one-eyed man with him if he could, but Vruud wasn’t Tobin’s first consideration any more than Tobin was his. For once there was no younger brother, no Realm, no goblin children whose safety Tobin had to put before his own. This time it was simple—Tobin would save himself, and save Vruud only if it wouldn’t damage his own chances. Which meant that he might actually survive after all.
Acting as Vruud’s servant was trickier in the storyteller’s own camp, because Tobin was supposed to make himself useful to the camp as well as caring for his master. He helped the woman who cooked for Vruud, chopping vegetables and cleaning fish and fowl. He carried horse and mule dung to the midden and fetched water from the burned-out village’s well.
None of these tasks was mysterious to someone who’d been raised on a country estate, and Tobin had been traveling among the Duri camps long enough that he made few mistakes. He’d begun to think that Vruud was going to be right yet again . . . when he looked up from the pool where he was washing Vruud’s clothes and met the startled gaze of the woman who’d brought food and water to his cage.
Her expression left no doubt that she’d recognized him, astonishment giving way to fear. She opened her mouth and drew in a breath to scream.
“Please,” said Tobin. “Please don’t.”
She couldn’t understand him, but she didn’t scream. By sheer chance they were the only ones working at the series of shallow, stone-lined pools the chanduri had created to do their washing. The woman dropped the bundle of cloth she carried and backed away, one step, then another.
It was barely possible that Tobin could leap to his feet and knock her unconscious, but then what? Run, with every Duri in camp on his trail? Even if he could bring himself to kill her, his masquerade would never survive a murder investigation—particularly in a camp where he was the only stranger.
Tobin slowly pulled the amulet from under his shirt and held it out to her, his palm open, his posture as unthreatening as he could make it with every nerve in his body shrieking for action.
She stopped backing away and watched him warily, but she hadn’t turned to run. She wasn’t screaming.
“Please,” Tobin repeated, trying to summon a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we can reach some understanding.”
He wasn’t sure, but since she couldn’t understand what he said, it didn’t matter. Vruud had told him a chanduri was expected to learn the language of a new camp, and surrender the amulet he’d no right to wear, within a year of his arrival. He’d started to give Tobin lessons, but Tobin didn’t plan to stay for the summer, much less a year, and he hadn’t paid attention. Now he wished he had.
“Vruud took you in,” the woman said thoughtfully. “He’s hiding you. He must have been the one who got you out of that cage. You didn’t find the cracked bar by accident.”
“I hope you didn’t get in trouble for it,” Tobin said.
She grimaced incomprehension and looked with distaste at the amulet he held out. “I don’t want to come that close to you.”
The only words of this camp’s Heron Clan language Tobin had learned so far were “no,” “yes,” and “I don’t speak Marshok.” For a miracle, one of those phrases fit the situation.
“I don’t speak Marshok,” Tobin said in that tongue.
Humor ghosted over her tense face. “You certainly don’t.”
He lifted the amulet once more, in silent plea. Even if he could promise her safety, with all the eloquence that panic and the amulet could lend him, there was no reason for her to trust his word. Except . . .
“Vruud,” said Tobin urgently. “Vruud, yes?”
She snorted. “You mean that Vruud spared you, so I should too? That arrogant old weasel would do anything that . . .” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Tobin in furious speculation. “Anything that served his own purpose. What could you do for Vruud?”
Tobin
Acting as Vruud’s servant was trickier in the storyteller’s own camp, because Tobin was supposed to make himself useful to the camp as well as caring for his master. He helped the woman who cooked for Vruud, chopping vegetables and cleaning fish and fowl. He carried horse and mule dung to the midden and fetched water from the burned-out village’s well.
None of these tasks was mysterious to someone who’d been raised on a country estate, and Tobin had been traveling among the Duri camps long enough that he made few mistakes. He’d begun to think that Vruud was going to be right yet again . . . when he looked up from the pool where he was washing Vruud’s clothes and met the startled gaze of the woman who’d brought food and water to his cage.
Her expression left no doubt that she’d recognized him, astonishment giving way to fear. She opened her mouth and drew in a breath to scream.
“Please,” said Tobin. “Please don’t.”
She couldn’t understand him, but she didn’t scream. By sheer chance they were the only ones working at the series of shallow, stone-lined pools the chanduri had created to do their washing. The woman dropped the bundle of cloth she carried and backed away, one step, then another.
It was barely possible that Tobin could leap to his feet and knock her unconscious, but then what? Run, with every Duri in camp on his trail? Even if he could bring himself to kill her, his masquerade would never survive a murder investigation—particularly in a camp where he was the only stranger.
Tobin slowly pulled the amulet from under his shirt and held it out to her, his palm open, his posture as unthreatening as he could make it with every nerve in his body shrieking for action.
She stopped backing away and watched him warily, but she hadn’t turned to run. She wasn’t screaming.
“Please,” Tobin repeated, trying to summon a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we can reach some understanding.”
He wasn’t sure, but since she couldn’t understand what he said, it didn’t matter. Vruud had told him a chanduri was expected to learn the language of a new camp, and surrender the amulet he’d no right to wear, within a year of his arrival. He’d started to give Tobin lessons, but Tobin didn’t plan to stay for the summer, much less a year, and he hadn’t paid attention. Now he wished he had.
“Vruud took you in,” the woman said thoughtfully. “He’s hiding you. He must have been the one who got you out of that cage. You didn’t find the cracked bar by accident.”
“I hope you didn’t get in trouble for it,” Tobin said.
She grimaced incomprehension and looked with distaste at the amulet he held out. “I don’t want to come that close to you.”
The only words of this camp’s Heron Clan language Tobin had learned so far were “no,” “yes,” and “I don’t speak Marshok.” For a miracle, one of those phrases fit the situation.
“I don’t speak Marshok,” Tobin said in that tongue.
Humor ghosted over her tense face. “You certainly don’t.”
He lifted the amulet once more, in silent plea. Even if he could promise her safety, with all the eloquence that panic and the amulet could lend him, there was no reason for her to trust his word. Except . . .
“Vruud,” said Tobin urgently. “Vruud, yes?”
She snorted. “You mean that Vruud spared you, so I should too? That arrogant old weasel would do anything that . . .” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Tobin in furious speculation. “Anything that served his own purpose. What could you do for Vruud?”
Tobin
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