly, patiently waiting. Rika hesitantly approached, clutching her bandaged arm to her more as a defense mechanism than any conscious acting. 

“We need a long sleeve shirt, one pair of sturdy gloves and a kerchief,” Jerika began hesitantly. She looked down at the stained leggings she wore, the design beneath the dirt unique to house Feol,  and added with wince, “Perhaps a skirt, depending on the price. The simpler the better.”

With a thoughtful hum, the woman eyed her carefully, presumably to estimate sizes, and ambled for the back room. 

“How exactly are we paying for this?” Fyr hissed in her ear, “I wasn’t able to bring much with me.”

She looked back at him in surprise, “As if I'd make you buy my clothes. I have some money. Not much, but some.”

It was his turn to look surprised, eyeing her up and down as if searching for a hidden pocket or pouch of gold, “Where exactly…?”

She blushed, recalling that she’d shed most of her clothing the day they’d met in order to be rid of her sigils, thankfully not the leggings with her few coins sewn into the waistband, “None of your business.”

The employee returned, a stack of fabric draped over her arm, “Here we are dearie. One long sleeve shirt. Might be a bit big but better big than small. One pair of worn but sturdy leather gloves. Broken in, one might say. A simple kerchief. Green isn’t really in fashion anymore but it’s the only solid color we had. And just in case, a nice skirt. Should fit you but I’ve a belt if it's too big.”

The deep green of the kerchief caught her eye and she stiffened, it was her family’s dye, no doubt about it. After having her hands stained that color from the time she could see over the edge of the dye vat, there was no mistaking it. 

“Ri?”

Fyron’s hesitant voice snapped her out of her daze, “Sorry. Yeah, those look good. Um… How much are we talking?”

The woman seemed to consider us, then offered, “I can include the belt, throw in an extra kerchief and a decent pack for 2 silver. Jerika nodded resolutely and pulled the loose thread at the back of her waistband. Two swift tugs and 2 dull silver coins slid into her palm. She ignored the feeling of Fyron’s eyes boring holes in the back of her head and slid the coins across the counter. 

“I’ll roll your things up in the pack for now. No doubt you’ll want a good wash before donning new clothes.” 

As the woman disappeared into the back again, Rika heaved a sigh of relief and turned to Fyr, a triumphant smile tugging at her lips.

 “That was cheaper than expected,” she murmured low enough only he could hear. “I was prepared to spend up to 3 on disguises. So far so good.”

“Where in chaos did those coins come from?”

Rika shrugged, reluctant to share the secret, “I had some saved away from my years of service. And I know a few tricks.”

When he started to argue, she saw the curtain to the back room flutter and elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. As he struggled for breath, Jerika thanked the shopkeep and accepted their things, only briefly looking them over to ensure no trickery. 

“Come Fyr, I need a bath.”

Fyr had been quiet since they had left the clothier, no doubt trying to puzzle out how she had secreted away her small fortune.  She caught herself glancing back at him fondly. They’d known each other less than a week, they didn’t even truly trust one another yet. And yet… 

She had planned to abandon him once she had fully healed, planned to make her own way and allow him to do the same. It was smarter that way. Feol’s hunters would have to prioritize or split up, themselves. But in less than a week, she had grown fond of the boy, even begun to trust. She couldn’t leave him now. 

She chuckled. Just as with every other grand plan she had ever made in her life, fate had derailed it so easily. Oh how the Weaver must laugh at the best laid plans of mortals.

“Move it, Fyr. I can smell you from here.” When she received no response, she tugged another silver from her hidden pocket and smirked at him, “Gee, I hope the water’s still warm when you get done thinking.”

He looked up sharply as she quickly stepped backwards into an inn, and hurried after her, a hopeful smile trying to break free from his brooding. Jerika nodded to herself as she requested hot bathwater of the innkeeper. Note to self: warm water can motivate the little lordling.