The sun spent several mornings against their backs. Someone would usually voice a complaint around the height of its arc, at which point they'd break to scavenge what little they could or, should they be so lucky, chase down a merchant or two on the road. The clouds of Farwell were reached without incident.
Una scarcely reported in to the benefactor. She'd felt disinclined since their third day out, when she'd stirred awake in the crook of Peter's arm, and Ethos, on watch, had imparted a smile and advised against moving, lest she disturb his adventuring.
An enigma, she'd thought at the time, this pleasant, green-eyed scoundrel. She couldn't help but be drawn to him. He possessed a certain wit and charm that was very much appealing, almost childlike, but she'd never have called him childish. He was as much a child as he was an old man. Yet for all of his approachable qualities, his kindness was cruel. Ethos invited people in only to keep them at bay.
Peter was the archive to his mysterious nature. There was comfort in that. The touch had taught him to trust her, so trickery was often redundant; he'd tell her as much as she dared to know, answer as much as she dared to ask. In return she'd promised him the same courtesy, and she mostly kept to her word. Her affiliation with the benefactor, however, the shady business to which she'd bound herself, strictly remained under wraps.
As for the boys and their tireless bickering, Una grew used to it. Peter would occasionally become indignant and demand that she take his side in some matter.
And normally none of it bothered her.
"But I'm saying it now, aren't I?"
"Aye, after I twisted your arm."
"I don't remember any twisting."
"There was, aye. Una's my witness."
"Maybe you should've been more explicit."
"More explicit? I said you could have a bite."
"I take big bites. I thought you knew that about me."
"I'm gonna stick your head in a bucket and kick it around the yard."
But it was getting late. "Quiet," Una hissed at them. "Keep your eyes peeled."
Farwell's market had closed down, the streetlights with it. Curfew would shortly follow. Ethos pointed at a corner establishment and whispered something indistinguishable to Peter.
Gladstone Tavern, the crooked sign read. Someone on the second level pushed open a window and emptied a pail of waste in the street. Una's nose crinkled up at the stench.
"Any port in a storm," Peter said, glancing at her. "Coming?"
Mournfully, Una protested, "It's a hovel."
"It beats the alternative."
So, in spite of herself, Una swallowed past her disgust and followed in after Ethos, Peter holding the rear. The hazy hall within was occupied by all the foul sort of characters that one would expect to find in such a place: roustabouts and low-lifers, heads bent over their games of dice. Some sat at tables, eating, drinking, while others were gathered by the open fire, laughing their way through a song.
Ethos warned her to watch her step as he guided them through the tankard-strewn wilderness. She used it as an excuse to take his hand. He was hot to the touch, same as ever, dry as a summer heath. He seated her at the farmost end of the high-ceilinged venue, judicious enough to assess the space while she took a moment to make herself comfortable.
Peter dropped his gear and split from the group, counting their castings. "I'll get us drinks."
Ethos sat with his back to the nearest wall, and very calmly, moving only his eyes, continued to gauge the roughnecks. Una smiled and asked, "So do you come here often?"
He managed a smirk. "Are you picking me up?"
"You could do worse." It felt natural to take up his hand again, so she did. The skin of her arm adhered to the tacky table. "Jokes aside, I don't see how you can frequent places like this."
"It helps Peter unwind," he told her. "I think it reminds him of Nahga."
She gave his fingers a squeeze. "It's kind of you to indulge him."
"I enjoy it, too, if the mood is right." Frowning, thoughtful, he ran a thumb across her knuckles. It was the same look he had when his headaches worsened. "You have soft hands," he noticed. "They're not like ours."
She was reminded of her first impression of Peter's leathered palms. "I was raised indoors," she replied, sounding entirely displeased about it. "While you were climbing the trees with your beasts, I was studying arithmetic. While Peter was riding the river with Lena, I was practicing etiquette."
"You know there's nothing wrong with that, right?"
"Children aren't meant to be cooped up." Una slid the table's candle closer between them. It rasped over the weathered wood like ten thirsty voices. "I used to watch the local kids play hoodman's blind from my window," she remembered. "I might have hated them."
"You throw that word around more than I'd like."
She frowned. "What word?"
"Hate." Ethos searched her face. "Someone once told me I needed a purpose. Maybe you should consider yourself lucky for being born into one."
Again, she questioned the depths of his knowledge. "And what's my purpose?"
