"You're good," Tris panted, cursing himself for being out of breath. Vahanian regarded him with amusement.
"Yeah. I've had to be," Vahanian replied, standing back. "Whoever trained you did well on the basics," he added. "But he played by the rules. Rule one out here is that there are no rules."
"I noticed," Tris answered ruefully, his hand covering his injured shoulder once more. Though the wound was not deep and would not impair his ability to fight, Jaquard, the palace armsmaster, would never have intentionally inflicted such an injury. Vahanian's would be a rougher school.
"You got one good defense in, right at the end," Vahanian continued. "Just before you lost your focus. Do it again next time."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The caravan was ahead of the tavern's report, and they caught up with it in less than a day. Tris and the others dismounted and led their horses into the bustle of the fair. Caravans were popular because they brought both entertainment and trade. Far from the cities, the caravans carried gossip about the court and fashion the rural women could discuss if not mimic.
This caravan came up from Trevath in the south. As Tris and the others made their way through the crowd looking for Maynard Linton, Tris wondered at the number of people involved in setting up the fair and moving the goods and animals. He had attended many fairs in Margolan, but always long after they were set up, never amid the bustle of the workers and entertainers behind the scenes.
"Some setup, huh?" Harrtuck elbowed him, guessing his thoughts.
"A different view of things," Tris admitted. "Amazing that everyone knows where to go."
"Comes with practice," Harrtuck shrugged. "I spent a while with a caravan out west a few years back. If there's not much trouble about it's a decent enough living, although the more peaceful it is, the more boring for types like us."
Tris smiled at the swordsman's casual acceptance. As if he knew what Tris was thinking, Harrtuck grinned. "Oh, Vahanian will toughen you up, never fear," Harrtuck assured him with a laugh. "We'll make sure you earn your keep." He paused. "Wait here," he said to Tris and the others. "I'm going to check some things out while Vahanian's making our introductions. Stay out of trouble."
"Do you think we're in danger here?" Carroway whispered.
"Question is," Soterius snorted, "can we possibly be in more danger?"
"Come on," Vahanian called to them from near a large, weathered tent. "And be quick about it. I want you to meet the caravan master." Before Vahanian could reach to draw back the tent flap, angry voices carried on the crisp air.
"Kaine, I've told you before," an older man argued. "We are expected in Dhasson. If I let every rumor steer this caravan, we'd have never left our southern base."
"How can you pay no mind?" an angry voice countered. "Traveler after traveler from the north tells of magicked beasts in Dhasson, yet you lead this caravan like you're going to a summer picnic!"
"Foolish tales don't pay for our food and horses," the first voice returned. "We've survived war, flood and locusts. We cannot run from shadows."
"You'll see these shadows," the second voice argued. "And you'll see what they'll make of your precious caravan if you go to Dhasson!"
Vahanian drew back from the tent flap as angry boot steps neared from inside. A young, red-haired man shouldered his way through them without looking up. Tris and his friends exchanged glances, and watched as the man stomped off angrily into the fray of the caravan.
"You find a little bit of everything, even lunatics, in a caravan," said Vahanian, dismissing the event breezily. "Follow me."
Vahanian entered first, followed by Soterius, then Tris, Carroway and Harrtuck. The inside of the tent was furnished as comfortably as any room at court, Tris noted, although all of the furnishings and decorations were easily transportable. By the look of the rugs on the ground and the tapestries that hung from the tent's sides, this caravan did a profitable business. "Jonmarc, this is a surprise," greeted a booming voice. A short, round man with a coppery tan rose from behind a portable counting table and bustled over to meet them, grinning broadly. He clasped Vahanian's hand in a firm handshake and slapped the mercenary on the shoulder, although Vahanian stood a head taller.
"Hello, Maynard," Vahanian returned. "How's business?"
"Adequate," the fat trader returned, moving with nervous energy. "The south was good to us. Took in some spices and silks that will trade well north. Been a while since they had a caravan through, so they were hungry for entertainment, too," he added with a grin.
Vahanian chuckled. "I'm sure your people kept them well supplied."
"Nothing but the best," Linton boasted. He turned his attention to Tris and the others. "But you've never been the caravan type, Jonmarc."
"We're looking to sign on, at least until you reach Dhasson."
Linton's eyes narrowed as he appraised the rest of the group, stopped at Tris, then looked back skeptically at the fighter. "I don't suppose you'd tell me why?"
Vahanian shrugged. "Things change. Now it's a good time to head north."
"So you want somewhere to hide?"
Vahanian smiled. "Uh huh."
"Who's looking for you?"
"No one important. Jared of Margolan."
Linton stepped forward, stopping in front of Tris. "These three look too saddle sore to be real hired swords," the caravan master said.
Vahanian raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of Linton's postulation.
"Their hands aren't rough enough to have done much real work."
Beside him, Tris could feel Soterius start to bristle. Carroway looked tense, his gaze flickering around the room. Harrtuck seemed unruffled. Tris began to wonder if Vahanian's idea was a good one. If we stand out so obviously...
"Let's just say one goal is to remedy both those problems as quickly as possible," Vahanian said blandly. "Calluses come fast on the road. You'll get your money's worth out of them setting up camp, even if we don't see any bandits."
Linton looked at Vahanian once more, as if weighing the danger against their friendship. Then, with a shrug, the trader broke into a broad smile. "You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, Jonmarc," Linton offered, heading back to his counting table. "If word from the road is true, a few more hired swords—even marginal ones— may be very welcome."
Vahanian crossed his arms. "What did you hear, Maynard?"
The fat caravan master shrugged. "Wild stories that get bigger with each retelling," he replied. "I've heard that some of the boarder clans may be restless, out on Dhasson's outer fringes. And if that's true," he said, grinning, "then the good people of Dhasson may need some entertainment to ease their minds."
"Is that all they're saying?"
Linton frowned and looked down. "No, it's not," he said finally. "There's talk of dark magic. Monsters. You know the country folk, Jonmarc," Linton said. "They blame magic for a cloudy day."
Vahanian smiled. "Or a poor hand of cards," he agreed. "Me, personally, I blame it for flat ale." He paused and cleared his throat. "Maynard, we couldn't help overhearing your last, um, guest..."
Linton's face darkened, and he turned away. "Kaine. Devil Bitch take him! Signed on a week ago, and it's been the longest week I can remember."
"So get rid of him."
Linton began to pace. "Goddess knows, I would like to. But he's the best rigger we have, and my old rigger fell and broke his back. Might be able to sign on another one in Dhasson, but we won't find one out here," he said with a sweep of his arm, "in the middle of nowhere."