Shade slept little that night, but he didn’t expect to. Having both Vicious and Warrior in the room did not help; he spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to stop memories from rolling through his mind. When that didn’t work, he headed for the Blue Horse’s bath, hoping to find it empty. Rhona kept the place pretty clean, and the water was usually at least lukewarm.

He’d wanted a hot bath for the past seven days, but at this point, Shade would settle for a cold one. Provided it was private. He was not in the mood to show his other scars off to strangers.

Unfortunately, there was an orgy in the bath. The Blue Horse was old enough to have both a cool and warm pool. Even in the wee hours of the morning, both overflowed with drinking bathers. Fortunately, Ash and his lady friend were not among them.

They were all Evendarians, though, which at least meant the participants all wanted to be there, and it really wasn’t his business. He turned away before anyone could issue an invitation. That crowd looked far too welcoming, and the few glimpses he got made his skin crawl and brought up too many memories.

Sighing, Shade headed down to the stables, brushing Vic over and over again until morning came. Then he headed to the market and bought supplies enough to last a week, even with Warrior in tow.

Ash found him there, with both students in tow. “We’re heading north. You going for the Bridge?”

“We are.” It would be Shade’s third crossing in ten days. What fun.

“May the Lady be with you, then. Try to avoid the weather.” Ash held out a hand.

Shade shook it. “Ride well.”

“Never forget.” Ash’s smile was lopsided. “C’mon, Vicious. Time to earn our keep.”

Vicious laughed. Warrior frowned. “We get paid?”

“No. Mount up.”

Reaching the Bridge took a full day; they camped at its head, arriving after dark. Warrior was a little more confident in the saddle by then, and the weather was calm, so Shade chose to press onward the next morning.

Crossing with a novice rider took most of the day. The main causeway was only thirty miles, but it was narrow even in good weather. Horses were sane creatures with more imagination than brains, and they didn’t like not knowing what was under their feet.

Vic was an old Bridge hand, but even he didn’t like unexpected waves. Warrior’s mare bucked him off the first time a higher wave tickled her knees, leaving Shade to chase her down while Warrior, red-faced and soaked, dug sand out of unmentionable places. They walked the horses for a while after that, remounting when the ground was firmer.

Fortunately, Warrior was a fit kid. He rambled about working with his parents in the port and carrying sacks of this and that all day, so he kept up a decent pace.

“Aren’t you tired?” Warrior asked as they remounted.

“Should I be?”

“I mean, you’re, um, old.” Warrior gulped. “Aren’t you?”

Shade almost smiled. “Older than you, for certain.”

At least twice as old, he didn’t say. No use disabusing the boy of his assumptions; like most people, Warrior probably thought Shade older than he was. By some small miracle, Shade’s black hair wasn’t graying yet, but his weathered and scarred face made him look a decade greater than his actual age. It didn’t help that he rarely smiled and found little joy in life.

He had too much to do for hope or joy.

Too much loss.

That night, they camped ten miles short of the foot of the Bridge while Warrior tried all too obviously not to complain. That turned into the Second Telling of Seril Rufio’s Life Story, which Shade tried to tune out as best he could. By then, he was tired to the bone, and he still hadn’t gotten a damn bath, which put him in a foul mood.

Add this to the list of reasons I don’t take students. It tempts me to murder, he thought behind an expressionless face.

Under other circumstances, Shade would’ve pushed on to Bridgetown or Weltil—the former was larger, but Gunstrum’s, in Weltil, was safer—but Warrior’s mare wasn’t up to another long day. Weltil had a decent horse market; that was reason enough to go there.

Once Warrior stopped trying to regale Shade with stories of climbing ships’ rigging as a boy, sleep found both quickly.

Again, Shade dreamt of yellow eyes watching.

They reached Weltil an hour before noon, well-rested with the exception of Warrior’s cranky mare, who tried to bite him when he mounted that morning.

“How do I give her up? Fanny was mater’s.” Warrior’s blue eyes glistened suspiciously; Shade chose not to taunt him.

Cynic could do that, assuming she took the boy. If she didn’t, Shade would find someone else before the boy’s youth and optimism drove him insane. He had other things to do.

“A good horse can mean the difference between life and death out here. Fanny may have been a good horse once”—if Shade was being charitable—“but she’s too old, now. Too slow.”

“But—”

“Do you want to die out here?”

Warrior glowered. “No.”

“Then cease arguing. We sell the horse and buy you a better one.” Shade hated the way his accent came out when he got annoyed, and he stamped it down with a vengeance, digging up the rougher speech he’d learned years ago and used exclusively these days.

“Fine.” Then Warrior perked up. “Do I get to pick the color? I’d like a black horse.”

“We’ll see.”

Shade should’ve gotten rid of that damn mare back in Coelera. One of the venatores’ horses would’ve been better than the aging and soon-to-be-lame Fanny, but they weren’t really worthy of being a Night Rider’s horse, either. If they had been, he’d have gotten a lot more than a hundred twenty-five sestertii for each of them.

Two hours later, they left the horse trader with Shade’s purse four hundred sestertii lighter. A black gelding followed Warrior placidly. He wasn’t the best horse in the bunch, but he was solid, brave, and fit—and unlikely to leave Warrior to die.

And the kid didn’t shed a tear over Fanny, either. Good enough.

