The journey via vegetable cart hadn't been very eventful. The girl remained silent for most of the way, no doubt sulking about her current situation in life, so John had turned his attention to the farmer. They'd had a nice chat about farming, and the shocking price of that turnips were going for at market. Admittedly, the farmer had done most of the talking, but John felt that his small contributions had been both pithy and useful.
"You mind if we keep going?" said the farmer as a small town emerged in front of them. "I'll get a better price at further on down at Whitfair. This lot will spend a bag of gold on a bolt of silk, but won't trouble themselves to pay a copper for a punnet of cabbages."
In truth John could have done with a break from this jostle of an old cart, but his travelling companion had been hiding her face in her shawl ever since they first caught a glimpse of the chapel tower on the horizon and he figured it was best to keep on the road.
Whatever that witch had done to her, must have been truly awful. The girl was as withdrawn as his bank balance back home. That lie she'd been spinning about being a servant was getting more rickety with every mile they travelled. Most of the witches he'd had dealings with limited themselves to what passed as medicine north of the moor, and the odd love potion, but perhaps there really were evil sorceresses who kept young maidens locked up in towers. Still, at least her silence meant he didn't have to listen to that god-awful fake accent any more.
Once the imperious expression had been washed away along with the mud he could see she was little more than fifteen or sixteen. Though she held herself like a knight. Even on the back of this bouncing cart, sharing her seat with a box of turnips, she was so straight-backed she'd make a statue look slouched.
"Sure thing, mate," he said. "We'll go as far as you do."
The town, though small, must have been prosperous, as the main street was paved with cobblestones instead of the usual compressed dirt and horse muck. John looked around with interest and was caught utterly off guard when the wheel bounced off a stone and sent him hurtling towards the girl.
She let out a small yelp and shot a gaze full of knife points in his direction.
"Sorry," he said, regaining his seat, but she wasn't paying attention. The rest of the townspeople were, and had turned to look in their direction.
She visibly shrank before his eyes, pulling up the shawl, which had been dislodged by his attack, back over her face. She didn't seem to breathe again until the houses thinned and they were once again surrounded by fields and hedgerow.
Evening was drawing in long before they reached Whitfair and the temperature had plummeted. The long summer was coming to a close. John reached for his cloak, but drew his hand away just in time.
He didn't know what that woman had done by the fireside, but it had weirded the hell out of him. The woollen cloak which had enveloped him for hundreds of miles worth of traipsing around this magic-laden country now made his skin shudder.
Something was very wrong. And he needed his new travelling companion, to tell him what the hell it was and how to get rid of it before he froze to death.
He had to settle for wrapping his arms around his legs until the town of Whitfair emerged around them. The cart trundled through the streets until it came to a stop outside a cheerful looking tavern.
"The Wisp and Lantern," said the farmer. "Clean rooms, nice grub and a fair landlord. You can't ask for better. Not round these parts," he said.
John stretched out his legs, rubbing his thighs until the feeling crept back into them.
The girl slipped off the cart and staggered a few steps before finding her balance.
"What time is it?" she said.
"Gone eight by the looks of it," said the farmer. "They'll be the biggest market you'll find outside the capital on these streets in nine hours or so. With everything the little miss could desire."
The girl sighed. "I very much doubt it."
The farmer grinned at that. "Just you wait. You get your young gentlemen to buy you a pretty ribbon."
John didn't look at the girl's face, but he was pretty sure he could guess her expression. "How about we head inside then? I could do with a drink."
"You're alright. I need to get Betsy here into the stable, then I'll come right in."
"Come on," said John to the girl. "A hot meal and a nice pint will do you the world of good."
"I told you, I don't have any money."
"Good thing I do then, isn't it?"
He didn't wait to hear her reply, just slinging his bag and cloak over his arm, headed over to the pub. It was packed inside. Clearly on the night before market day, the Wisp and Lantern was the place to be. The smell of wood-smoke and hops blasted over him as soon as he stepped inside. It was so crowded he had to edge sideways through the mass of people just to find a table.
He'd barely settled himself onto a seat when a barmaid appeared at his elbow, cup and jug in hand. She set the cup in front of him, blasting him a smile as she filled it.
"Thanks, love."
With the back of her hand she swept back a loose tendril of dark red hair. "You can call me Claret."
He should have guessed. If she'd been blonde she'd have been introducing herself as Chardonnay. "Is that what your parents call you?"
"No," she said slowly. "They don't. But that's what the likes of you may use."
He made a show of wincing. "That's me told."
