The following day the rains come. We ride through deep mud, drenched to the bone, unable to get warm. We are too miserable to hunt or gather, and so eat through our rations of grain, dried herbs, and flowers.
As adequate as my new mare is, I regret Dancer's absence. I worry whether the thieves are treating my horse well. Every time we ride past a village or hamlet, I stretch out my mind, hoping I will find her. Though it is hard to distinguish the subtle differences between different horses' mind, after weeks of riding Dancer, she is as familiar to me as a friend's face, and I fantasize about discovering her tethered to a tree or post and riding away with her.
On the third day, as the Hybourg grows close enough to sense the vast swirl of hundreds of minds, the realization of where Tug has brought us is like a punch in the gut.
"What are we doing here?"
"What?" Tug wipes sheets of water pouring off his face. I can barely hear him. The rain drowns everything out.
I pull my mare to a stop, hold back the strands of wet hair all over my face with the crook of my arm and stare at the tavern. Nested on the top of a small hill, isolated in a sea of rolling countryside, the thatched roof is a dark fury coat reaching over the top floor of the building. The lopsided walls are made from the black rock that is so popular in these parts.
The last time we arrived here, it was night.
Tug draws up to the stable, and a boy runs out. They shout at each other over the rain. Tug slips the boy a coin and steps under the over-hang of the roof to take shelter. He walks up to the side of the building and pushes open the front door. I urge my mare forward, greet the boy and hop off to follow.
The down-stairs of the tavern has one long main room, lit by a fire and lanterns on the tables. I step over the threshold, closing the door behind me. Tug stands by the bar, the bartender already pouring him ale. In my memories, I see the Prince sitting by the hearth with a book, and feel pinching in my chest. I look over at Tug. He knows this is the tavern where the Prince waited for us, after they had made their deal. The bartender hands him a jug of ale. He takes a swig, turning to stare at me. The look in his eyes makes me think he's come here to punish me for what I said about Sara and the baby.
I walk over to the fire and warm my hands. Rain water drips from the hem of my leather trousers and gathers in a pool around my boots. Tug asks for a room. The bartender goes into the back, and a minute later a tall, brittle-looking woman emerges. She nods at Tug, but when she sees me, her expression darkens. With disdain, she indicates we are to follow her upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, she opens the first room.
"If you want to use the fire place, it's an extra tuppence." She opens the room, stands aside, and presses the key into Tug's hand, before leaving.
"Making friends," I say, slinking inside. The walls are bleak; the bed a miserable, thin mattress; the chair by the hearth is hard and uncomfortable.
Tug locks the door behind us, then throws his saddle bag and backpack on the bed.
"We've got one hour."
My body sinks, and my face closes into a scowl. Then I realize why the woman was so disgusted, and I laugh.
"What?"
"She thought we were--" Tug glares at me. My smile drops, and my cheeks flame.
"Which is why you're going to cut your hair and bind yourself."
"Bind what?" He doesn't answer. Oh, I think, crossing my arms over my chest. He leans up against the wall and pulls back the netted window curtain. His gaze drifts away for a moment. Then he turns around and fixes me with his gaze.
At first, I stare back, but after a minute, I grow self-conscious.
"Shall I light the fire in the bathroom?"
"No bathing."
I guess we'll blend in more in the Hybourg if we stink. At least it's what Tug thinks, and he's probably right.
"So you want to cut my hair ?" He doesn't answer. He's still staring. "What?"
"If I'm going to take you into the Hybourg Mirra, I want some assurance that you're not going to get us into trouble. There is the criminal, lawless mayhem of the town, and then there is the dark underbelly of gang life."
My mind rushes back to the day Tug and Brin took Kel and me to the pit—the monstrous market arena at the center of the Hybourg. The crowds, the pushing, the shoving, the flashes and swirls of color and violence in the mind-world. As we entered the Pit, a gang spotted my brother's glittering eyes and tried to snatch him.
"What you saw was only a scratch on the surface." Tug doesn't have the sight, but he knows what I'm thinking. "Forget honor among thieves when it comes to the gangs. They have no rules, no boundaries. Once you are in their sight, it's difficult to get out of them."
