They'd gone four days through the flatlands before meeting the spine of Redbeard's troublesome Backbone. Here-and-there watchtowers stared gravely back at them, and they looked to Peter with their well-placed arrowslits like so many gloomy giants in wait. With afternoons cast in stretches of shadow, the creek guided them southward for two days further through favorable weather.
Peter turned his collar against the wind as he studied the grassy terrain ahead, fighting the toothless bite of dawn. The land seemed desolate without the blanket of night to give way the lights of distant villages. Sunrise painted the mountains orange.
Ethos was perched on his belly above, legs slung on either side of the outcropping they'd slept behind. "You were right," he called. "There's a town out there."
Peter had learned early on to trust the incredible range of that vision. "Banners?"
"Red."
"My red or your red?"
"They look the same as the ones in Makai."
"Azoso, then. I've heard some things."
Pebbles clattered. Ethos was scowling down at him, framed by his sable mop of hair. "No stopping this time," he said. "I'm not spending another night in some sticky old pub."
Peter smirked. "But you get me free drinks."
"They were only free because you were letting that barhag all over me."
"They like to be called barmaids."
"I don't care what they like to be called."
"I'll buy you something to make up for it."
He frowned at that. "Aren't you out?"
Peter felt through his pocket for the slivered bars of copper. "I've some odds left," he mumbled, shaking them out in his palm. "No more'n a couple castings, though." He glanced when he was met by silence. Ethos was gazing ahead again, eyes constricted as if weighing odds. "Oi," Peter barked. "What are you spacing out for?"
Ethos gave a start. "What?"
"Where do you go when you drift off like that?"
He sank into the rocks and smiled, sluggard as a sunning lizard. "Why, do you get lonely?"
"I don't get lonely. I get curious. Quit smirking."
"Sorry, it's just that I rarely get a chance to look down on you like this," he said. "Turns out you're not all that scary from way up here." Something low to the ground caught his eye. His impish expression began to fade. "Lena's sent a message."
The unpolished shell was by the dying fire, faintly glowing dullish amber. Peter picked it up. "It's a long one," he noticed, by the weight of it. "The thing's near full."
"She does like to talk."
"Do you want to listen this time?"
Ethos bullied with a one-armed descent, feeling with his feet. "Better I don't," he replied. "They're meant for you and I still can't understand half the things she says." He reclaimed solid ground, hopping twice to ride out a stumble, and then surveyed their strewn belongings. "I'll clean up," he said. "The river's running ahead without us."
So they set off shortly thereafter. With the shell at his ear, Peter listened to Lena's familiar drawl as their shadows grew small beneath them. She'd obviously been wandering the stockyard, talking aloud while she saw to her chores, and he could tell despite the cheer in her voice that the workload was catching up with her. When she finally stopped, the sounds of shuffling stopped with her. "I miss you," she said, and she sighed to herself. "I spend a lot of time wondering how you're doing out there in the world. Too much time. Be the tide, as they say."
The weight of the shell lifted, depleted. It's duty, done.
They crossed the creek, persuaded by a bridge that had weathered the ages. It let upon the enclosed farmland surrounding Azoso, and they waved good-naturedly to the men and women working it, silent unless the exchange called for more. They passed through countless fields, balancing every now and again along the ridges between, so engaged by their surroundings that several hours passed unnoticed without their even speaking to one another.
The town was due south of the agrarian allotment, and, though it boasted the walls of a fortified burg, it was under light enough guard to render the decrepit gatehouse pointless. In stark contrast of the pleasant countryside, its arteries were congested streets, pumping estuaries of human detritus to the marketplace brewing at its muddy, black heart. Peter slowed there, sickened, and turned Ethos about to see that his things were properly secured. "Stay close," he advised. "No more wandering off."
Ethos let him do as he liked, eyes on the crowd. "They're staring again."
Peter jerked on a strap. "Look at the ground."
They barreled ahead, into the flood of streetgoers. There were dozens of stalls lining the road, each one offering questionably low prices for items ranging from hair tonics to rash-be-goners, gut lines and pig stickers, whistle berries, salt horse, brushwood, pickled eggs—
Peter shoved his way to the front of a dough goods stand. He threw up fingers and whistled sharply to be noticed amid the active workspace. "Ho, peddler," he shouted. "Two hot rocks."
Ethos managed to follow along. "You're buying biscuits?"
"Aye, is there something wrong with that?"
"We're nearly down to the blanket."
Peter glanced to snap at him, only to find that the wildered woodling had been commandeered by a cluster of filthy street children. Ethos blinked owlish in the course of their poking and staring, visibly concerned as to whether or not he should be doing something to defend himself. "Beat it," Peter snarled at them, dragging the closest one away. "Beat it, I said!"
Ethos pointed back at the stall. "The biscuit man's looking at us."
He was right. The stocky vendor was waiting for them, a textbook genial salesperson. His oak-and-honey baritone was easy to hear over the ruckus. "First time in Azoso?"