But his seriousness wasn't lasting. He grinned at her and returned the squeeze. "You're the one who stops Peter from strangling me when I get fresh."
She laughed. "Oh, I see."
"It's an important job to me."
"Yes, yes, very important." Una admired him from across the table. He was like her reflection, smiling gently. "It's difficult to read you sometimes," she said. "I can't tell what you're thinking."
His smile turned sly. "That's good."
Peter rejoined them before she could comprehend it. Tankards clattered together. The candle flickered. He said, "There's a game of old boy by the hearth."
Ethos glanced and said, "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Just don't. You're a poor gambler."
Peter sourly picked something out of his ale. "That was a run of foul luck," he said. "I would've won if that guy with the eyebrows hadn't been cheating."
Uncertain, Una asked, "What was wrong with his eyebrows?"
"It's not called cheating if they're just seeing through you." Ethos gestured with his tankard. "This is why your father owes everyone money," he said. "Transparency must be genetic."
"Transparency," Peter retorted. "Where did you even learn that word?"
"I listen. I'm an exceedingly good listener. You should try it."
"Listen, aye. What's slang for born liar."
"I'm not a born liar."
"Aye, born liar. Expert like."
"Omitting the truth isn't the same thing as lying."
Una's thoughts wandered while they argued. It didn't matter if she was there or not. She was a vulture, waiting for something rotten. "Do we have a room?" she asked, loudly enough to cut in. They looked at her in confusion, so she repeated, "A room."
Peter nodded. "Let me know when you're ready to turn in," he told her. "I had to say we were married to stop them from stuffing us in a common. It was the only way to get a room." He glanced over at Ethos and asked, "Think you can sneak in after us?"
Ethos leaned forward and burped in his face.
Peter glared. "You could've just said no."
"I could've, yeah. Give me a silver."
"What do you need it for?"
His attempt for Peter's pocket resulted in a minor scuffle, all but an unrefined fumbling of limbs and irate, half-uttered oaths. Ethos emerged victorious, tripping away with his spoils. "I'll give it back," he said, one hand out to discourage Peter from lunging. "Easy."
Peter glowered after him, teeth set. "Don't do that."
His retreating smile was an unapologetic apology. Una was trying not to laugh when Peter returned to her in defeat. "You're like brothers," she said. "It's sweet."
"It's not sweet. I earned that silver."
"He said he'd give it back."
"He says a lot of things that aren't true."
Ethos reappeared at a distance; he was by the hearth, working his charm on the gamblers who'd gathered. "He really intends to play," Una said. "Think they'll let him?"
"Aye, they'll let him. He comes across as an easy target." Peter was sullenly staring in the same direction. "He'd better not take the whole pot. It'll be a pain to get jumped later on."
"The whole pot? You suspect he'll win, then."
"Of course he'll win."
Una watched him nurse his drink. Only his eyes were visible over the cup, cobalt blue. "Peter," she said, inviting them. "Talk to me."
Rather than soften his glare for her, he quickly turned it back on Ethos. His voice was grumpy and lower than usual. "I'll bet I could do just about anything if I were more like that."
With a smile, she said, "I wouldn't change a thing."
"I would," he replied, and he scowled at his ale. "I'm a drunk, a laggard, and I'm always, for some reason, concerned for my teeth."
"Your teeth?"
"Aye, it's weird, right?"
"A bit. It's not like you're unhygienic."
He studied her as she fixed a twist in his collar. "You like him, huh."
Una calmly avoided his eyes. "You both have your moments," she answered. "If someone spoke badly of either of you, I think it would anger me."
"You're a strange sort of woman." A fiddle began a spirited reel; it sang pleasantly, crisp as the winter evening itself. Someone picked up percussion— bones or spoons, it was hard to tell. Peter smiled and stopped her fussing, charming in his own right. "Dance with me."
Una blinked, taken aback. "You can dance?"
"Like a fish out of water."
"Flopping around and out of breath?"
"Is that not how it's done?"
Laughter arose from the smoky hearth. Ethos was engaged with his beastly, lumbering onlookers, somehow seeming right at home. "Alright," Una agreed. "One dance."
Peter finished his drink. They met on the floor, chuckling awkwardly at first, and Una made a sound of surprise when he smoothly swept her along with the tune. His hand on her waist was an unobtrusive, guiding presence.
She said his name, shocked, and then laughed at the satisfied look in his eyes. "And he says you can't lie," she teased. "Who taught you to dance like this?"
"My dad. Said it was sure to bag a looker."
