Fool's Errand by Maureen Fergus

his massive codpiece against her belly.
    Behind her, Rachel smothered another laugh.
    Azriel let go of Persephone as unexpectedly as he’d embraced her. Taking an even bigger step away from her than she’d earlier taken away from him, he said, “I mean, all right, tomorrow at dawn, you, Rachel, Mateo and I will proceed onward alone with all due haste.”
    Thrown by his suddenly conversational tone—as though he hadn’t one instant earlier been holding her in his arms, whispering against her neck—Persephone swallowed hard and said, “But … but what about the escort?”
    Azriel’s smile flashed in the starlight, making her heart turn over.
    â€œWait and see about the escort,” he said.

    The next morning Azriel roused Persephone well before dawn. Outside the tent, a chill wind whistled through the nearby trees.
    â€œTime to rouse yourself, Princess,” he sang, giving her blankets a sharp tug.
    â€œDon’t call me that,” mumbled Persephone as she dragged the blankets back up over her head.
    â€œRachel is already up and changed into her new outfit,” continued Azriel as he flipped over the blankets at the foot of the bed and gave her toe a tweak.
    With a yelp, Persephone bolted upright. Hurriedly tucking her feet up beyond the risk of further attack, she said, “Rachel has a new outfit?”
    â€œFear not, Princess, I have a new outfit for you, too,” assured Azriel as he deposited into her lap a limp pile of coarse cloth.
    â€œWhat is this?” asked Persephone in dismay.
    â€œYour new outfit,” said Azriel with a smile in his voice. “Hurry and change, for we shall soon lose the cover of darkness. When you are dressed, leave your fine princess things on the bed and come join me by the fire.”
    Before Persephone could question his orders, he was gone, leaving her alone in the darkness to sort through the smelly pile, to wonder who he thought he was that he should give her orders—and to wonder why on earth she was following them.
    At length, she managed to fumble into her new “outfit.” When she’d done so, she carefully transferred to the pocket of her shift the rusty fetters key, as well as the three treasures she kept with her always: the scrap of lace she’d torn from the hem of Cookie’s apron the night she was dragged from the manor house, Faust’s tail—which she’d hacked from his little corpse after the feral children of the mines had finished with him—and the auburn curl she’d cut from Azriel’s head as he hung across Fleet’s back dying of poison not so long ago. Then she tossed her fine princess things on the bed (all but the gifts that Finn had given her, which she had no intention of parting with whatever Azriel might presume to order) and ducked out of the tent.
    Shivering, grumbling and hugging herself tight against the chill, Persephone hurried over to the nearest fire. A quick glance did not reveal Azriel; a second glance revealed him sitting practically at her feet. He was no longer wearing the embroidered velvet doublet and codpiece; instead, he was dressed like the other men in plain breeches and a hooded cloak. Next to him sat Rachel. She was no longer dressed as a leper, but was dressed instead like Persephone and the other women in a grubby shift and a knee-length robe with a long scarf that, in Rachel’s case, was wrapped around her head to conceal every part of her face but her eyes. Mateo, who was sitting on Rachel’s other side, was also wearing mean garments.
    Nonplussed, Persephone plopped down beside Azriel. “Why are we dressed like this?” she asked as she accepted from him a pair of barely serviceable boots and a hunk of dark bread.
    â€œSo that we can proceed onward alone with all due haste,” he replied.
    After gingerly pulling on the boots, Persephone tore off a piece of bread and crammed it into her mouth. “I