Peter grunted. "What's with the strays?"
He responded with a bashful shrug. "Kids always see the worst of it when we fall on hard times," he said, and he smiled a little, bystanding the fuss. "They've taken a shine to your friend, though."
Peter flashed the castings. "Two hot rocks," he repeated. "We're in a rush."
"Are you headed to see the bird woman?"
"Bird woman?"
The man nodded over at Ethos. "He has the look of her, is all."
"What the hell is a bird woman?"
"She's an old recluse, lives in the wilds. Offers remedies to folk who don't want her nailed to a stump somewhere. Thought your friend was her grandson or suchlike."
"Never heard of her. Is that cider for sale?"
"You won't like the price."
Peter paid his due, a fair exchange for the biscuits. "Thanks."
Ethos had vanished, and it took a slow moment to realize that he'd squatted with his brood of nosy foundlings. A barefooted blond girl had climbed on his back, but he didn't seem bothered as he gestured theatrically, beaming as he told some story or joke that made his little audience snigger. He was the first to notice Peter's glower. One by one, they each glanced up as if they'd been caught in a wily act.
Peter sighed. "What are you doing?"
"Answering."
"Answering what?"
"The riddle to how you got so tall."
"Aye, and how's that."
The spirited grin renewed. "Water and sunshine."
Flatly: "Like a plant."
Laughter spilled out of the younglings. "Aye," he parroted. "Like a plant."
"Very funny." Peter flung one of the biscuits at him, made him fumble to catch it. "We still have a few hours of daylight left. Let's take what we can from it."
His brow dipped. "So soon?"
"Unless you're okay with a sticky pub."
Mild revulsion, gone in an instant. Ethos pleasantly broke up the biscuit. "You'll have to forgive him," he said to the kids, distributing crumbs. "He's really much nicer after a drink."
More laughter, heartier than before, and Peter watched from above, feeling offish, while Ethos carelessly gave up his meal. The girl on his back was last to be served, and she huffed in outrage when he playfully pretended to have forgotten her. Caught, he slyly gave her the final piece as she scowled and smiled and pouted all at once.
Their departure from Azoso passed in a blur of cured fish and sweetmeats. Ethos was silent for the most part, committed to matching Peter's pace, only seizing back of his coat once or twice when the crowds grew especially dense. They took a short break roadside at town's end, and soon enough they were returned to the comfortable calm of the countryside.
The sun eventually slid behind the Backbone, but ochre slivers of it persisted, highlighting strips of grasses and trees, and it was in the thickest of them that the glittering creek rematerialized between a set of shaggy embankments. It had grown shallower since their last encounter, and the terrain more rugged, so Peter removed his boots, hiked up his pants, and followed Ethos through the current, southward for the time being. The cool water came as a relief at first, but then it was just cold.
"Say, Peter."
"What?"
"Those kids were starving."
Peter glanced at him. "So will you, at this rate."
Ethos was faced forward, feeling around the back of his neck. He was anxious, Peter thought. "It's new to me," he muttered. "Seeing that kind of thing. I don't like it."
"This isn't Harken," Peter said. "We can't just magic ourselves an apple tree."
"But there's plenty of land and people to work it."
"Aye, and there's blight sometimes."
"Blight? What's blight?"
"Blight. Disease. Water mold, lately."
Ethos didn't respond right away. He ran a thumb beneath a fold in the grubby fabric of his sling, resolving whatever discomfort it'd posed. "I want to do something to help."
They'd discussed it before, how a helping hand here or there on the road would get in the way of whatever he intended to do in Oldden, which, as far as Peter could tell, ranged somewhere between information-gathering and outright murder. Encouraging him seemed constructive.
"You can," Peter said. "You'd be out in the open, is all."
"I don't want to be out in the open."
"Then quit talking about it." Peter paused to see if he'd turn. He didn't. "People will come poking around if you start raising crops all over the place," he went on. "That's all there is of it. So either help them or don't. Make up your mind."
"What about you?"
"I don't need any help."
"You'd be out in the open, too."
"Not really. Nobody would be looking at me."
Ethos reversed, walking backward. He was smiling. "You sound jealous."
Peter kicked water at him. "Of a pinworm like you?"
"You are. You've gone all red."
"I'm just saying you stand out, is all. Whelk."
Ethos sniggered. It wasn't unusual for him to mess around. But then he sighed, as if reminded. "I still can't bring myself to a mirror," he admitted. "I'd rather not see it yet."
Peter feigned a shudder. "Better you don't, a face like that."
"Now you're just being cruel." Ethos stopped short, very suddenly, as if there weren't normally a transition between walking and standing. "Be quiet."
"What is it? Do you hear something?"
"Be quiet, Peter." His eyes darted sideways and up the riverbank, drifting over the grassy slope in search of whatever it was that he'd sensed. After a moment, he tilted his head back and called out, "It's impolite to sneak up on people."
