The riders seemed as tired and ill kept as the horse. A big fellow looking not much older than her actual age rode in front, all rumpled jacket and stubbled chin. Behind him, his bigger companion clung on. The second man had lumpy features and long untrimmed nails so crusted with dirt as to look black, and a blank expression. His too-small clothes seemed an afterthought: a ragged shirt hanging open with sleeves rolled up, trousers that did not reach his boot tops. His age was hard to guess. Fawn wondered if he was a simpleton. They both looked as though they were making their way home from a night of drinking, or worse. The young man bore a big hunting knife, though the other seemed weaponless. Fawn marched past with the briefest nod, making no greeting to them, though out of the corner of her eye she could see both their heads turn. She walked on, not looking back.

The receding rhythm of hoofbeats stopped. She dared a glance over her shoulder. The two men seemed to be arguing, in voices too hushed and rumbling for her to make out the words, except a reiterated, “Master want!” in rising, urgent tones from the simpleton, and a sharp, aggravated “Why?” from the other. She lowered her face and walked faster. The hoofbeats started again, but instead of fading into the distance, grew louder.

The animal loomed alongside. “Morning,” the younger man called down in a would-be cheerful tone. Fawn glanced up. He tugged his dirty blond hair at her politely, but his smile did not reach his eyes. The simpleton just stared tensely at her.

Fawn combined a civil nod with a repelling frown, starting to think, Please, let there be a cart. Cows. Other riders, anything, I don’t care which direction.

“Going to Glassforge?” he inquired.

“I’m expected,” Fawn returned shortly. Go away. Just turn around and go away.

“Family there?”

“Yes.” She considered inventing some large Glassforge brothers and uncles, or just relocating the real ones. The plague of her life, she almost wished for them now.

The simpleton thumped his friend on the shoulder, scowling. “No talk. Just take.” His voice came out smeared, as though his mouth was the wrong shape inside.

A manure wagon would be just lovely. One with a lot of people on board, preferably.

“You do it, then,” snapped the young man.

The simpleton shrugged, braced his hands, and slid himself off right over the horse’s rump. He landed more neatly than Fawn would have expected. She lengthened her stride; then, as he came around the horse toward her, she broke into a dead run, looking around frantically.