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Chapter 13: The Trespasser
Part 1
Frix used the various flags and banners to guide his path. The triads he was least familiar with would be the ones least likely to recognize him. Fortunately, the triads closest to All-bit-tel tended to cluster near the middle and by the cliffside tents. He found a curving route that skirted the perimeter, kept his head down, and walked double-time.
It was surreal, to be among this press of people and canvas. Everything about it was like home, yet he needed to be out of it and past it as quick as possible. There were fires and mouth-watering scents of fowl cooking, games playing out, little spars, some slinger practice off near the treeline—part of him begged to stop, sit down and participate. He bit his inner cheek and trudged on.
About halfway through, a ball bounced high up out of a pitch and straight at him. He caught it without thinking. He kept walking with it gripped in both hands, looking for the owners. Frix had never been so anxious to hold a ball before.
A little boy, wearing the green tassels of the Bit family came bounding over, first eying the ball, then staring right at him.
“Frix?” said the boy.
His tongue was dry—of all the people to finally catch him, he had never dreamt it might be his little brother.
“You’re… I thought…” Callum blinked and rubbed his head.
Frix heaved the ball back in the general direction that it had come from. “Come here,” he rasped, and ducked between two tents. There were some crates in the space, so when Callum followed him in, Frix grabbed his brother’s arm and pushed him against one.
“Ow! Frix what—”
Frix slapped a palm over his face. “Shut up. Don’t say my name.”
His brother wriggled and bit at him.
“Stop it. Stop it please,” he whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here. Okay? Don’t make a racket.”
He let go of Callum, who looked ready to shout, but only stared instead.
“Great Uncle Ottrah is going to hang you,” Callum said, fear bubbling in his eyes.
“Not if you don’t say anything. I’ll be gone in a snap. What in the Great Leaf are you doing up here anyway? Are ma and pa here too?”
Callum nodded. “The marshals wanted everyone who could walk. I’m learning how to do resupply for crossdart units. The call came the same day you left.”
“Why? What are they planning?”
“I don’t know. Pa thinks it's about the witches though. That we’re gonna go get ‘em.”
“I have to find Mossa. Have you seen her?” said Frix.
“No. Only Dreff of Tel from your Seedwind.” Callum’s eyes tracked to Frix’s chest.
“Great, where is he? Anywhere close to here?”
“I don’t think so, I only saw him last sun.”
“Look Callum, I’ve got to go, and now. You never saw me. Like you said, I’ll hang if Ottrah finds out.”
Callum looked terrified, and shook his head.
“I mean it. Don’t say a thing,” said Frix.
“I won’t, I won’t, but you won’t make it. There are marshals, and Bit and Tel everywhere. Ottrah is here Frix. He’s making rounds at all the root tents.”
Frix closed his eyes and stopped himself from shouting a curse. Instead, he said, “I don’t have a choice, little buddy.”
“I’ll help.”
“What? No, you go back and pretend—”
Callum interrupted him with a hug. “I owe you. Don’t get hung, Frix.” Then his brother slipped around him and bolted.
“Callum, wait,” said Frix, but it was too late.
He froze for a second, then thought about Swinn, moving ever further away. Frix took a breath, and strolled out, willing himself to act normal. He expected Ottrah of Bit to be standing right there, barring his path, flanked by some of Bettine’s toughs. But the path was clear. He walked.
He came to an area that made him nervous; a part of the camp where there were few tall tents. It was open and flat, meant for pit cooking, training grounds and pelt curing. The lines of sight were excellent. He kept his head down, but then a commotion across the way caught his attention. A horn tooted.
People raced towards it, whooping, yelling. Dust rose over a spot across the way as a mass of people gathered.
He caught a glimpse of his brother, brandishing a longspike of sorts, squaring off with the same little Tel punk from the river. Vebba. Then the surge of onlookers grew too thick.
His brother had initiated a duel.
Callum, you moss brain, Frix thought to himself. But it was working. Everyone he walked past was either looking toward the duel or chattering about it. He spotted at least one bole-marshal watching it from afar.
Frix didn’t stop until he was past the tents, into the woods where the trees began to thicken again. When he risked turning, he imagined seeing a detachment there, slingers, bows and crossdarts drawn, maybe even Bettine of All at the head of it with her infamous sparker pointed right between his eyes.
He was alone. The sounds of Point Starfire filtered through, and the stir and rustle of the way ahead murmured with the comfort of a quiet trail. He pictured himself between a smithy’s hammer and red hot blade. Frix closed his eyes as the hammer clanged and sent trailing sparks flying. The sparks traced red lines. Red lines that swam together, twining, like a fiery fountain. A girl in clothes unfit for forest walking sat at the base, where all the lines met.
She opened her eyes, and he opened his. Frix turned and dashed ahead.
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