There was a blur of movement. The speed of it was so incomprehensible that Peter actually missed the collision. Far as he could tell, Ethos was just suddenly collapsed on the western embankment, back arched on the muddy rise.
She was a tiny thing, his assailant, fierce in the eyes and a great many years their senior. Her tawny skin was taught over bone, the same nutty shade as the woodling she'd tackled, but the cloud of hair spanning half of her frame was unequivocally white, as far from his black as a white thing could be.
Not a moment was squandered. She flourished a stumpy walking stick and lunged for his throat with the twisted length of it, prompting him to block the attack before it could catch him under the jaw.
Betwixt set teeth, she growled, "I should leave you as a warning for the others."
Straining, Ethos searched her glare. "Others? What others?"
"Fool," she snarled. "Don't toy with me."
There was a dripping branch in Peter's grip, but he couldn't recall where he'd salvaged it from. He was mustering the courage to advance when one of her knobby hands lashed out and fiercely wrenched it away from him. She wielded it from afar, tight-fisting air.
Her dark eyes slid to him. "Human," she noticed. "A beanstalk, at that."
Peter bristled. "Witch."
A flick of her wrist sent the branch spinning into the distance. She didn't watch it land. "You're far from home, coastlander," she said. "Run there while you still have legs."
In dealing with him, she'd unwittingly taken the pressure off Ethos, who was gazing up at her in open admiration. It was all Peter could do not to string together a dozen deplorable curses. "Ethos," he barked. "Do something!"
The woman instantly realized her mistake. Fearing the price for her carelessness, she hoisted the stick high over her head to land a final crushing blow. But it was there, weapon readied, that she froze in place. Her eyes were wide, like she'd seen something chilling.
Ethos was being carefully still, good arm raised to shield his face, lest she see some glimmer of hostility in his bearing. "We're just passing through," he said, politely forbearing to dissuade her from further attacks. "Could you please stand down?"
The cudgel sank, but she'd far from calmed. The woman slapped his arm away and seized his chin with her long, bony fingers. There was a curious look in her eyes as she turned him to and fro. "In all my born years," she grumbled. "What in creation have you done to yourself?"
Ethos took it well, without protest. "What do I call you?"
She drew back, head slightly tilted as if she were trying to see him from new perspective. Her hair grazed the surface of the water. "Townspeople call me bird woman."
"I'd much rather call you by name, bird woman."
"Bah. Then you can call me Kacha."
"It's nice to meet you, Kacha."
"The arm— it's broken?"
"On the mend."
"How long?"
"About a week, give or take." Ethos looked over at Peter. "Right?"
Peter was forced to suspend his cautious approach. "Aye, it's been a week now."
Kacha scowled down at Ethos, tensely poised. A pair of warblers perched on her shoulder to voice their concern. "Fool," she said. "I could have killed you."
He smiled for her. "But you didn't."
"A man's supposed to fight back when someone comes at him."
"I'm not often attacked by pretty little bird women."
"So you're worse than a fool."
Peter spat, "Hag."
She turned out a dire glare on him. "Careful, coastlander," she warned, voice low. "I've never had much patience for your kind."
"Kacha, this is Peter," Ethos said, with a sociable gesture. "He's guiding me to Oldden."
She stood her ground, continued to glare. "To what end?"
"To find out who killed my family."
It was marginal, at best, but the leathered skin tightened around her eyes. "That's a hard loss," she muttered. "You have my condolences."
"Thank you." His smile turned sheepish. "It's getting cold," he said. "You don't happen to have a fire going, do you? Somewhere we could dry off?"
Kacha made for the eastern bank. "I suppose you deserve as much."
He watched her go. "Is it far?"
"The birds will guide you." She wearily clambered up the rise, hides and furs dripping, cursing her bones. She glanced back to add, "Touch anything and I'll work you into my stew."
And then she was gone, vanished into the tall grass. Ethos uncorked his empty waterskin and filled it where he sat. "That worked out well in the end," he said, and his appeasing timidity, as crafty as it was authentic, had faded a bit by the time he glanced up at Peter. "You okay?"
"You didn't have to tell her what happened to you."
Ethos shrugged it off. "I know."
"Then why did you?"
"I guess a part of me wanted to."
"I hope you noticed how she looks like you."
"Yes, I noticed."
"Are you going to ask her about it?"
"Doubtful."
"Aren't you curious?"
He just rubbed at an eye and said, "Stop it, please."
Peter had grown used to the shifts in his disposition. If Ethos were the gambling sort, he'd either keep his cards too close to his chest or he'd forget to conceal them at all. "You might want to reconsider this habit of yours," Peter sighed. "You can't really afford to drive off the only friend you've got."
Ethos smirked. "We're friends?"
"Aye, well, keep it up. How long are you going to sit there?"
"Sorry." There was resigned amusement in his wince. "I'm actually in an alarming amount of pain right now," he confessed. "She was much faster than I expected, a woman of that age."
"Bear in mind that I only like you a little more than I do stew."
He laughed, "You win. Help me up."