The same stableboy met them outside Gunstrum’s stables, grinning when he spotted Shade accompanied by two horses.

“You and your friend kill those others dead?” he asked, displaying a full set of surprisingly clean teeth.

“Some of them.” Thinking of Instance made Shade’s throat tight.

“They were mean.” The urchin scowled.

“Were they?”

“Yeah. Said we had to help them like they was the law. But no one Evendarian’s the law these days. Everyone knows that.” The boy laughed. “And Gunstrum told me that I should ignore them dick heads, anyway.”

Warrior’s jaw dropped. “Does your mater know you use words like that?”

The urchin shrugged. “She don’t care. Olorians killed her years ago. Gunstrum took me in, and as long as I take care of them horses, I can say what I want.”

Warrior’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly. Shade chuckled.

“Come,” he said, leading the way into Gunstrum’s.

Gunstrum’s had changed little in the seven days since Shade was last there. The formerly white paint and green on the outside still merged into a dingy green, but the atmosphere inside remained almost solely Evendarian. There was a nicer inn on the other side of Weltil, reserved for Olorian clientele who couldn’t afford to stay in Bridgetown, so few bothered to come to Gunstrum’s.

That was one reason Gunstrum’s was one of Shade’s favorite places.

He led Warrior to the bar, noting with relief that Alessa wasn’t there. Deon, Gunstrum’s nephew, was polishing glasses, and he looked up as they approached. “One room or two?”

“One.” Much though Shade wished for privacy, he didn’t dare leave Warrior on his own. “Two beds, if you have it.”

“Room nine.” Deon extended a key, which Shade slid inside his cloak.

Shade liked Deon. He never bothered with small talk and never told Alessa when Shade was around. Not that she wouldn’t find out. The hospitia wasn’t that big, and she lived on the top floor.

Suppressing the need to shudder, Shade gestured for Warrior to follow him up the stairs. Room nine was on the second floor and right over the patio awning. That made for an easy escape, if necessary—another reason Night Riders liked Gunstrum’s so much.

The room was small, but it had two beds, a table, and a washbasin. The latrines were behind the main building, as were the kitchen and the bath. Maybe Shade would finally get his damned warm bath later, but after this long, he wasn’t counting on it. Clearly, some god or another was against the idea.

They stayed in the room long enough to dump their saddlebags and bedrolls before heading back down to the dining room. Gunstrum met them on the stairs, his long face solemn.

“Rumor says Nydallas of Olor is in Polontis,” he whispered. “Just thought you might want to know.”

“Thank you.” Shade filed that one away. Polontis was over a hundred miles away from Weltil along the Via Magus, but it was a curious destination for the Crown Prince of Olor.

Why not a city like Qelldoria, or even Bridgetown? Polontis was a decent-sized town, less rundown than Weltil, but no grand metropolis. Entertainment there was limited to a handful of theaters and a tiny circus, not enough to keep a famous hedonist entertained.

Polontis was more famous for its ties to Cirus, the Wizard’s Haven. Cirus was nominally independent these days, under the rule of the Watcher—and the last scion of the Zhuid line was married to Nydallas. Rumor said there was little love between Annia Zhuid and Nydallas, and Shade wished them the utmost of misery.

To his right, Warrior was sheet white. “Isn’t that the queen’s eldest son?” he whispered.

“It is.”

“Why’s he out here?”

“Probably visiting his wife. Not our problem.” Not yet, anyway. Shade led Warrior to the Night Riders’ customary table, where Deon took their lunch orders.

Scowling, Shade ordered ale instead of the wine he wanted, but it was too early in the day to drink a bottle. And he needed to be sober if he was going to bathe.

“Do you usually run into other Night Riders on the road?” Warrior asked after ten minutes of blessed silence. The kid spent most of his time watching patrons trickle in; Gunstrum’s main crowd came in the evening, but the gamblers started early, and two groups to the front right were deep into dice games.

“No.”

“Oh.” Warrior swallowed. “That seems lonely.”

“I told you that this was a solitary life,” Shade said. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No. Of course not.” Warrior’s voice crackled a little, but he met Shade’s gaze.

“Good.”

It wouldn’t be too late for Warrior to turn away for at least a month; by then, he’d be someone else’s problem. Shade sure as hell wasn’t going to slow his pace for that long, not with Nydallas nearby.

Don’t think about that now.

Pushing aside memories—too many memories—took him a long moment, during which Shade stared at the bottom of his glass and ignored Warrior’s people watching. He remembered Nydallas too well, remembered his laugh, his cruelty, and his mother encouraging him.

Thinking about the pair of them made his brand itch, but he refused to touch it. Refused to give them that victory.

“Is that another Night Rider?” Warrior asked.

Shade’s head snapped up. There was a figure framed in the doorway; red flashed as she removed her hood, revealing curly red hair not yet going gray that tried valiantly to escape a messy braid. Freckles framed hard blue eyes, and she moved like a broad-shouldered predator.

Gunstrum greeted her with a smile and gave her a drink, which she brought to their table. She stopped, towering over Shade and his companion.

“The legendary Shade, I presume,” she said. “Your scars give you away.”

“Cynic,” he replied. “It’s a pleasure.”

Cynic’s smile was cool. “It won’t be once you hear what I have planned.”