Page 74 of Last Rites

“Ugh,” I grunted. “I don’t feel so good.”

I peeked again and found that he’d stopped. His glare was edged with impatience. “What’s the problem?”

“My stomach,” I whimpered. “Must’ve eaten something…” Here came the belch, wet and foul enough to make me shudder.

The guard scowled, then glanced around. “You’re goin’ to have to keep it to yourself. Swallow it down or something.”

He started moving again, leaving me no choice but to follow. I wondered if he’d walk far enough away that I could duck into a shop or stall. If he would be that careless. The glance he cast over his shoulder a moment later proved he would not.

So, I trudged, trying to look as miserable as possible and add appropriate sounds whenever I could. The people in the square took notice of the scene, which only spurred me on. Watching my unhappy companion’s shoulders and back tense up every time I faked a gagging sound made me want to giggle instead.

We reached the market and headed for the stall closest to the livery where the grain merchant was hawking his goods. By the time we approached the portly old man, I’d forced out another burp that had me half-convinced I could make myself vomit after all. It reminded me of the time I’d thrown up on Kit. He’d certainly been eager to put me to bed for the night after that.

The guard marched ahead to the counter where he requested the grain we would need to get our horses through to Forstford and back to Ashpoint. I hung a few feet back, leaning against the wall of the livery, bent in half and breathing hard.

When the shopkeeper went to the cart behind his stall to fetch the grain bag, the guard stomped over to me.

“You’d better hold it in,” he muttered. “Last thing we need is you getting sick all over the damned place…”

Turning toward him, I mocked a full-body heave. Dry and unproductive, but threatening enough he lurched backward.

I looked up at him with my eyes as wide and full of woe as I could manage. “I don’t think I can hold it in,” I croaked.

“Gods, take it around the corner!” The guard stabbed a finger toward the barn. “And out of sight. You had enough folks staring already. No need to start a rumor you’re carrying plague.”

I nodded, then rushed toward the livery, making sure to wobble and stumble a bit on the way. Once the side of the building was between us, I stood straight and whipped my head from side to side, searching for someone I could talk to and hopefully trust.

Explaining that I was a member of a cult and on my way to burn down a town was likely to get me sent to the gallows. This would require finesse. Unfortunately, I was about as tactful as I was dishonest, which was to say, not nearly enough for this task.

A stable hand wandered into sight and noticed me at the same moment I spotted him. We made eye contact for a second while I thought.

Kit was better at this sort of thing. Taking charge. Telling lies that were close enough to the truth. But I was good at things too. Namely, making people like me.

“Excuse me,” I began, adding a wave and a smile. The stable hand perked up. He was younger than me, probably still in his teen years, and he met my cheer with his own. It was nice to see a friendly face.

“Yes, sir?” he asked as he wandered closer.

“I’m in need of a messenger.” I glanced toward the market behind me and started speaking faster. “Someone who can get to Forstford. Tonight. Do you know of anyone?”

I wasn’t clear on the distance yet between us and Kit’s town, but the people there would need as much time as possible to gather their things and evacuate. Perhaps even alert the militia.

The thought sent a chill down my back.

If we got to Forstford and the militia was waiting, we would be arrested. Tried. Executed. In asking for help for others, I may have been facilitating my own demise.

Maybe Kit was right. Maybe I did have a death wish.

“Josiah could go. He’s quite fast on horseback.” The stable hand nodded toward the livery and another man I assumed to be inside. When he looked back at me, his head tilted quizzically. “No way anyone could make it there tonight, but he could get there quick. What’s the message?”

My mouth went dry, and my thoughts slowed to a crawl.

I started to reply and stopped, then started and stopped again.

I needed Kit. To hold my hand. To tell me what to say. To lend me his strength.

But his strength was what got him left behind. The guard agreed to bring me to town because I was “harmless.” I needed this stable hand to know that, because if the militia did intercept us in Forstford, I doubted they would listen or care.

“I’m not a bad man,” I whispered.