The smile grew wider. "You're not from round these parts, are you?"
John leaned forward and beckoned. After a side long glance to make sure no one was watching, Claret leaned in. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked.
Her eyes sparkled. "Course."
"Sure?"
She sighed. "I wouldn't last a day in this job if I couldn't. You wouldn't believe the stuff I hear.."
"I'm on a very important mission."
"A mission?"
He nodded. "Not sure I'll get out of it alive, if I'm being honest."
She gasped. "What is it?"
"More than my life's worth to tell you."
She pouted at that. "Can't you even give me a hint? I'll make it worth your while."
He pretended to mull it over. Over her shoulder, he could see his companion struggling to get through the boisterous crowd. Every jostle clouded her face with an expression with absolute horror. "You see that girl over there?" he said, pointing.
Claret looked over her shoulder. "The dark one with the ripped dress? She your sweetheart?"
"Give me a little credit." That made the barmaid laugh. "No. She's a spy"
"Never!"
"Works for the Pryvian Crown Prince."
Claret turned back to look at the girl, who was currently trying to wriggle out of the grasp of a ninety year old man. "Really?" she said doubtfully. "She doesn't look like a spy."
"And therein lies her value. She's led me on a merry dance these past two years. Found her in the service of a great lady. She must have passed on thousands of letters back to her people before I caught up with her." He leaned in further, letting his hand brush against Claret's. She flushed, her cheeks taking on the shade of the wine she was named for. "She's been evading the masters for years. But she made one mistake."
"And what was that?"
"She didn't count on me."
So slowly that John could almost feel the logs smouldering into ashes in the fire, the barmaid lifted her eyes to meet his. "Gosh," she whispered, pausing to bite her lip. "That truly is the most impressive pile of bollocks I've ever heard in my life."
They held each other's gaze for a long moment before John leaned back and laughed. "Come on. I had you on."
"Not for a moment."
"Really? Damn. I must be losing my touch."
She reached out and patted his arm. "Don't worry yourself. I've had hundreds men try it on with me, and none were as pretty as you."
"Pretty enough for a free drink?"
She crinkled her nose as if thinking it over. "Alright."
"Really?"
"Not for you though, mind. For your friend, the spy. As compensation for having to hang around you." She raised an eyebrow as if daring him to complain. He didn't. The girl, having freed herself from the fragile old man, had managed to make it over.
"Here you are, love," said the barmaid, sliding the cup over to the other side of the table. "Best beer in Whitfair. On the house."
The girl eyed it suspiciously. "Thank you. That is most kind," she said in a weak voice.
With a grin and a wink, the barmaid disappeared off into the crowd, and the girl slumped into her seat.
"You're not having one?" said the girl, giving the contents of her cup a suspicious sniff.
"I'm not thirsty."
The girl took a small sip, and then a second later, much to John's surprise, drained the whole thing.
"Nice?" he asked.
She nodded her head and then let out a tiny hiccup.
"Better?"
"Is there any food?"
John looked around. Plates piled high with excessive amounts of bread, meat and gravy were dotted around the surrounding tables. Claret however had her back to them and didn't look inclined to notice him again anytime soon.
"We'll get to that later," he said.
She didn't argue, but sat there, shivering despite the heat of the fire.
"Here," he said, throwing his cloak over to her.
She smiled, looking pathetically grateful as she slipped it around her shoulders. John watched, waiting for the realisation to hit. She frowned, touching the cloak with curious fingers. "It feels like it's come straight out of the ice house."
"Ice house?" John made a show of looking around. "I don't think they have many of those in Whitfair."
She stared at him for a long moment, and then a smile broke through and she laughed.
"What?"
She shook her head, and covered her mouth with her hand as if to conceal the laughter, but nothing could cover up the ecstatic shaking of her shoulders.
"What?" Her laughter was beginning to make him nervous.
She waved her hand, unable to still the laughter, recovering just enough to catch her breath before they took hold again.
Even John was smiling now. "What?"
From inside her bodice she brought out a little velvet pouch and poured the contents onto the table.
John waited for an explanation, but the girl didn't seem intent on giving one. So he picked up one of the small stones, and turned it over.
"Runes?" he said.
"You recognise them?"
John hesitated. "I've read about them." The girl gave him a look. "I can read. Is that so shocking?"
She drew herself up. "No," she said, looking a little embarrassed. "You just didn't strike me as a man of learning."
"What do I strike you as?"
"A man who believes he is living in a world of fools."
