The Drowned Woods (14)

Trefor looked at the man and wagged his tail in greeting. The man looked thoroughly spooked, even more so when Trefor took two steps closer and uttered the softest of woofs.

The man nearly fell off his barrel. Gaze darting between Fane and the dog, the man hastily stowed his still-smoking pipe into his pocket and trudged away. The others followed.

Fane glanced down at Trefor. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Trefor wagged his whole lower body in reply, tongue lolling.

“Yes,” said Fane. “You’re clearly a threat to us all.”

Trefor made a soft whining sound.

“Beggar,” said Fane, but he said it fondly. “Come on. We’ll find a bite to eat before bed.”

The city wasn’t a large one, but it had a few eating houses that would still be serving at this late hour. Fane turned to go when he realized that he’d been followed. Two figures had slipped out of the fights—and they were clearly after him.

The first was a young woman. She had her hood raised, but the hair that fell across her left cheek was a honeyed brown. An older man stood in her shadow. They both wore dark cloaks, and both had the same wary look to them. There was a whisper of iron at the woman’s wrists and boots—knives, most likely. There was another bit of metal tucked into her belt that felt less sharp. Maybe a wrench of some kind.

The man had too many blades to count. Merely standing a few strides away was like being beside a beehive. Fane kept his arms and hands in plain sight. “May I help you?”

It was the man who spoke. “You might have, if you’d left the Blaidd alive.”

“Pity about that,” murmured the young woman, in the voice of one who felt no pity at all.

“Sorry about your friend,” said Fane.

The man snorted. “Hardly a friend. We needed to hire a mercenary.” The man tilted his head speculatively. “How did you kill him?”

Of all the things Fane might have expected, that question wasn’t among them. “What do you mean?”

The man’s mouth curved into a smile—but it was the kind of smile that reminded Fane of knives and fishhooks. “You managed to kill a famed mercenary as easily as I’d have slain a snared rabbit.”

Fane touched the blood beneath his nose. “Not unless the rabbits of your village can land a good punch.”

The woman was startled into a laugh. She touched her mouth, as if trying to hide her mirth.

“It looked like an impossibility,” said the man, ignoring her.

“You should visit the mountains,” said Fane. “You’ll find many such impossibilities there.”

Fane was still unused to the way city folk treated magic. For them, it was a distant thing. An impossibility. In the shadow of the Annwvyn mountains, everyone marked their front doors with iron, counted the number of crows that roosted in nearby trees, gave baskets of fresh apples and bread to the forest in exchange for decent weather, and told their children never to make bargains with any folk they came across in the woods.

The man’s eyes gleamed with something like avarice. “Then you are other-touched.”

“I said no such thing,” said Fane. He tipped his head in a polite farewell and began to turn.

“We wish to hire you,” said the man. “We have a job—it would pay you handsomely.”

“I’m not the Blaidd,” said Fane. “And I doubt I’d enjoy any job you wished to hire him for.” He let out a breath; his mouth still tasted of blood, and he yearned for clean water. But before he could make a show of leaving a second time, Trefor walked away from him.

The corgi trotted over to the young woman, snuffling at her ankles. The woman looked down at Trefor unflinchingly. “Well,” said the woman quietly. “Aren’t you a lovely one?” She knelt, holding out a hand for Trefor to sniff.

Trefor licked her fingers. And then he sneezed.

Fane felt the bottom of his stomach drop out.

Trefor bounced happily around the woman. His tail wagged and he sneezed a second time.

Magic.

Trefor only ever sneezed when he scented magic upon the air.

“What?” asked the woman, seeing Fane’s hard look. She kept her chin angled down, her hair falling across her left eye. She appeared uncomfortable with Fane’s scrutiny. “Should I not have touched him? Is he yours?” Her hands fell away from Trefor’s ears. The dog sat back on his haunches, disappointed.

“No, you can pet him. He belongs to himself,” said Fane. “But he enjoys cheese enough that he’s deigned to follow me around the countryside.”

“He’s a handsome boy,” said the young woman, smiling down at Trefor.

Trefor licked at her hands again, trying to coax forth more pets.

Fane regarded the two strangers. “Who are you?”

“My name is Renfrew,” said the man. “This is Mererid.” He gestured to the young woman.

Mererid was absentmindedly stroking Trefor’s cheek. The dog sneezed so hard he fell over. He shook his head, ears flapping.

There was no mistaking it. She had magic, and judging by the strength of Trefor’s sneezes, it was not the trifling charms that could be bought from hedgewitches or even the borrowed power that dwelled within Fane’s body. She had true power.

“I suppose we can’t interest you in a spot of supper?” asked Renfrew. He seemed encouraged by Fane’s hesitation. “We could discuss that job I was going to hire the Blaidd for. It isn’t killing—I mean, if all goes well, there will be no killing.”