“It goes to him personally.” Styke untied the sea chest that he’d lashed to his saddlebags. “Tell him that it’s from a Major Prost.”
Styke woke up from a dream in which fires danced in the ruins of Landfall. He lay in the damp grass, hidden beside a stream in one of the long, thin groves of willow trees that divided the cotton fields a few miles north of the governor’s mansion. He felt sweat on his brow and a sharp pain like a bug bite on his left forearm. He swatted at the bug bite and rolled over.
He’d only just gotten comfortable when his eyes flew open, the sleep gone from him, at the sound of a soft grunt. He rolled to his knees, Rezi’s knife coming to hand, and he squinted into the darkness.
Two dark forms thrashed in the long grass. He caught the raised glint of a knife and dove forward, wrestling it away from the hand that held it, then threw his weight onto the two figures, pushing them both back until they lay one on the other with Styke’s knee on the chest of the one on top.
As his eyes adjusted, he quickly ascertained that the figure with the knife was being choked by the second figure that now lay on the bottom of the heap. The first was a woman, the second, on bottom, a muscular youth.
The second, he realized with a start, was the Palo boy, Jackal.
“Explain,” he said, pressing the knife to the woman’s throat.
She remained silent.
“I followed you at a distance,” Jackal said quickly. “This one was dispatched from the governor’s mansion not long after you passed it. She has been following you. She tried to cut you, so I will now kill her.”
The woman gave a strangled cry and began to thrash. Styke pressed his blade closer to her neck. “What is this? Do you work for the governor?”
“Don’t trust this boy,” the woman hissed. “I am…” she trailed off, and Styke snorted.
“If you’re not good at excuses, have one ready before you botch a job. Answer quickly if you want to live: Did the governor send you?”
There was a distinct erk sound, and she choked out, “Yes, yes he did!”
“Then why didn’t you slit my throat?”
The woman remained silent for some time, until Styke put slightly more weight on the knee on her chest. “I was sent to poison you. The governor wanted you intact to display to the world. We would slit your wrists later and tell everyone you killed yourself from shame.”
Styke scoffed. The idea that Sirod had an assassin at his beck and call was incredible for a provincial governor, but somehow unsurprising. Styke stood up, jerking the woman out of Jackal’s grip and quickly shoving her across the clearing. If she had poison on her, he would need to strip her down and examine everything she had on her. He didn’t relish the idea of this kind of work. Killing her would be simpler, but leaving her alive would send a strong message back to the governor: I don’t fear your minions. In Styke’s experience, the enemy’s terror was always worth the effort.
“Everything off,” he told her, pointing to the ground between them.
She peered at him, her face looking genuinely confused in the darkness. “I will not.” He suddenly felt tired and irritable, and wondered if maybe he should just kill her.
“That or the knife,” Styke offered. “I’m not going to touch you, but I damn well won’t let you get a chance with that poison.”
The woman seemed to consider this for a very long moment before removing her jacket. She laid it on the ground, every movement done with exaggerated slowness, and Styke wondered suddenly why she was taking so damned long to do everything.
“Faster,” he ordered.
She stopped, staring at him intently for several seconds. “Why aren’t you dying?” she demanded.
“Eh?” Styke didn’t have the chance to ask her what she meant before she leapt forward, a hidden weapon flashing.
He used Rezi’s knife to take off the woman’s hand at the wrist, then buried the blade in her heart. She was dead before she could scream, and Styke pushed the body off the knife and cleaned it on her jacket, feeling more than a little annoyed.
“You should have let me finish her,” Jackal said, picking himself off the grass.
“It’s done either way,” Styke said. He used the tip of Rezi’s knife to nudge the assassin’s jacket, trying to see if there was anything in the pockets. He would have to search her in the morning. “Why did you follow me?”
“It seemed like a good idea.”
“That’s it?”
“I couldn’t go home. I don’t know anyone to the north. You’re Ben Styke, aren’t you? The one they say died at Fernhollow.”
“I am.”
“You’re not dead. That seemed like good luck, so I decided to follow you.”
Styke snorted. Far be it from him to contradict a Palo’s instincts. He didn’t for a moment think that Jackal was in on the attempted murder. The boy had saved his life, that much was obvious, and for that Styke was grateful. He should send him off, though. He didn’t need a Palo whelp hanging around. He would, however, wait until morning.
“Hide the body,” Styke said, “I’m going to sleep a hundred yards downstream.”
“You have a scratch on your arm,” Jackal observed.
Styke’s mouth was suddenly dry. He remembered the bug bite and touched his forearm, his fingers coming away with a few drops of blood.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
Styke shivered violently despite the morning heat, arms wrapped around himself and wearing his extra cavalry jacket, while his extra pair of pants were draped around his shoulders. Sweat poured down his brow and soaked his clothing, leaving him sitting in a sodden patch of grass with his saddle as a pillow. He stared across at Jackal, his eyes having trouble focusing. His skin hurt, and everything that touched him felt like the jab of a thousand needles.
It was morning, and Jackal squatted in the grass, watching him back. “We can’t start a fire,” he said. “They’re looking for you.”
“I’m aware,” Styke said, his teeth chattering. He could barely lift his head, barely move his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so incredibly helpless. He wondered, if a squad of grenadiers stumbled upon them right now, if he’d even be able to stand up.
“You can speak.”
“Very observant,” Styke replied.
“That’s good,” Jackal said, looking slightly put off by Styke’s sarcasm. “The poison should have killed you by now.”
Styke readjusted his second jacket to better cover his chest, every movement causing pain. He slowly pulled back his jacket sleeve to look at the scratch on his arm. It was barely the scrape of a needle, already clotted over and well on the way to healing. “Do you know what it is?”
Jackal watched him for a few moments. He had a dour look on his face, and Styke couldn’t tell if that was his natural expression, a result of his recent attempted lynching, or if he was just a teenager. Styke was beginning to think Jackal wouldn’t answer when the boy finally said, “I think it is fallow root.”
“How do you know?” The name was vaguely familiar to Styke. He knew what fallow looked like, and had been told by a Palo guide long ago that he could eat the leaves while foraging but to never touch the white stem, nor the root.
“I said I think,” Jackal replied. “Do you have cramps? The shits?”
“You’d smell the shits,” Styke replied. “No cramps.”
“It might be fallow, then.”
“And?” Styke rubbed his arms, trying to get them warm. It felt like rubbing his arms across stinging nettle.
“Fallow causes a bad fever and weakness. Also paralysis. I’ve seen a man die from it before. It’s just…”