"Have you seen these pillocks?" he said pointing to the blokes dancing around behind him.
"You're right. There are a lot of fools in this inn right now," she said, her face a mask of innocence.
John smiled and bowed his head. "You got me," he said, taking a deep draft of beer. "Now, are you going to explain the significance of the runes, or are you planning on just laughing at me all night?"
The girl hoiked her shawl up over her shoulders. "Jain is a witch," she hissed.
"Jain? That's your mistress."
She hesitated. "Yes," she agreed, clearly lying.
John awarded himself a gold star. Mistress his arse. This girl had never scrubbed a floor or darned a sock in her life. He nodded all the same. "The thing is, I'd already worked that one out. The fact she was cursing me was a bit of a clue."
The girl shook her head. "No, she wasn't cursing you. How could she? She doesn't know your name."
John groaned and fell back in his seat. Of course. He'd never used his real name in Serrador. He'd been going by John since he first arrived, frightened and confused, in this strange country. It'd been the first one to jump into his head and had found no reason to change it since. John, or John Smith if he was feeling fancy, had served him well enough. And if his name wasn't known, no one could use name magic against him.
"So then..."
"She cursed your cloak."
"That's really..."
"Impressive," she said, sounding surprised herself.
"Shitty," he concluded, raising his eyebrows. Though he had to admit he now had a grudging admiration for the witch. He'd denied her the warmth of a place by his fire, so she removed any comfort his cloak might give him. Pretty tasty revenge she got there. If he had a drink he'd have raised his cup to her. Nicely done.
He sighed. "I spent three weeks in a stinking bog to get enough funds to buy that cloak, searching for some poisonous plant. It gave me a rash."
"The cloak?"
John was saved the need of thinking up a clever retort by the return of the barmaid.
"I've taken pity on you," said Claret, all round cheeks and loose bodice re-appeared by their side with a jug so full the frothy contents slipped over the sides and soaked her hands. She placed a cup in front of him and filled it to the brim.
John cleared his throat. "Thanks."
Someone had managed to find a flute, and with the addition of the Men's Chorus of Whitfair, a jaunty tune crashed into The Whisp and Lantern. The girl jumped as if prodded by a large stick.
"You alright over there?" he asked.
"Fine," she said, quickly rearranging her features back into the still mask that she wore whenever she thought someone was looking at her.
Claret was still hanging around. As John worked up the courage to ask her for some food, she leant down and picked something off the ground.
"What the...?" she started. John blinked, not believing his eyes. "This yours?" she asked, turning to him. It was a skull, human, resting in her small hands.
The girl gasped. "That's mine," she said, grabbing it and tucking it into her shawl, the heavy lump resting against her stomach. Well, that answered that question.
"Care to explain?" he said, weakly. Of all the things he imagined her keeping shoved down the front of her shawl, a skull was not one of them. He'd vaguely considered a money bag stolen off that witch of hers. He could have coped with that. He lied about having money pretty much every day. He wouldn't have judged her for that. But human remains was quite another thing. For one thing, it begged the question about what happened to the rest of them.
The girl cleared her throat. "No."
Claret's eyes were darting between the two of them. "How 'bout I get you some dinner? You guys look like you need it," she said before hurrying away from the table.
The girl ducked her head so that her hair swung forward, covering her face.
"I think," said John slowly, picking his words with care. "That she's right. We've had a very long day, and I don't know about you but I'm really looking forward to a hot meal. And after we're done eating, we are going to talk."
The girl bit the corner of her lip.
"Starting with a name," he continued. "I can't go around travelling with someone with nothing to call them. I don't care what it is, but I need something. Or I'm going to make up one for you."
Her eyes flicked up, but he wasn't backing down. He matched her gaze and upped it with a raised eyebrow. "And you don't want to know what I've been calling you in my head, believe me."
"Fine," she said, sighing. "You can call me Fae, if you must."
"Fae?"
She licked her lips. "We're not far from the marshes here," she said quietly. "There are swarms of them out there."
"Fae it is. And in the meantime, there's something else we need to do."
"What?"
He eased out of his seat and moved around to her side of the table. She backed away as if he was going to hurt her, but he merely held out his hand. "We are bloody well going to dance."
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[AUTHOR NOTE: I'm not sure what you guys think, but if someone I was travelling with accidental revealed they'd been carrying around a skull in their pocket, I'd be on the next train travelling in the opposite direction. That John must really need 'Fae'.
As ever, I'd love to know what you think - your theories and critiques. And please do vote if you're enjoying the story!]