As they approached the crowded, noisy dock, Nimue could feel Pym shaking with nerves.
“How do you even know they’ll take you on?” Pym asked.
“The Brass Shield takes on a few dozen pilgrims every journey. I was told this was the ship Gawain took. It’s the only ship that crosses the sea to the Desert Kingdoms.” Nimue swerved around a boy with a box of live crabs.
“Of course it’s the only ship that goes to the Desert Kingdoms. What does that tell you? That no one wants to go to the Desert Kingdoms, that’s what. Honestly, what is the fuss about? Being named Summoner is a huge honor. The robes are glorious and you get to wear amazing jewelry. Where is the problem?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Nimue said. She loved Pym like a sister, but she never liked to talk about the Hidden. Pym liked what she could see and what she could touch. It was one area, really the only area with Pym, where Nimue kept her feelings to herself.
“At least your mother wants you home. Mine keeps trying to marry me off to the fishmonger.”
Nimue nodded, sympathetic. “Stinky Aaron.”
Pym glared at her. “It’s not funny.”
As Nimue took in the enormity of what she was about to do, she grew serious. She turned to Pym, wanting her to understand. “The Elders won’t accept me.” It was half the truth.
“Who cares what those shriveled onions think?”
“But what if they’re right not to?”
Pym shrugged. “So, you have visions.”
“And the scars.”
“They give you character?” Pym offered. “I mean, I’m trying to be helpful here.”
Nimue laughed and hugged her. “What will I do without you?”
Pym welled up. “Then stay, you idiot.”
Nimue shook her head sadly, then turned and marched back to the dock. Pym hurried behind her like a worried hen.
“What if they find out you’re Fey Kind? What if they see the Fingers of Airimid?” Pym whispered.
“They won’t,” Nimue hissed back. “You’ll take care of Dusk Lady?”
“Yes. What about money?”
“I have twenty silver.” Nimue sighed, exasperated.
“But what if they rob you?”
“Pym, enough!” Nimue half shouted as she approached the bald and sweating harbormaster, who was waving off aggressive gulls at his table.
“Pardon me, sir, but which of these is the Brass Shield?” Nimue asked.
The port master never looked up from his lists. “Brass Shield left yesterday.”
“But I thought—I thought . . .” Nimue turned to Pym. “Gawain left in midwinter. It’s only November. It should still be here.”
“Tell that to the easterly winds,” the harried port master countered, his voice edged with annoyance.
“When does it return?” Nimue pleaded, escape slipping away.
The port master looked up, his eyes drooping, and scowled. “Six months! Now do you mind?” A shoving match between fishermen ensued nearby, upsetting traps and scattering birds. The port master forgot Nimue and Pym immediately and ran over to the scrum. “Oy! None of that here! Knock that off!”
Nimue turned to her friend, eyes brimming with tears. “What do I do now?”
Pym tucked Nimue’s hair beneath her hood. “Well, at least I get to keep you a bit longer.”
Nimue looked out to the horizon, trying to contemplate another six months in the village. It felt like an eternity.
Pym wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You make peace with your mum.” She began to drag Nimue back to the stables.
“A pilgrim caravan,” Nimue decided, turning suddenly and marching back into town.
“Pilgrims? Pilgrims hate the Fey. That’s the very last place you should be seen.”
Nimue knew she was grasping at straws, but returning to Dewdenn was not an option.
Pym took her arm. Nimue could tell that her friend was determined to wear her down.
“Wait, I know,” Pym said, changing tactics. “I’ll be Summoner and you marry Stinky Aaron.”
Nimue’s scowl cracked. “I’m not—”
“Oh! So your life’s not so horrible after all!”
Nimue dashed off, and Pym chased her.
It was market day, and the narrow street was barely navigable for the steers pulling wagons of grain, packhorses hauling blocks of stone for the cathedral under construction, and barefoot farm boys chasing an errant gaggle of geese. A family of four, pilgrims by their dress, scowled at the girls, and the father muttered something under his breath as they passed.
“Pilgrims,” Pym pointed out. “Even with our cloaks, they know we’re Fey. Why didn’t you ask them for a ride?”
Nimue frowned.
“We’ll get some bread and cheese for the road and go home while there is still light,” Pym said. She pulled Nimue along as the street opened up into the wide city square. Their mouths watered as they walked through a warm cloud of baking bread. The baker’s wife had set out a table of fresh king’s loaves beside another table of brie tarts and spice cakes. A juggler in a threadbare tunic jumped at them, as players erected a stage nearby.
As Pym applauded, Nimue’s eyes drifted across the square and landed upon two horsemen in red monks’ robes, observing the crowd with sullen faces. They were barely men, the same age as Nimue and Pym, and wore their hair in matching, bald-pated tonsures. Both were thin, though one appeared to be a good head taller than his fellow brother. Nimue’s hand squeezed around Pym’s wrist and her eyes directed Pym’s to the horsemen. “I think it’s them.”
“Who?” Pym searched the crowd.
“Red Paladins.”
Pym gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.
“Don’t make a fuss,” Nimue warned.
Pym lowered her hand, but her eyes were wide and frightened.
“I want to get closer,” Nimue said, fighting off Pym’s efforts to pull her back. She eased her way through the crowd as the Red Paladins spurred their horses into a stroll around the opposite edge of the market square, along a row of craft stalls. They paused at a table of swords. One of the monks said something to the blacksmith, who nodded, then selected a dagger among the blades on the table and handed it to the other monk. He inspected the blade, shrugged his approval, and slid it into a fold of one of his saddlebags, then nudged his horse forward to the next stall. The blacksmith called out angrily for payment. The smaller monk spun around on his horse, trotted up to the blacksmith, and stuck his boot in his chest, shoving the blacksmith into his table of swords and spilling his wares. The Red Paladin circled around, waiting to see if the blacksmith had any more words for him. He did not. He retreated into his stall. The monk snorted and looked around to see if anyone else felt brave. Merchants and peasants alike kept their heads down and walked a wide circle around the monk, who, satisfied, rejoined his brother with the stolen dagger.
“They just stole it,” Nimue said, affronted.
“So what?” Pym whispered, stooping to make herself shorter and less visible in the crowd.
Nimue’s guts twisted with anger. She pursued the paladins from fifty paces back, mindful to use the pilgrims, farmworkers, and peddlers as cover. But hiding became more of a challenge when the paladins turned onto a narrow street at the corner of the town hall and the weight master. Nimue pulled Pym into an open arcade of vaulted arches, where baskets of herbs and vegetables were for sale. Nimue could follow the bob of the monks’ heads between the columns until they rode out of view. She paused a few moments before dragging Pym to the edge of the arcade and then onto the narrow road. Packhorses clogged the street between Nimue and the paladins, who joined another pair of brothers on horseback beneath a three-story scaffold where, high above, tillers patched a weather-beaten roof. Nimue and Pym found shelter in a doorway thirty paces back as the Red Paladins conferred in low voices.