“Doubtful he’d have friends at all,” Grub muttered under his breath.
Loth elbowed him in the side. “Why Grub, that was positively cruel! I’m very impressed,” he added quietly and was rewarded with another one of those actual smiles. (Not that a smile from Grub was a reward, he reminded himself. That would imply that he cared, and he absolutely didn’t. Loth hadn’t cared for anyone or anything in years, and he didn’t miss it at all.)
Pie chittered and chirped at Dave, who tilted his head as though he understood, and dumped the dragon back into the pocket of Loth’s scarf. “’E wants to ride with you,” he said.
Loth let Pie settle in, not inclined to argue with the orc. Besides, he thought as Pie purred from the warm confines of his scarf; they did say dragons were lucky.
Delacourt was at the arse-end of the kingdom. The residents there had been perversely proud of the fact. Loth had been in worse towns, but never more remote ones. If the Kingdom of Aguillon was roughly the shape of a potato scallop, then Delacourt was on the tip of a very unnecessary appendage at the top end of it. Loth had an idea that those were called peninsulas on maps, not appendages, but he’d leave that to the cartographers.
Loth was from Callier. He’d had to leave quickly through no fault of his own. A total misunderstanding involving a game of cards, a double or nothing bet, and an extra ace that had somehow appeared in the pack—and he’d jumped on the first ship leaving the harbour. A week later, his stomach still queasy, he’d staggered off the gangplank in Delacourt. He’d always figured that when it was time to return, he’d be going by ship again, not by road. Because Loth was no fan of the sea, but he was also no fan of saddle sores, the cold, hunger pangs, and The Wilds.
They’d crossed into The Wilds that afternoon. Loth couldn’t even say that he was aware of when it had happened—there were no signs proclaiming it—but turned out that entering The Wilds was like entering a cold lake. One step, and then another step, until suddenly you were in completely over your head.
The Wilds was... desolate. The trees were sparse and scrubby, and those that grew had been twisted into oddly terrifying shapes by the wind. There was a strange smell in their air: muddy, a little salty, as though even the living trees themselves were half-rotted. There was an oppressive stillness in the air, and Loth hadn’t seen any wildlife in at least a few hours, not even a rabbit, although something howled in the distance. Even Ada looked concerned.
“Scott,” Loth asked as they prepared camp for the night, “are you certain the map said to go through The Wilds? Because I’m pretty sure that’s the Swamp of Death I can smell from here.”
“Oh, yes, my Graceling,” Scott said, trying to make a fire with a stack of damp wood. “Ser Factor was adamant nobody would follow us this close to the Swamp of Death. As long as we stick to the road, we’ll be fine.”
“Huh.” Loth put his hands on his hips and squinted behind him in the gathering gloom. “And where’s the road, Scott?”
Scott hurried to stand beside him and looked behind them. And then in front of them. And then behind them again.
“Huh,” he echoed. He chewed his lip, and his scraggly goatee trembled like a scared little woodland creature. His brow furrowed. “It appears the road is in the wrong place, my liege.”
“Must be that faulty map,” Loth said, wondering how long it would be before Scott killed them all. Minutes, probably.
“Yes,” Scott agreed quickly, scurrying away again. “The faulty map.”
Loth swallowed a sigh and looked around at the rescue party. Calarian was sitting in the back of the cart, his long legs dangling, as he sorted through a handful of something that looked like coins, but Loth suspected were tokens from Houses and Humans.
Dave was crouching by the damp firewood, cooing encouragement at Pie as Pie puffed out wisps of smoke in the direction of the potential fire. At this rate, the poor little lizard would die of exhaustion before they ever saw a flame.
Ada was stomping up and down the edge of their sad little campsite, huffing like one of the horses.
And Grub...
Grub was standing quietly, his chin lifted, staring off into the growing darkness. There was enough distance between them that he looked almost like one of Scott’s heroes, and not at all like the scrawny half-starved, bad-tempered little shit that Loth knew he was. He must have felt Loth’s gaze on him—he turned, and his face settled into a familiar scowl, and then he trudged over towards Loth, his hands shoved under his armpits as though he was trying to warm them. Loth almost felt guilty for taking his scarf back.
“Scott tells me that the road is in the wrong place,” he said as Grub approached.
Grub snorted.
Loth levelled a stare at him. “You don’t seem too upset by the fact that we are currently lost in The Wilds.”
Grub shrugged. “We’ll be fine, as long as we avoid the swamp.” His brows drew together thoughtfully. “And, of course, the wolves don’t attack.”
“The what now?”
“The wolves,” Grub said. “They say they can grow as big as horses out here.” He flashed Loth an evil grin. “But I’m sure that’s just a nasty rumour.”
“Well, you’re safe,” Loth said. “You’d be nothing but bone and gristle. They’d only want you as a toothpick.”
Grub lifted a hand and raked his fingers through his hair. It stood up at strange angles, and Loth pushed down the urge to attempt to tame it slightly. What did he care if Grub looked like a manic haystack?
Grub’s gaze found his again. “A fire should keep the wolves away if Pie can start one. Otherwise, my Prince, you’d do well to tell them to set a watch.”
“Hmm.” Loth folded his arms over his chest. “A fire might keep the wolves away, but wouldn’t it attract other predators?”
Grub raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“Bandits,” Loth suggested. “Or soldiers of the crown, given both of us are currently fugitives.”
“You think that Ser Greylord would send his men into The Wilds for a pickpocket?” There was something confronting in Grub’s stare.
“I have no idea who that is.”
“The Shire Reeve of Delacourt.”
“I still don’t know who that is,” Loth admitted. “And while I doubt very much the loss of one pickpocket would bother him, there’s still the question of you, isn’t there, Grub? What exactly were you doing in the dungeons of Delacourt, and who put you there?” He exhaled slowly. “Who are you, Grub? You’re no peasant.”
Grub’s brows drew together. “What was it you said back in Delacourt? You asked me if I was the illegitimate spawn of a ranking official.” He shrugged and looked away.
“A hostage, then,” Loth said. “Kept in chains to ensure your father’s compliance.” He stretched. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to have you home if the wolves don’t eat us. Not that you can ever show your face again, can you? Or Lord Doom will snap you right up again. Still, it’ll be better than a dungeon, I suppose.”
War was a messy thing, and so was politics. Loth, like most people who worked for a living, didn’t give two shits about the games that rich men played. It didn't make any difference to him which royal arse was sitting on the throne. The sun still rose every morning.