"His words?"
"His, aye."
"Prudent man."
"He's in debt to half the town."
Una laughed again. "This is nice," she said. "Thank you."
He repeated the same step a few times, seemingly preoccupied. When he finally pivoted, she could see Ethos across the tavern; a great giant of a man was happily thumping his back, making him flinch with every well-meant wallop. Peter had wrongly suspected trouble.
"We're out of earshot," he said. "Speak your mind."
She wanted to look at his face. "You're angry."
"I don't like sneaking around, princess."
She wished he wouldn't call it that. She rested her head on his chest, feeling guilty. "I'll need you to speak in his defense," she murmured. "You've been with him from the start, so it's key. If things go sideways it'll be up to us to keep his head afloat."
"Sideways," he echoed. "You mean if he kills your dad."
"That's right. When he kills my father we'll need to protect him." His heart was pattering in her ear, restless. "Relax," she instructed. "Just accept the reality. It's for the best."
His heart gradually slowed. "The council won't pardon him."
"They will. You said yourself he was profitable."
"I never said that."
"You said it to Lena."
He tucked his chin in to see her. "How do you know that?"
Una touched his arm, pushed him through it. "They won't kill him if they know what he can do," she said. "Those were your words, Peter, and you were right to say them. You and I can bridge the gap, provide direction with Gladius gone. They'll listen to us. I promise."
With a sigh, Peter said, "He can do it, I think."
"Do what? Kill my father?"
"Aye. If it's him."
Her hands slid down and fell into his. They picked up the pace. "Then you'll have to persuade him to yield when it's done," she said. "None of this will matter if he keeps up the fight."
"I don't know if he'll listen, princess. The oupir's an issue."
"Oupir," she grumbled. "Untested ethnobotany."
"I'd take it, too, if I had those headaches."
"I just wish he wouldn't do it so frequently."
Peter carried her into a turn. After a passing parting of hands, he drew close. "His people are out there," he reminded her. "If anyone knows what's wrong with him, it's them. We need to be careful until they make contact."
"That's your plan?"
Peter adjusted his grip. He looked torn. "I'll talk to him," he conceded. "He's been acting hinky since we took you on, anyhow. He probably knows more than he's letting on."
Una scowled at him. "Don't start a fight, Peter."
He smiled back. "Is that an order?"
She said, "If it has to be."
"Guess there's no helping it, then." His gaze jumped imperceptibly higher; something was behind her, she instantly knew. "Act natural," he said. "There's a man approaching us."
She had to glance, of course, though she did so subtly, and was shocked to see Wallace navigating the loud revelry with ease. It was bizarre to see him in such an unusual setting. Knowing he'd be upon them in moments, she quickly stopped and looked up at Peter. His eyes were promising. "I'm feeling tired," she whispered. "Go tell Ethos to wrap things up."
Peter nodded and pulled away, understanding. "Five minutes."
Wallace was waiting when she turned back. A lantern swayed from an overhead beam, tossing out shadow. He had a half-finished drink in one hand, like he'd been there for a while. "I saw you come in," he told her. "You seem at ease, considering."
"You're watching me now?"
"Not exactly. Olba's been murdered."
She stared at him and said, "It wasn't me."
"Obviously." Wallace stepped into the firelight, close enough for her to see that something was wrong with his eyes. They were polished black, like a pair of beetles, and within them there emerged a vile swell of humor. He greeted, "Ho, princess."
Una's skin tried to crawl away from her. "Benefactor."
A second fiddle joined the first. Jovial. Pleasant. The benefactor draped his arm around her and forcefully guided her into the crowd. "You've been ignoring me these last few days," he said. "It hurts, you know. I have feelings."
"You told me to bring him to Calaster. That's what I'm doing."
"And yet I'm annoyed." He elbowed someone out of the way, begged their pardon, and continued on. "Don't confuse comfort with happiness, princess," he said. "This assignment isn't an excuse to cozy up with my commodity."
Una resisted his slow approach of the hearth. "Stop it," she snarled, digging in heels. "He'll hear us if we get any closer."
"I told you to get rid of Peter."
"I can't," she objected. "I need him. He knows things."
They entered the game, colored by fire, dwarfed by roughnecks. The players within were circled up, Ethos among them, laughing. Peter was whispering something in his ear. "Ethos deliberately appeals to everyone he interacts with," the benefactor said. "It's a defense mechanism. I'll never get anywhere with him if Peter's always around to do his dirty work."
