I don’t know how long Tycho was following me before I caught him, but it was early enough that I was still terrified of being discovered. He was lucky I didn’t have a blade on me.
Or maybe I was lucky. My skills with weapons would definitely draw attention. If anyone comes looking for a skilled swordsman, I don’t want fingers pointing to me. Sometimes I’ll spar with Tycho using the blades we keep for practice, but I’m careful to execute only basic moves, and I let him get in a lot of hits.
A wagon creaks outside, with the clopping heaviness of draft horses. A man’s blustering voice calls out, “Tycho! Hawk! Come see what I’ve got!”
Worwick. I sigh. He could have anything, from a slab of ice to a rusted nail to a fisherman’s corpse.
Considering this heat, I very much hope it’s not the latter.
I step out of the stables, wiping my hands along my trousers. The wagon carries a massive crate, taller than a man, covered by a huge length of fabric that’s tied down at the corners. The draft horses are slick with sweat, froth dripping from their mouths.
Worwick always drives the animals too hard. I’ll have to wash them down before running across the city. Tycho might win today after all.
Worwick looks like he’s found a pile of the king’s silver. He practically bounces down from the seat of the wagon, and considering his heft, that’s saying something. He pulls a rag from his pocket and mops his drenched brow. “You won’t believe this,” he says. “You simply won’t believe this.”
“What do you have?” I say.
“Where’s Tycho?” Worwick all but cackles with glee. “I want to see his reaction.”
Racing me to the tavern for steamed crabs that I’ll have to buy if you drag this out too long. “I sent him into the city for an ointment for one of the horses.”
“Ah. Too bad.” He sighs with disappointment. “I’ll just have to see yours, then.”
I likely won’t have much of a reaction, and he knows it. Worwick finds me stoic and unimaginative. I spent far too long serving the crown prince—in both his human and his monster form—to bat an eye at anything Worwick might have under this sheet.
He’s not a bad man, just a bit crude, and too driven by what will bring him an extra coin for his pocket. As Commander Grey, I would have pitied him.
As Hawk, I simply tolerate him.
“Go ahead, then,” I say.
“Help me untie the canvas.”
The ropes are tight and double knotted. I’m on the second corner when I realize he’s still on the ground, watching me.
Typical. The second rope gives, and I flip the sheet high.
It’s a cage. I’m staring down at … a creature I can’t identify. It’s somewhat human-shaped, with dark-gray skin, the color of a cloudy night sky. Wings bound with rope sprout from its back, and there’s a length of tail that curls limply along the ground of the cage. It has clawed hands and feet, and a shock of black hair that’s matted with sweat.
It’s not moving.
“Goodness,” says Worwick. “Do you think it died?”
“If it’s not dead, it’s close.” I cast a dark look at him. “How long has it been covered up like that?”
“Two hours.”
“In this heat?”
He puts a hand to his mouth. “Oh dear.”
“It needs water.” When he doesn’t move, I jump off the wagon and fetch a bucket from the stable.
The creature still hasn’t moved by the time I return. I climb back on the wagon and crouch beside the cage. I watch its ribs expanding slowly. At least it’s breathing. I take a handful of water and extend my hand through the bars, trickling it along its face. Its nose is slightly narrower than a human’s, its jaw wider. The water makes a trail along the smoke-colored skin.
“What is it?” I say to Worwick. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a scraver,” he says. “They said it was captured far in the north, in the ice forests beyond Syhl Shallow. I won it in a game of cards! Fortune smiled on me today, my boy.”
A scraver. I remember a childhood story about something like this, but it’s been too long for me to recall much. “I thought those were a myth. Something to scare children.”
“Apparently not.”
I take another handful of water and let it run down over its face, then cluck to it like a horse. The scraver’s eyelids flicker, but it does not move.
“Can you believe,” says Worwick, “that they were charging two coppers just to look at it? Absolutely shameful.”
My eyebrows go up. Sympathy isn’t something I often hear from Worwick. “I agree.”
“Exactly! For a scraver? People would surely pay five.”
Ah. There it is.
When I take a third handful, the creature twitches. Its mouth moves, seeking the water. Claws scrape against the floor of the cage as it tries to pull nearer to me. Its movements are weak and pitiful.
“Easy now,” I say softly. “I have more.” I take another handful of water. I’ll have to fetch a ladle.
The scraver inhales deeply, its nostrils flaring, and a low sound comes from its chest. I put my hand as close to its lips as I can manage.
Its eyes open, and they’re all black. The low sound becomes a growl.
“Easy,” I say again. “I won’t hurt—”
It lunges for my hand. I’m quick, but it’s quicker. Fangs sink into my wrist before I can get my arm out of the cage. I jerk free and stumble back, tripping over the bucket of water and all but falling off the wagon.
Worwick stares down at me, then bursts out laughing. “No, no. It was better that you were here. I don’t think Tycho would have had the nerve to put a hand in there with it.”
Silver hell. My wrist is bleeding something fierce. Dirt and sweat have already set it stinging.
The scraver has retreated to the opposite side of the cage. From here, I can tell the creature’s unashamedly male. It’s glaring at me: fangs half bared, eyes pools of dark warning.
“You’re going to have to wait for water now,” I say.
“What do you think we should do with it?” says Worwick.
I sigh. My wrist burns, and I’m starving. I’m going to have to fetch Tycho and be back before dark, or there will be hell to pay. “We can’t leave it out here in the sun. Let’s take the wagon into the stadium,” I say. “We can figure out what to do with it after the tourney.”
“Hawk, you’re a good man.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Lucky me.
Tycho is sitting at the bar, a half-eaten platter of crabs in front of him and a smile on his face. It’s early for the tavern, too, so the place isn’t crowded, and Tycho has the bar to himself. He looks so pleased with himself that I’m almost glad Worwick rolled into the courtyard with a problem he expected me to solve.
I can’t help but smile back. “Don’t get cocky.”
He grins at Jodi, the young woman behind the bar. “I think I’ll have another dozen. Hawk is buying.”
She smiles, her golden-brown eyes shining. “So you’ve said.”
I snort. “You’ll make yourself sick on what’s in front of you. I’m not carrying you back.”