"Well," Archer said, determined not to be soothed, "then he was a spy. Lord Mydogg and Lord Gentian have spies crawling all over the kingdom, spying on the king, spying on the prince, spying on each other – spying on you, for all we know," he added grouchily. "Has it never occurred to you that the enemies of King Nash and Prince Brigan might want to steal you and use you as a tool to overthrow the royal family?"
"You think everyone wants to steal me," Fire said mildly. "If your own father had me tied up and sold to a monster zoo for spare change, you'd claim that you'd suspected him all along."
He spluttered at this. "You should suspect your friends, or at least anyone other than me and Brocker. And you should have a guard whenever you walk out your door, and you should be quicker to manipulate the people you meet. Then I'd have less cause to worry."
These were old arguments and he already knew her responses by heart. She ignored him. "Our poacher was a spy of neither Lord Mydogg's nor Lord Gentian's," she said calmly.
"Mydogg has grown quite an army for himself in the northeast. If he decided to 'borrow' our more central land to use as a stronghold in a war against the king, we wouldn't be able to stop him."
"Archer, be reasonable. The King's Army wouldn't leave us alone to defend ourselves. And regardless, the poacher was not sent here by a rebel lord; he was far too vapid. Mydogg would never employ a vapid scout, and if Gentian lacks Mydogg's intelligence, well, still, he's not fool enough to send a man with a floating, empty head to do his spying."
"All right," Archer said, voice rising in exasperation, "then I return to the theory that it's something to do with you. The moment he recognised you he talked about being a dead man, and clearly he was well-informed on that point. Explain it to me, will you? Who was the man, and why the rocks is he dead?"
He was dead because he'd hurt her, Fire thought; or maybe because she'd seen him and talked to him. Little sense in it, but it would make a good joke, if Archer were in the mood for any sort of joke. The poacher's murderer was a man after Archer's own heart, for Archer also didn't like men to hurt Fire or make her acquaintance.
"And a rather good shot," she said out loud.
He was still glowering into the distance, as if he expected the murderer to pop up from behind a boulder and wave. "Hmm?"
"You'd get along well with this murderer, Archer. He would've had to shoot through both the bars of the outer enclosure and the bars of the poacher's cage, wouldn't he? He must be a good shot."
Admiration for another archer seemed to cheer him slightly. "More than that. From the depth of the wound and the angle, I think he fired long-range, from the trees beyond that rise." He pointed to the bald patch Fire had climbed the night before. "Through two sets of bars is impressive enough, and then into the man's throat? At least we can be sure none of our neighbours did it personally. Not one of them could have made that shot."
"Could you?"
The question was a small gift to him to improve his mood, for there was no shot made that Archer couldn't match. He glanced at her, grinning. Looked at her again more closely. His face softened. "I'm a beast for taking this long to ask how you feel this morning."
The muscles of her back were tight knots of rope and her bandaged arm ached; her entire body was paying dearly for last night's abuse. "I'm all right."
"Are you warm enough? Take my coat."
They sat for a while on the steps of the terrace, Fire wrapped in Archer's coat. They talked about Archer's plans for breaking ground in the fields. Soon enough it would be time for the spring planting, and northern soil, rocky and cold, always resisted the start of a new growing season.
Now and then Fire sensed a raptor monster overhead. She kept her own mind hidden from them so they wouldn't recognise her for the monster prey she was; but of course, in the absence of monster prey, they ate any living creature available. One that spotted Fire and Archer dropped down and began to circle, posing shamelessly, intangibly lovely, reaching for their minds, radiating a feeling that was hungry, primitive, and oddly soothing. Archer stood and shot it, then shot another that did the same, the first violet like sunrise, the second so pale a yellow it looked like the moon dropping from the sky.
At least fractured on the ground, Fire thought, the monsters added colour to the landscape. There was little colour in the north of the Dells in early spring – the trees were grey and the grass that tufted between cracks in the rocks was still brown from winter. Truly, even at the height of summer the north of the Dells was not what one would call colourful, but at least in summer, grey with patches of brown turned to grey with patches of green.
"Who found the poacher, anyway?" Fire asked idly.
"Tovat," Archer said. "One of the newer guards. You'll not have met him yet."
"Oh, yes – the young one with the brown-orange hair that people called red. I like him. He's strong-minded and he guards himself."
"You know Tovat? You admire his hair, do you?" Archer said in a sharp and familiar tone.
"Archer, honestly. I said nothing of admiring his hair. And I know the names and faces of all the men you station at my house. It's simple courtesy."
"I won't be stationing Tovat at your house any longer," he said, an unpleasant edge to his voice that drove her to silence for a moment, so that she wouldn't say anything unpleasant back about Archer's dubious – and rather hypocritical – right to jealousy. He opened a feeling to her that she didn't particularly care to feel just now. Biting back a sigh, she chose words that would protect Tovat.
"I hope you'll change your mind. He's one of the few guards who respects me both with his body and in his mind."
"Marry me," Archer said, "and live in my house, and I will be your guard."
She could not bite back this sigh. "You know that I won't. I wish you would stop asking me." A fat raindrop plopped onto her sleeve. "I think I'll go and visit your father."
She stood, creaking with pain, and let his coat slide off into his lap. She touched his shoulder once, gently. Even when she did not like Archer, she loved him.
As she went into the house, rain began to fall.
Archer's father lived in Archer's house. Fire asked a guard who was not Tovat to accompany her along the path through the rain. She carried a spear, but still, without her longbow and quiver she felt naked.
Lord Brocker was in his son's armoury, thundering instructions at a large man Fire recognised as the assistant to the blacksmith in town. At the sight of her Lord Brocker did not let off his thundering, but momentarily he lost the attention of his listener. The blacksmith turned to stare at Fire, some base thing in his eyes and in his silly, stupid smile.
He'd known Fire for long enough, this man, to have learned how to guard himself against the power of her strange monster beauty, so if he was not guarding himself, then he must not want to. His prerogative, to give up his mind in return for the pleasure of succumbing to her, but not something she cared to encourage. She kept her headscarf on. She pushed his mind away and walked past him into a side room so that she couldn't be seen. A closet really, dark, and with shelves full of oils and polish and ancient, rusted equipment no one ever used.
It was humiliating to have to retreat to a smelly old closet. The blacksmith should be the one to feel humiliated, for he was the dunce who chose to give up his self-control. What if while he gaped at her and imagined whatever his small mind cared to imagine, she convinced him to draw his knife and take out his own eye? It was the sort of thing Cansrel would have liked to do. Cansrel had never retreated.