Ethos glanced. It was involuntary, like he'd heard his name. Seeing them there, he quickly made an effort to appear like he hadn't. "Then appease me, benefactor," Una suggested, with intention. "I'll be a great deal more accommodating if I know the purpose of all this."
"It's actually rather complicated." With a startled laugh, the benefactor nudged her. "Look, I think he's listening to us," he said. "Should I say hi?"
Ethos was keeping his eyes averted; they were a little too round, affixed somewhere low to the ground. His rotation in the game was coming up, but he seemed to have lost his interest in the barreltop pile of winnings. The players hollered and carried on unsuspecting.
The benefactor's words were aimed at Ethos. "I'm curious to know when you realized it. The fire, perhaps. All of your kinfolk burning alive like screaming, scrambling rump roasts."
Ethos stiffened. Peter's hand on his shoulder kept him sitting.
Never had Wallace's face made such a malign expression. He liked it, she realized. He liked that Ethos could hear him. He thought it was funny. The laughter in his voice was a slight in itself, an affront to ears receptive enough. "Do you remember the smell?" he asked. "Did it make you hungry?"
Ethos finally leveled a glare, unsmilingly livid. The player to his right was telling him to take his turn, to play a card, and those who'd noticed the shift in his disposition were, one by one, beginning to search for the subject of his worrying attention. Peter literally had to push his head down, hold it there, and snarl a threat in his ear to get the game back on track.
Joyfully unfazed, the benefactor patted Una's hand and gave her a single, unsettling warning. "A unit of men is coming for Wallace," he said. "I'd hate for you to get caught in the crossfire, so be a good girl and go hide in your room. We'll hash out the details later." But he stopped short as he made to leave, looking exhausted by her. "And report in, for pity's sake. I'm a busy man."
The crowd exploded. Una cursed the infernal drunken clamor. "You shouldn't have teased him."
The benefactor's bottomless eyes slid back to the game, and his subsequent smile compelled her to glance. Ethos was standing, hands in his pockets, while the players quarreled amongst themselves. His glare shone with unspeakable loathing.
"Take a seat," he said, through the uproar. "Put your gold where your mouth is."
It was an apt turn of phrase. The benefactor's grin was a gruesome gash. "As tempting as that is, I'll have to decline," he replied. "I never take unwanted risks."
"Big talkers rarely do."
A bark of laughter. Sewage discharge. The benefactor turned away, and the response that followed was a private one, far too quiet for the mob to hear. "I look forward to revisiting this exchange."
Ethos clearly wanted to make chase, but Peter seized the sleeve of his shirt, stopping him. A brief, inaudible argument ensued. Once the usual terms had been met, they hurriedly collected their winnings and retreated into the fleshy wall of onlookers.
It had all happened so quickly. Una was left searching for their faces until one of them found her first. Peter. "Give me your hand," he said, and he took it perforce. "This way."
She followed along with a frown. "Where's Ethos?"
"He's getting our gear. I didn't want him to start a free-for-all." Peter saw an opening in the crowd and made for the door, Una in tow. "Stay close."
The night air was cool on her face, a welcome change from the smother of heat and sound within the tavern. Una would have liked a moment to take it in, but Peter's grip told her not to. The rickety stairwell that led to the rooms on the level above were rife with untrue footing, and the catwalk beyond was in no better shape. Three grisly drunkards were urinating at the gallery edge, half-draped over the baluster. Thankfully, none of them glanced from their business.
Peter slowed and felt through his pockets for the key. He caught her watching, averted his eyes, and saw to the door without a word. He didn't seem to know what to say to her.
The room was bare, save for a single straw mattress. Una tried to salvage the ruined atmosphere while Peter saw to the door. She joked, "I suppose you get what you pay for."
"It'll do." Sounds could be heard from the tavern below. The floorboards buzzed. Peter sat on the mattress and rubbed at his mouth, his face, his eyes. "Sorry," he sighed. "I'm a little flustered."
It was too dark. Una cast a few spotters and looked down at him. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "Keeping him in line like that was the best thing you could've done."
He smiled up at her, ever critical. "Still."
"What did he say to you?"
"A lie, I reckon."
Una chose her words carefully. "Wallace and I worked together in the Reach," she said. "We're not on good terms, but there's no need to worry. I took care of it."
"It must've been bad for Ethos to react like that."
With feeling: "I took care of it."
