‘In a far-away land of ice and snow, where wolves howled about the sheep-pens all winter and ghosts lurked in the shadows of dark forest firs, a Lady waited, high in her tower chamber above the expanse of snow and ice. Copper-gold flames roared in the hearth and kept the freezing winds - er, gales, gales sounds better - no, storms! yes, storms! at bay, and her feet were encased in wolf-fur slippers against the chill of her marble floors. She heeded not the winter; did not notice the bone-cracking cold or hear the voiceless moans of the ghosts of the waste. Uhm, soulless spirits? Or ghosts? She waited, patient and unhurried, for the return of a traveller.’

‘I know this. What’s your point? And ghosts is fine. No need to be overly dramatic or poetic all of the time.’ Louen rounded on Bresgion, who’d been waxing lyrical for most of the morning, as if he were a respectable bard on his way to the next court and not a renegade whore. The lad did have a musical voice, but Louen considered his repertoire tedious.

‘I’m only passing the time. You’re a terribly dull travelling companion.’

‘Hm.’

‘I rest my case.’ Bresgion gave a dramatic flourish of his hand. ‘Lords and ladies, I present to you, Tea-Master Louen, the most conceited, the most arrogant, the dullest, the…’

‘One more word and I’ll gag you,’ snapped Louen.

‘Ooh. What with?’

Louen risked a glare at Bresgion, his breath drawn in deep through nostrils flaring with anger. ‘This isn’t a sight-seeing jaunt. We’re already in territory I don’t know well, I’m supposed to be dead, and I’ve a gnat in my ear. Please don’t make me seriously consider tipping you down a well.’

‘You’ve considered it in jest?’ Bresgion fluttered his lashes and smiled a sly, warm smile.

‘I don’t jest about killing people.’ Louen turned away and, gripping the stout staff he was using as a walking aid, strode on ahead. If there had been a well nearby, he felt he would have tipped Bresgion down it and thrown rocks in after him, to ensure he couldn’t climb out again. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t that the kid was stupid, or dull, or even particularly annoying. But he was weak, and spoiled, and seemed to view their situation as an exciting adventure and not a series of pitfalls and hazards that would probably end in their agonising deaths sooner or later. For the first time in his life, Louen had been faced with the possibility that he was going to die, and had serious doubts about his ability to evade capture much longer. He did not want the responsibility of another life on his hands as well.

‘You’re staying behind at the very next village or farmstead we come to,’ he barked over his shoulder, as Bresgion came swaggering jauntily up behind him. ‘No need to come any further with me.’

‘And why not?’

‘I don’t want you.’

Bresgion eyed the tall, light-haired Karoni man with a mixture of desire and puzzlement. He wasn’t used to hearing things like I don’t want you and I don’t want you near me. Louen himself had never said those things, not in three years at the brothel. Bresgion had thought him mild-mannered, polite, calm and friendly. Not now, however. It was as if, once they’d got shot of House Willow, Louen had turned into someone altogether different.

Bresgion couldn’t decide if it was a change for the better, or not. Something about Louen’s short temper and brusque manner aroused a desire in him to know this new Louen better. Bad-ass, he thought, allowing a small smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

Coarse, churlish peasant, said another side of him, the one that remembered another life for himself, however vaguely.

He gave the side of his head several sharp taps and said ‘buck up now, Bres; if you want to crack the egg neatly you need sharper wits.’

‘What was that?’

‘Just wondering how thick the shell protecting your deliciously soft and pillowy interior is.’

'Fuck you!'

'Ah; I sense a certain lack of good breeding in our esteemed Tea-Master Louen: could it be you've been faking your pedigree all this time?'

Louen shook his head and didn’t answer, only increased his pace, but Bresgion still fancied he saw a smile on Louen’s lips.

………………………….

