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What was the saying? Curiosity killed the cat? In this case, perhaps it was curiosity fuelled the Rat.
Zale could readily admit to being such, but in this case, it was the talk of Archon’s Glory. Hard to miss. Member of the Archon’s court found murdered in Weaver’s Nest two days ago! Not a close advisor to the Archon, but a well-known socialite. The Hanged Motherhood were in conniptions, breaking into travellers’ wagons and so far the Rat had barely prevented three people from being burned at the stake for having anything remotely odd on their person.
Paladin Stephen had gone to check on Grace, and most of the other paladins Zale didn’t know as well were also out and about on personal or Temple business. Wren had been assigned to escort them to make some depositions today to the Court. Hopefully, the Hanged Motherhood wouldn’t bother them too much on the way...
*
“I wish Chelsea were here,” Quentin said morosely as I finished checking the locks on the dirty windows of the abandoned shack. Water damage was visible on the walls, including a mold pattern that didn’t fill me with confidence about our future lung capacity. “This feels like a weird sci-fi novel.”
“And she could probably open us a portal home,” I grumbled. I had no idea what was happening --- our magic seemed intact, but I was fairly sure we weren’t anywhere in the Summerlands or the mortal world. That, or we’d time-travelled to horse and cart era. Perhaps we’d travelled to a new dimension and time travelled. At this point, I wasn’t writing any possibility off.
I also knew we were exceptionally conspicuous and that we couldn’t hunker down here for long.
I should really know better than to think thoughts like that. The window exploded in a hail of crossbow bolts, and I yelped, grabbing for Quentin, trying to pull him down.
He yelled in pain as we hit the ground rolling. I cursed, dragging a don’t-look-here over us that caused a flare of pain in my skull as magic burn announced itself. It happened less often these days, but given our entire situation I was surprised it worked at all. I should have had Quentin cast one to begin with. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
He grunted in pain again, hands going to his chest. “Ow. Toby, it hurts.”
Blood bloomed brilliant crimson from where a crossbow bolt pierced his chest.
“Oh, sweet Maeve, no,” I whispered. “Quentin, don’t pull that out.”
“’Kay, Toby,” he said.
No one had burst into the grimy shack after the crossbow bolts. They must have been intended to flush us out.
I levered Quentin up the best I could — he could walk, but it was slow going. If the don’t-look-here held, hopefully I could find a healer.
*
Wren suddenly tensed beside Zale, then reached for her axe. Zale glanced around, but saw nothing but the empty alley near them. The paladin bristled like a cat, until the alley shimmered and a woman holding a bloodied teenage boy became visible.
She said something in a language Zale didn’t know, but she sounded desperate. Also, the crossbow bolt sticking out of the boy’s chest was a clue.
“They need a healer,” Zale said. The boy was unconscious, and the woman was ashen and swaying from the effort of holding onto him — she would drop soon. “Wren —”
“Right, on it,” Wren said, and stepped toward the two, arms extended.
The woman hesitated, but when she swayed and nearly dropped the boy, she gave in and allowed Wren to hoist him up.
The Bishop was going to love this, especially because these two’s clothes were of a similar fashion to the strange child currently giving their healers much grief...
*
Fortunately, my decision to beg for help to someone not a city guard or indigo-robed jerk paid off, and the axe-wielding woman did not cleave my head in two. I had no idea if I’d survive that. It’d probably suck, and Tybalt would be beside himself. He was already going to be beside himself at my disappearance. I wondered if the same amount of time had passed back home.
I studied both people as we moved through the streets. The woman with the axe and armor wasn’t someone I’d want to fight; she was powerfully built despite her short height, and had lifted Quentin with no trouble at all. The other person, clearly a priest, wore practical robes — a reddish-brown that reminded me painfully of redwood bark — with white rats embroidered on the sleeves and some sort of barred insignia.
Few gave us a second glance as we traversed toward a complex built of sandstone, solid and practical and teeming with activity. Clearly the priest’s vestmentscarried a lot of weight. Still, I remained as alert as I could while in desperate need of a shower, coffee, a nap, and about thirty sandwiches. Also aspirin — my head was killing me.
I tried to tell myself Quentin would be fine, despite his blood on my hands.
And I smelled, layered under the smells of a pre-industrial city — horses and mules and mud and sweat — heather smoke and cloudberries.
*
By the time they had the boy patched up and resting, and some food set out, the Bishop had arrived with the wonderworker who could activate translation charms.
“My name is Bishop Beartongue of the Temple of the White Rat in Archon’s Glory. You are not the first stranger to our lands today, so the translation charm was already available,” said the Bishop. “And I am quite interested in hearing your story.”