Peter looked like he didn't quite believe her. Regardless, he let it slide. "I need another drink," he muttered. "Maybe I'll stick my head in later, see if the aleman's up and about."
He was very handsome just then, outlined nicely by shadow and light. Una joined him on the edge of the bed. "Oldden holds a celebration every year on Founders Day," she said. "I'll treat you if Ethos hasn't burned the city down by then."
"You just want to get me drunk so you can have your wicked way with me."
"Drat," she laughed. "You've foiled my plan."
But Peter didn't laugh with her. He reached for one of the spotters, hesitant. It spun on its radiant axis when his fingertips brushed against it. "Say, Una," he began. "When you came across us in the woods… you were looking for him, weren't you." He glanced at her, not quite frowning. He didn't seem angry about it. "Like Kacha."
She stared, startled by the turn. Her heart sank.
"You don't have to answer," he continued. "I'm just curious."
Una hugged her knees for warmth, torn by his trust and her fear of altering it. "I was in the area, waiting," she said. "I knew you'd be passing through."
He asked, "How?"
She had to smile to herself. It sounded so preposterous. "He told me," she said. "He told me in a dream." But Peter returned with no witty remark. He was subdued, gazing at the dusty light shining up between the floorboards. "You're not surprised," she gathered. "Impressive. All the talk of monsters and birdfolk must have dulled your sense of shock."
"Aye, maybe, coupled with a whole bunch of other stuff and the fact that he knew who I was when we met. I'm either in way over my head or deliriously lying in a ditch somewhere."
Una examined the side of his face. "He knew who you were?"
"I've asked him about it, but he just pretends not to know what I'm talking about." It was hard not to use words like destiny when it came to Ethos, but Peter clearly didn't find such fated arrangements as thrilling as she. "So this dream of yours," he eventually backtracked. "Tell me about it."
The door saved her. It clattered open and spit out Ethos, who, weighed by all of their gear, quickly shut it and threw down the jamb. "Kill the lights," he instructed. "Keep your voices down."
Una didn't need any convincing. The spotters popped and plunged them back into darkness, within which their scuffling and hushing persisted. There was movement in front of her— Peter, she thought at first, until she caught a glimpse of skin. Ethos was crouched there, freeing himself of the gear, glancing now and again at the door.
She cleared her throat. "May I ask what we're hiding from?"
"There are armed men downstairs," he replied. "They're after your friend."
"He's not my friend, Ethos."
"Could've fooled me."
Peter said his name. Sharply. He was positioned by the entrance, she realized, at the ready without being told. Reminded, Ethos fell silent and trained a glare on her. A sliver of tavern light was shining up from between the floorboards, curling over the plane of his jaw and pooling within a single eye. Looking away wasn't an option.
"Ethos." Una kept her voice low. She slid forward to touch his face. "It's okay."
He didn't protest, simply glared. "He's a bad person, Una."
"Yes, he is," she agreed. "But it's okay."
Some of his anger bled away. After a stretch of silence, he closed his eyes— to listen. "There's shouting," he said. "Somebody's hurt."
"Can you make out any of the words?"
"It's him. They're asking what he did with you."
Una's mouth went dry. Her hand was nailed to his cheek. "With me?"
The distant sounds of music ended. A scream arose. Wallace. Ethos opened his eyes: a bewildered burst of color. "He's like a different person," he said. "He's begging."
"Wallace was always weak."
Somehow, just with that, he understood. His voice fell several decibels. "Interesting," he said, gaze hooded and elsewhere. "He wasn't here to begin with."
"I'm sorry, Ethos. That couldn't have been a pleasant experience for you." He didn't respond. She wondered how many gears were at work while he stared in sightless thought. "Ethos," she ventured, bringing his eyes back. "Do you know why they're looking for me?"
Her question made him smile. "What, did you think they wouldn't?" he asked. "A missing princess doesn't go unnoticed, Una. You're probably top priority."
So he'd known. It shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did.
Ethos must have been able to see her in the shadows, because he purposefully returned her hand to her lap. The ochre light slid away, coating him black. "A general rule to live by, Una," he said. "Always assume that your friends know more about you than reason suggests."
Una couldn't remember if she'd answered. She only remembered the shift in the air as he went to join Peter by the door. It was so like him, she thought as they whispered, so typical, to say such heavy words and then leave her to chew on their meaning.
