Weapons of War Ch1

Knives, or weapons of any sort, did not usually feature in Llewella’s repertoire of collectibles, but the ornate handle had caught her eye. The finely carved ivory or bone beckoned to Llewella - begged her not to let it leave the market without her - although, she was flip-flopping over whether it had been the knife handle or the way the trousers fit over the hip from which the knife was slung which had drawn her attention first. It was giving her pause, albeit minor.

The monthly market was one of the few times when the people of Cheer truly mingled. Women displaying their curves with cinched-in waists below elegant necklines, and men in pressed shirts, trousers hooked up by suspenders, and vests decorated with gold chains and pocket watches, shared the street with others too late to make their fortune. The dominant colour was brown, with splashes of red, blue or yellow marking both a woman of class, or girl prospecting for a trick.

Llewella was invisible among the finery and silent amid the propositions. In a ruddy white shirt and russet trousers she slid by unnoticed. Her eyes trailed the handle everywhere it went. Her feet followed; the rest of her body entwining its way between people and stalls.

A woman looked up from her knitting to smile and nod at passers-by perusing her collection of crafts, ranging from scarves to glass decorations and various items of jewellery.

A merchant’s voice cut across the crowd, inviting visitors to try spiced meats from his home country. The mouth-watering aromas brought people from the other end of the street into the throng surrounding his sizzling offerings.

The hip and knife stopped. Two more stealthy steps, and Llewella stopped, too. Her hand twitched. Finely honed muscles tensed. She stepped in close. If she allowed herself to breathe, he might have known she was there. But she didn’t.

Llewella withdrew back into the throng. Knife pressed to her own hip by the waistband of her trousers. Deed done. Breathing resumed.

It was easy to justify; a knife could come in handy in all sorts of situations. No doubt one such as this would fetch a good price, too, if she decided to part with it. But, right now it was time to buy some food and, maybe, a new shirt. She rolled her shoulders and felt the material strain; definitely time for a replacement.

A stylish dress with a tasteful neckline, cupping two beautiful, rounded breasts, hooked Llewella’s eye on its way past. When it disappeared back into the crowd, she looked down at her own shirt that hung almost straight down - straight down enough, at least, for nearly everyone to assume she was a boy. Well, a girl her age, with no parents, was better off being seen as a boy in a place like this.

“Hey!”

Llewella’s breath caught in the back of her throat. It couldn’t be—

A quick glance over her shoulder proved her wrong. He was enraged, and he and his companion sliced through the crowd like the blade she now had in her possession.

She took off through the crowd, ducking fancy hats and parasols. She spared a moment of thanks for the unusually long legs that carried her through the crowd as fast as the two men behind her. Skirting parcels and large bellies, and leaving a trail of surprised exclamations, she was soon at the edge of the market. She slipped around the corner of a barber’s and clung to the wood-panelled wall, listening. No footsteps to be heard. Again, she welcomed the chance to breathe and relaxed.

Hearing a creak, Llewella looked up, but there was nothing to see save the eave of the roof. She stepped out from the building for a better look.

A crouching silhouette pounced; the sun, suddenly revealed, blinded her. She was on her back, wrists pressed into the ground either side of her head, which rang from its collision with the ground. Her vision cleared to reveal a dusty face framed by sandy-brown hair. The man was grim, although there was something else there: a hint of exhilaration from the chase.

She struggled in his grasp, but he was strong and straddling her across the middle. She recognized the knife-owner’s companion. And then she heard more footsteps approaching.

A hand gripped her collar and the man straddling her stood as she was lifted from the ground, pushed into the nearby wall and something sharp pressed against her chest. She glanced down at a compact crossbow, loaded, and digging into her sternum. She looked up into the dark, scowling face belonging to the steady finger on the weapon’s trigger. If he hadn’t been threatening her, she might have thought he was rather attractive despite the scars - a hand-shaped burn under his jaw and a couple of lines through one eyebrow. He had a darker complexion than most Cheer locals, brown eyes and wore his dark hair long. A wide-brimmed hat served to darken his umbrageous appearance.

“Well, you’re a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. Or should that be the other way around?”

