“But—”
“And that’s the word.”
* * *
I woke a second time to noise—a lot of it. The bag was over my face again, but my hands were bound in front of me, allowing me to flip it up. From my vantage point, I mostly saw the fey’s ass, which was thick with muscle and shapelier than I’d have expected for one of them. And a clanging peddler’s cart behind us, laden with pots and pans and swinging chains, that was responsible for some of the racket.
The rest was coming from a crowd of people schlepping along the road or camped on the side. Dogs were barking, goats were bleating, a group of men were clustered around a fire, belting out a drinking song, and a crowd of fey and humans were yelling bets around a makeshift ring. Where two black-haired fey were wrestling, their shirts off, their bodies covered only in muddy loincloths.
At least they were until they got too close to a group of raucous women, who appeared to have had too much to drink. And who snatched one poor guy’s butt covering, laughing uproariously as the fey looked around in confusion, his two pale moons shining in the firelight. For a second—until his opponent took the opportunity to toss him in the mud.
“Cheating! What do you call that? It’s cheating!” a man started yelling as the crowd laughed and jeered and threw money at the victor, who started parading around with arms held high, like a boxer who’d just won a bout.
At least, he did until his opponent jumped up and smashed him in the face. And then lunged after the woman who’d cost him the match, who scrambled up, still laughing. And took off at a run, purloined loincloth held high over her head and waving like a banner.
I just stared.
The Light Fey I’d encountered so far had been . . . different. Violent and deadly, but unlike all the other people who kept trying to kill me, they hadn’t seemed to get too worked up about it. As in, a Vulcan would have shown more emotion, a robot more personality.
Of course, my experience had been brief, and composed of disciplined soldier types, which I was guessing these weren’t. In fact, I wasn’t even sure that they were fey, not entirely. And that went for most of the spectators, too.
We waded through the crowd around the ring while I stared at slightly pointy ears on human heads, at a red-haired boy with dimples and freckles and bright silver eyes, at perfectly formed fey but of human height, and at a sweet-faced girl with needle-sharp teeth, more pointed than vamp fangs, and a mouth that was midnight blue inside. The only ones who appeared to be purebred were some of the merchants, who seemed to be human, and the guards scattered here and there, in dull pewter armor, who looked to be fey. But the rest were clearly mixed.
Like the guy I was plopped down in front of a moment later, near a large tent in the middle of camp.
He was dressed in a brown velvet tunic and leggings and was seated at a small table, scratching on a tablet with a stylus. Which was more impressive than it sounds, considering that his hands were even more webbed than Rosier’s. He looked up. “What’s this?”
“Payment.”
The man’s large, rather florid face got a little redder. “You lose ten slaves and you bring me one in return?”
“Ah, but this one’s special.”
“That’s what you always say!”
“But this time, it’s true.” My captor tossed my backpack on the ground, spilling Rosier out into the dirt.
The merchant did not look impressed. “What in Odin’s name is that?”
“He’s mine.” I grabbed Rosier, jerking him over to me. He was slimy and muddy, and now also straw-covered, and the heart visible between his semitransparent ribs was almost beating out of his chest. I wasn’t sure why, maybe adrenaline, or maybe dying again when you haven’t fully formed yet was a very bad thing.
He didn’t appear to be in favor of it, especially when the merchant pulled out a knife.
“He’s mine,” I
repeated. “I need him!”
“For what?” The man looked revolted, which was pretty rich for a guy with gills in his neck.
“He’s her familiar,” my captor said, causing both me and the merchant to look at him in surprise.
“Her what?”
The fey grinned, rocking back on his heels. “She’s a witch.”
The merchant scowled. “I have too many of those already.”
“But witches are worth more—”