Peter called her over, so she dutifully crept across the room. She took his hand when she noticed him feeling around in the darkness for her. "We're going to make a run for it before they start checking rooms," he said. "Are you with us?"
Una felt blind. Like Peter, she felt around until she found Ethos. He was huddled with them, head bent as checked his things, hair soft enough to envy. She asked, "Do we split up here?"
Ethos kept his voice even. "You're assuming I know."
Softly: "Don't you?"
The silence breathed in like a biting draft. Ethos let his head sink further until she was sure he was looking at the floor. "It's dangerous," he said. "We should leave."
Una nervously smoothed his hair. "All of us?"
"That's right. Stop petting me, please."
She jumped. "Sorry."
"Gather your things. Be quick."
She complied, albeit gracelessly through the blackness, and the boys returned to whispering. The irony wasn't lost on her— that the price she'd paid for acceptance was the punishment of exclusion. She resented them for it, for having grown so close while she'd been alone.
Una wasn't kind. Ethos probably knew it, too. Only a truly contemptible person would loathe the very thing that she treasured. Her earnest desire to protect their friendship was also beset by a terrible longing to violently tear it apart.
The door creaked open. Ethos was a silhouette against the resplendent night, supporting himself on the jamb peg. His words were low, intended for Peter. "It doesn't matter," he said— a curt response to something she'd missed. "I was just curious to see how long you'd keep it from me."
"Real cute, Ethos." Peter approached Una, turned from the stars and thus thrown in shadow. He retrieved his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. "We all need to have a serious sit down," he mumbled. "Tomorrow, or whenever the two of you decide to get your story straight."
Ethos heaved a sigh from the entrance. "You always want to talk."
Peter glanced, and his whole body flinched. The retort jammed up in his throat.
A man was standing beyond the door, floodlit by the moon: a thirty-something soldier with a face like hammered metal. "I hate to impose," he said, and then laughed. "Oh, wait."
Despite the obvious differences, the benefactor's honey-toxic timbre was all too identifiable. Una unthinkingly stepped forward— to shield Peter, she realized. It was the most unselfish thing she'd ever done. His hand caught her wrist, uncertain, confused.
Ethos had gone still. He knew perfectly well who it was, but he turned to look anyway. "So you possess people," he reasoned. "That's new. Do they ever remember?"
Something was in the benefactor's hands. He was looking down it, hidden from view. "I know the names and locations of all four men you met in Harken," he said. "Gladius, of course, is in Oldden. As is the fat one, Bagley, and the Bonesteel delegate, Kyrian. The older gentleman lives on the other side of Iron Town. Calaster Goforth."
"Why tell me?"
"Because I have a use for you, Ethos, and it occurs to me that you might abide a more forward approach than a snake in the grass. Given your nature." The benefactor drew closer to the open door. He had a bludgeon, Una saw. Military-issued. A blade to match it was sheathed at his side. "The princess will take you to Calaster," he said. "He'll answer your questions. I'll return once you've spoken to see where you stand."
"A use," Ethos echoed. "What use?"
Without warning, the benefactor slapped him across the face. The impact was solid, brutal enough to throw hair in his eyes. Ethos stood in frozen shock of it, head turned sideward.
"I wasn't there that day in the woods to greet you," the benefactor went on. "But I've seen how you handle yourself through the eyes of my men. You're straight to the point, you're open to reason, and you're slow to trust. I won't talk down to you like they did."
A second blow, just as Ethos raised a glare. It was harder than the first, painful to hear. His hands fisted. His knuckles went white. Stiff with restraint, he retaliated not.
The benefactor's hateful humor had completely gone. He was studying the bludgeon. Serenely, he mused, "You're probably wondering who I am."
Ethos worked his jaw. "I— "
A gut strike this time, again without warning. Ethos doubled over against the door, feeling for the jamb peg. He fell to a knee. Una lurched, but the grip on her wrist held her back. Peter was shaking his head at her. His steady expression told her to wait. But for what? And for how long?
The benefactor said, "Tell me where you came from."
Ethos coughed. "Harken."
"Tell me while you still have teeth."
His sliding eyes were furious. "I don't remember."
The blow to his back was what broke him. Ethos collapsed like a tree struck by lightning. "Your friends are certainly lacking," the benefactor noticed, gesturing with the stick. "Here I thought I'd be fighting them off."
Without looking away, Una whispered, "Peter."