They came across the next farmstead near evening, and Louen had grown thoroughly tired of Bresgion’s chatter and wanted to punch him. He tipped a handful of silver coins on the farm-wife’s table and asked her for two rooms. At each end of the house, if she could manage it.

She eyed the money greedily. ‘Times are hard, gentlemen. That’ll pay for one room.’

‘I see.’ Louen folded his arms. ‘May I offer you my man-servant in payment for the other room, then?’

To his amusement, Bresgion straightened, grinned, and said, ‘I can do more for you than the dour lump you married ever could. Shall you agree to my trying, mistress?’

She looked scandalised, and gasped. ‘Such a cursed tongue, to speak so low of them that are dead and cold in the ground these six long months past!’

‘All the more reason…’ began Bresgion, but Louen cut him short with a look.

‘My offer increases in value, then, doesn’t it? Two rooms and full meals tonight and tomorrow morning, in exchange for three silver coins and an hour of my friend’s time and skills.’

'You offered five...'

'You gave away your need. I have the bargaining power, don't I?'

She shifted the bodice of her dress, almost sub-consciously, as if the gown had been cut for another woman, and she didn't quite fit it. her breasts mounded over the low neckline, trimmed with more lace than a farmer's wife ought to have had the coin for.

Bresgion was already looking her over, and Louen couldn’t blame him. She was hard-faced, but fine-figured and still young. He surmised that hardship had given her the lines that crinkled the corners of her eyes and mouth, but her eyes were large and clear and her lips full and soft, and well-matched by a pair of large, peachy breasts atop a tiny waist and curved hips. Her skin was like cream, her hair full, long and deep auburn, like the leaves of a copper beech in Autumn. He thought Bresgion might well give her more than an hour.

‘Many children?’ he asked, glancing about the large, homey kitchen they were in. His keen eyes had already picked three pairs of small shoes by the door, and a couple of little smocks hanging over the mantle.

‘Two,’ she said, and her eyes misted. ‘Three dead and cold. Very well: you can have two rooms. Be down at dawn to eat and then be on your way. If you’re fugitives I don’t want you here long enough for your hunters to discover you.’

Louen nodded and took Bresgion aside. ‘One hour,’ he said in his ear.

‘Give me two and she won’t be able to speak of us to anyone from now until full moon,’ Bresgion whispered back, his eyes glinting with mischief. He put his hand on Louen’s waist. ‘Trust me, I know what I’m doing.’

‘That, I don’t doubt! Very well – two hours. Leave her with enough wit to care for her children. Can you stomach it?'

‘Almost as if you don’t trust me! And what have I been doing all this time at House Willow?’

'I hope you can cope with this.' Louen shook his head, clapped Bresgion on the shoulder, and hefted his pack. ‘Show me where I will sleep, then,’ he said to the farm-wife.

She led him up the stairs and to a small room at the end of a hallway, set under thatched eaves and neatly laid out with a large bed, a chest of drawers and a rickety old chair with a pitcher and ewer on it. The pitcher was empty. She picked it up, smiled nervously at him, and turned away with it.

Louen stopped her. ‘I’ll take it and fill it. Where’s your well?’

He didn’t trust her. He had seen several small shoes and smocks, but no other sign of anyone else living there. And no man’s things. Not even an old coat, still hanging behind a door, or a pipe or hat. Nothing to suggest a man had ever lived here. And where were the children she’d claimed she had?

Under the kitchen floor, most likely.

A prickle of sharp foreboding crawled down his spine. Bresgion had been right to ask for two hours. Louen hoped it would be enough.

As though summoned, Bresgion appeared at the head of the stairs. ‘So; how long will you keep me waiting, madam?’

She turned, tossing a lock of crimson hair over her shoulder. ‘Such a hurry,’ she murmured. ‘You promised me two hours, young man. What do you say to three?’

Bresgion exchanged a look with Louen, then he gazed down at her, his look sultry. ‘Maybe all night,’ he replied, and, lowering his head, pressed a kiss to her lips.