Somehow, his scowl deepened. Her eyes travelled down, catching a glimpse of several knife handles in his vest. Llewella wished she had a little more talent in tact, and wondered if she should pick her comments more carefully.

“Shut up,” he said. His voice, deep and gravelly despite his looking barely in his twenties, emerged from between gritted teeth. He spoke with an accent; not local, then - mind you, neither was she.

“Jonas—”

“Back off, Al. He took my knife,” the one called Jonas stated over his shoulder, then he leaned in so close she could almost taste his breath. “Now, give it back.” While he said it quietly, the command made her jump, and the point of the crossbow grazed her chest through the thin shirt.

“Ow. All right, all right.” She fumbled at her waistband to free the knife. “Could you consider maybe not pressing that thing in to me? I think you’ve drawn blood.” Sure enough, a little red seeped through the linen. She held the knife up by her head and managed to bite her tongue on further comments and  not shove him away; she sensed he was one to take care of his own issues, rather than turning them over to the authorities – something that could work in Llewella’s favour, if she played her hand right. Of course, it could go horribly wrong, too.

He grabbed the knife. Stepping from her personal space, he sheathed the weapon at his hip, and then his fist was in her gut, emptying her lungs and folding her over. While Llewella tried to regain her breath, he turned on his heel, saying “Come on, Al. We got work to do.”

“Thanks for the sport,” Al grinned and his blue eyes flashed. “It’s been fun.” He turned, with a skip in his step, jogging to catch up with Jonas.

Clutching her belly, Llewella watched them disappear around the corner. okay, maybe she deserved that. A punch in the gut beat being hauled off to the gallows any day. Even as she coughed phlegm and tried to take in a full breath, she was intrigued. They were certainly not locals of Cheer.

She scanned the area about her, all wooden buildings and dusty dirt street, then she saw what she was after; in the window of one building was a flower box, well-tended with a small range of flourishing ornamentals. Ignoring the sign on the wall decreeing a “Magic-free Aghacia”, she brushed her fingertips over the leaves. They wilted. The pain in her gut eased and the graze on her chest tingled, and then ceased to hurt. Healed.

The weight of the three purses was making her trousers sit awry, revealing a slim hip under a too-short shirt. Time to rectify that. She turned back to the market.

From the street corner she watched the two foreigners take the few wooden steps up to the grocer’s. While physically smaller both in height and breadth, Jonas had an aura of power that labelled him as the leader of the two. They both moved with a confidence Llewella coveted. Despite her own physical prowess in fine, undetectable movements, she was a rangy teenager with an uncertain future ahead. She wondered what kind of work they could be doing, but had little doubt it would mean leaving Cheer. Her envy grew.

Llewella loved Cheer, it was her home town.  And it was the kind of town where people could make their fortune. The only problem with that was that one needed a small fortune to  get the equipment needed to plunder the hills and high-country rivers. These days, absentee rich hired Cheer locals to do the back-breaking so that there was a steady flow of gold and other precious materials out of Cheer and little of anything in.

There was no denying Cheer’s natural beauty if one took the time to go beyond those areas touched by settlers, whose greed recognized no boundary.

At least Cheer, and Aghacia as a whole, was untouched by the wars Llewella saw mentioned almost daily on the newsstands. Yes. That was where Cheer truly shined. Peace reigned.

But it was small, and hard to make a living in the kind of work requiring anonymity. And  Llewella only seemed to be getting taller, despite other girls her age maturing a couple of years earlier. While added height had its advantages, it was not ideal when she wished to remain inconspicuous.

The purses she pilfered every few weeks didn’t give her enough to make any sort of move – she was going to have to face her future soon. But, right now, she had to purchase a couple of essentials and disappear before anyone paid her too much attention. She turned away from the town centre and made her way to the less reputable side of Cheer, where no one would question her having three purses.

* * *


She moved through the crowd once more, making her way back up the main street, scooting past a man studying a knife at a hardware stall. It was nothing like the knife Llewella had in her possession just moments earlier. By comparison, it was dull, utilitarian, with no thought to the beauty such an item could possess.

“Apples, fresh apples. Three for five cinqa.” A local grocer attempted to attract market leavers into his store. He wasn’t having much luck. Most had spent, or lost, their money by the time they passing by.