Ethos was slow-moving, struggling to rise. The benefactor crouched beside him. "She calls you a master pretender, you know," he said. "But you're not. You're just a kid. This artificial calling for vengeance is a distraction, at best." Ethos gave a start, but the benefactor drove the bludgeon into his shoulder, pinning him hard to the door. "You'll never flow with the current," he promised. "Ripples are everywhere. You just don't see it yet."
Ethos flashed teeth at him. "I see plenty."
"You spoke about wants and needs. Do you remember?" The benefactor must have seen a flicker of recognition, because he continued after a brief moment. "You're going to play an important part in something that I need to do," he explained. "And I want it to be easy on you. I want you to walk away from it. But it needs to be done, and the need far outweighs the want. I'll do worse than set fire to your forest if you try to get out of it. I'll break your legs. Nod if you understand."
Ethos suddenly wrenched himself free and lunged at his unprepared adversary. They spilled onto the floor. Advantage gained, Ethos landed a savage backhand, fist connecting loudly with face. Blood misted. Teeth shattered. He then seized the front of the benefactor's jacket, leaned in, and the downy hair that Una so envied stirred alive like a cat's risen hackles. The air pulsed with energy. Silently fierce, Ethos stared into those bottomless eyes until they paled and clouded over.
Everything stilled. It had happened in matter of seconds.
Peter was shouting something. Una didn't catch any of it. He was sprinting past her next she knew, violently shoving Ethos aside. He was afraid for the soldier, she quickly gathered. "He's still alive," he said, ear to the man's wheezing chest. "Just barely."
The unadorned shell took weight in Una's pocket. A new message. "The benefactor survived," she whispered. "He's back in Oldden."
Neither asked how she knew. Ethos sat against the door again, shoulders skewed. The look in his eyes as he watched Peter's back was disillusioned, yet unsurprised. He coughed once more, winced like it hurt, and said, "You didn't help me."
"You didn't need it." Peter took the man's boots for himself, swapping out. He flung the old pair at Ethos and pointed at them. "Put those on," he instructed. "It's too cold for you to keep walking around barefoot like that."
Ethos didn't argue for once. "I can't feel my hands."
The skin partway up his arms was black, as if he'd gone and dipped them in pitch. Captivated, Una knelt. When she sensed no rejection to her in his bearing, she wordlessly asked to see the damage, and, after a second, he calmly complied. His hands felt heavier than before. Cold. Leaden.
She'd never seen anything quite like it. "Your knuckles are bloody."
"Yeah," he said, in a daze. "I punched him in the teeth."
She tried to decipher his expression. Dejection didn't suit him well, she thought, not when he spent his days smiling so easily. There was a ghost of fear there, too, like he wanted to cry, but wouldn't. And while she knew he probably wouldn't answer, she asked, "What did you do?"
Startled, he met her eyes. It took him a slow moment to return from wherever he'd drifted to, but when he did, he laughed. It was a strange sort of sound— unhappy; not much of a laugh at all. "I don't know," he replied. "Really, I don't. I just wanted him to stop talking."
"Una." Peter's voice was soft, but firm. He was peering over his shoulder at them. "Scavenge what you can, but ditch the rest," he said. "We're traveling light from here on out."
She nodded and turned back to Ethos. "Stay put," she told him. "Don't think too much."
Another laugh. He covered his eyes with a blackened hand. "Yeah, okay."
Peter was rifling through the soldier's pockets when she came up beside him. "Leave the blade, it's too recognizable," she said. "Same goes for anything with the capital's insignia."
He wouldn't look at her, but she didn't wonder why this time. The man on the floor was breathing shallowly, spittle traversing a pockmarked cheek. A living thing, just as well dead. Ashen.
"His name is Toubin Ozwell." This, from Ethos, still slumped where she'd left him, still hiding his eyes, still tired and frail and strong all at once. "He just turned thirty," he continued. "He's annoyed with himself for not asking the royal saucier out for a round of drinks, but he's afraid she'll react like Helen did when she finds out that he's sterile. What's more, he thinks the Roonwood water must've given him dysentery. Nikolai probably has it, too, on account of him being off spirits since his pother said he'd turn into one." His hand fell and he subsided, staring at his feet. He might not have even been aware that he'd spoken. Peter had to say his name several times for him to glance up in surprise. "Hm?"
Something crashed downstairs— a thrown door. Several voices carried. "Farys, with me," a man barked. "Nikolai, Arden, check the perimeter. Find out where Oubi skulked off to."
Peter scrambled to finish his scavenging. "Time to disappear."