By the time Ronan and Ashyn felt it safe to leave the inn, the moon was well past its zenith. Then they were faced with a quandary: what to do with Guin’s pack.
“Leave it,” Ashyn said.
Ronan hesitated. “I know you will not wish to wear her clothing, but she was carrying some of our food and money and —”
Ronan’s head snapped up, and he began patting his pockets. “She bought something tonight. She gave it to me.” He pulled out a small cosmetic pot and handed it to her. “Henna cream. She said she remembered women using it to darken their complexion. She thought it might help you pass more easily.”
Ashyn took and opened the pot. She dipped a tentative finger into the reddish-brown cream.
“She was so pleased that she’d found it,” he said. “I never even thanked her.”
She was trying, Ashyn thought. She truly was.
She didn’t say that, of course. His guilt was heavy enough.
“I’ll use it,” she said. “I have no looking glass, so you’ll need to tell me how it works.”
Up close, the cream made for a rather obvious disguise, but from a distance, it would help, as long as she kept her hair covered and her face downcast.
As they stepped from their room, Tova went ahead to wait near the road. Ashyn looked at the square. The bodies were gone, thankfully. When she and Ronan rounded the building to the stables, though, they saw the heads on pikes near the roadway.
“They forbade us to remove them,” the stable boy said as he got their horses. “The innkeeper is sick about it. It’s a terrible tragedy, of course, but it’ll be even worse for business. He’s saying we might as well shut down.”
Ronan hesitated, then glanced at Ashyn before saying, “I’ll wager they won’t be left up past the first imperial warrior or courtier riding by.”
The boy tensed, one hand gripping Ashyn’s reins. “Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t believe those men were imperial warriors. I’ve lived in the city all my life. I’ve seen plenty of guards. Oftentimes as I was running from the point of their blades.”
The boy laughed and relaxed. From the cut of his clothes, he was low caste himself.
“I bear the imperial army no goodwill,” Ronan said. “But they’re proud men. They don’t dress in mended uniforms and laugh at commoners. They consider themselves too good for that, the arrogant sons of whores.”
The boy nodded. “When they stable their horses here, I won’t even get a copper if their steeds don’t leave as curried and combed as a court lady’s mare.”
“And I’ve never seen warriors led by one without ink.” Ronan shrugged. “I could be wrong. I’m not staying to see if I am. But I don’t think you’ll need to keep those heads up more than a day or two. Now, we should be off…”
“Didn’t you come with three horses?”
“Yes,” Ronan said. “And we leave with two.”
The boy hesitated, then his eyes went round. “I – I’m sorry.”
Ronan nodded and they mounted their horses.
“About the third…” the boy said.
“Keep her. I suspect you’ll have a few more horses today than you did yesterday. Perhaps that will be some compensation to the innkeeper.”
Ashyn thanked the boy and paid him a few coppers. Before they left, Ronan paused, then he turned back and gave the boy five coppers more.
“If there’s any chance of taking one of those heads down, could you make sure it’s the girl with the longer hair. Don’t get yourself in any trouble for it, and I understand if you cannot, but if the opportunity presents itself… Perhaps the innkeeper can be persuaded that it’s best to remove both the girls’ heads…”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s all one can ask.” Ronan bowed to the boy, and they rode into the night.
FORTY-ONE
The cushion caught Gavril in the side of the head, sending him stumbling backward with an oath.
“I suppose I should be thankful there’s nothing harder for you to throw. Or sharper.”
She yanked a long, jeweled pin from her hair and whipped it. She’d been aiming for his eye, but sadly, he turned at the last moment and caught it in the cheek instead. It still scratched, and he let out a hiss, not loud enough to bring the guards, who’d retreated with Rametta.
“Moria… I know you’re angry —”
“Do you? Truly? Give me your dagger, and I’ll show you how angry I am.”
“Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I’ve not argued since the moment he mentioned it? It isn’t a real betrothal. You don’t have to marry me.”
“I don’t? Ancestors, have mercy. Because otherwise, I’d have gone through with it.” She strode over and glowered up at him. “Going through with it is not in question, Kitsune. If your father dragged me to the marriage shrine, I’d commit ritual suicide before I got there. With a hairpin if needed. After I killed you with it.”
Her gaze moved to the floor. He stepped back, his foot coming down to cover the hairpin.
“My father has assured me there is no question of an actual marriage. It’s a betrothal for political posturing. A sign that even the goddess favors his ascension to the imperial throne, having given her child to his in marriage.”
“Is he mad? A Keeper cannot marry. It’s an insult to the goddess —”