My senses sharpen, and adrenaline kicks through my chest.
"Are you saying paying Brin's debt might not be enough for them to let him go?"
Tug grinds his teeth, then pushes off the wall. He moves toward me and stands closer than normal, close enough for me to tilt my head back to keep my eyes on his.
"Wait for me here," he says. "I'll be back in three days. And I'll be able to tell you everything you want to know."
"If I was going to wait, I could have waited at the longhouse."
"There's nothing for you in the Hybourg."
"There's nothing for me back at the lodge."
He looks as though he's about to say something, then stops. I love my brother and my parents, but I can no longer be sequestered away on the outskirts of civilization. I am thirsty for life, knowledge, and justice.
"Then we do it my way," he says. "No questions. No arguments. Starting right now." He takes out his short knife and raises an eyebrow at the door to the bathing chamber. I nod.
There is a looking glass above the tin bath. When I open my eyes, I see Tug's reflection and my own, the top of my head lower than his wide shoulders. He yanks my hair away from my head and carves his blade across it. Long, dark tresses fall to the floor. He pulls and cuts until my hair is short. I run a hand up the back of my neck, the feel of it strange. Then I peer in the smeary mirror. It's not so bad.
Tug examines me too. He doesn't look pleased. He leaves, and I hear him ruffling through his backpack in the next door room. He returns with the blade to shave his face.
"But this looks okay," I say. It's one thing to have short hair, and another to be bald.
"No questions, no arguments."
"Fine, just tell me why. You have long hair. Why do I have to be bald?"
"Because you still look attractive."
That shuts me up.
"Either you're ready, or you're not, Mirra."
I close my eyes and let him work. He cuts as close to the scalp as possible, first with the knife, then with the blade. I try to think back. No, I am certain, calling me attractive is as close to a compliment as Tug has ever come. It leaves an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach, like a hole.
I concentrate on breathing. This is what you want, I tell myself. You cannot move freely in the Hybourg if people suspect you're a girl. When Tug and Brin first brought me to the Pit I was so skinny and sinewy that I had no trouble passing for a boy. But I've filled out since, as a result of my change in diet, living at the longhouse, and another few crucial growing months where I wasn't half-starved for a change.
When Tug has finished, I slowly crack open my eyes. We both lean forward to see better in the smeary looking-glass. The lack of hair accentuates my features making them sharper and ill-proportioned. My eyes are too big. The upturn of my nose is piggish. My narrow chin is oddly pointy.
Tug grunts, and then suddenly, his fist is around the back of my neck. Alarm punches through me as he thrusts me forward. My forehead smacks into the looking glass.
I cry out in anger. Pain sucks my attention into the spot where I'm cut. I thrust my head back, smashing Tug's nose. There is a satisfactory crack. His fist lets go of my neck. Wet dribbles down over my eye. I wipe the blood and turn.
"What was that for?"
He stands with his head tilted back, pinching his bleeding nose. He takes away his hand and wipes it on my shirt.
"Now you're ready."
He leaves me to bind my chest with a strip of the bedsheet and to simmer in my indignation. After numerous efforts, I finally get it to hold. I exit the washing chamber, but the bedroom appears empty. A soft scratching comes from under the bed. I bend over to see.
Tug is lying under there, his enormous bulk squashed in.
"Give me three of your gold coins."
"What are you doing?"
"Questions, questions..." he says.
I unhook the purse from around my neck and start handing him the heavy, bumpy coins.
A moment later, he slithers out. Now there is space and room to see, I take a peek. I can't see any signs of disturbance. Not in the floorboards, not in the cobbled brick wall.
"Let's go," he says.
I crawl back out and stand up. I want to ask where he's hidden it, but that would be a question. And as I don't need the answer right now, I abstain from the impulse.
We visit three more taverns scattered around the outskirts of the Hybourg. We take rooms in each of them, and Tug teaches me how to identify a floorboard or brick conducive to hiding gold coins and how to loosen it, so its displacement is utterly invisible after we have left.
We are not mistaken for a couple again.
HAVE A GREAT FRIDAY AND WEEKEND EVERYONE! THANKS FOR READING AND I HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN NEXT WEEK.