“How much for one?” asked Llewella, forcing her voice into the lower register she used to support her boyish appearance.

“Two cinqa,” he replied. “Three for five is a good deal.”

“It is, but I got no place to carry ‘em.” Llewella fished through one of the pouches for small change, her hand emerging with the correct amount. The grocer stared at her haul. “You want my business mister? You better mind your own.” Llewella shook the money at him. He took the coins gratefully and let her pick her own apple. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, son.” The man tipped his hat to her.

Llewella turned down the street, leaving the busyness of the market behind, and bit into her apple, savouring the mix of sweet and sour, firm flesh that relented easily between strong teeth.

“Hello handsome.” A girl, dressed in barely more than undergarments, sidled up. “Looks like you did some good business today.” A hip, emphasized by the tightly drawn waist above, bumped into Llewella’s own, arms entangled and a hand tickled the back of her neck. Llewella rolled her shoulders, trying to free herself of the caress and the ticklish shadow that lingered. Her apple fell to the ground. “Looks like you’ve been working hard today. I can work hard, too. You won’t be sorry.” The sultry tones made Llewella cringe. Without breaking stride, she pulled her arms close in front of her chest and her shoulders up around her ears, but the other girl kept her hold firm and followed the movement to come even closer.

“No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” She side-stepped, kept her head down, giving only the briefest sideways glances at the girl. She’d never felt more uncomfortable in all her life. With a violent shake of her arm, she was free and carried on down the road.

“Suit yourself. Greedy bastard,” the girl muttered after her.

Llewella plunged her hands deep into her pockets, chewing the last of her bite of apple. It was warm and sweet. Damn whore.

“Hey Llew!” The boy’s voice cut clearly above the murmur of the crowd.

Llewella cursed under her breath. A one-time close friend, these days Kynas made her skin crawl.

“Hi, Kynas.” She slowed her pace and he fell in beside her.

“It’s been a good day.” He grinned, patting his pocket. “Did you have a good day?”

She jiggled the pouches by her waist.

“Great. You wanna come by my place?”

“No, Kynas. I’m not in the mood.”

“You ain’t been in the mood all summer.” The boy pouted and stopped walking, falling behind.

No, she hadn’t.

Kynas had managed to pick up a job doing odds and ends for an elderly couple. They couldn’t pay him, but they allowed him to make a small outbuilding on their property his own. Llewella had been known to share it with him on cold winter evenings. But it wasn’t winter yet.

For a few years now, they had been able to be friends, looking out for each other. Kynas had even helped her make the transition to life on the street. But last winter, something had changed. Huddling together to keep warm had become something different. They had experimented. Explored themselves and each other. For a while it had been fun. But it wasn’t long before Kynas wanted to play when Llewella didn’t. And suddenly, the shelter wasn’t free to her anymore. Their friendship, as it had existed, had come to an end.

She continued walking. She wasn’t about to prostitute herself to her friend just to make him feel better. He should know that. Llewella had cut her hair short, taken to dressing like a boy, and learned the art of picking pockets, to avoid that lifestyle. Besides, there were plenty of others willing to see to his needs.

She stopped into Inael’s store for a new shirt before heading south to her makeshift shelter under a willow tree by Big River – Cheer’s settlers were revered for their practicality. Her Spot – Llewella had adopted the trait – was well away from the town itself and offered her almost complete privacy.

She stowed what was left of the money pouches inside her hovel, stripped off and waded into the water – she wasn’t about to get into a new shirt without bathing first. The melt-water, direct from Aghacia’s mountainous spine, bit through her skin.

With handfuls of sediment, she scrubbed away the day’s dirt. Acclimatized to the water, she waded in a little farther and dunked herself, emerging a few seconds later, wiping her eyes clear and squeezing ice-cold water from her short hair. She remained crouched low, pressing her toes through the soft mud below, watching it erupt between her toes through the clear water and feeling its deceptive warmth. When her fingers and toes began to tingle with the threat of closing capillaries, she made her way back to shore, wiped herself off with her old shirt and dressed.

Five minutes walk up the river, she sat with her fishing line and waited for dinner to find her bait. Despite the efforts of a brisk breeze, the sun succeeded in warming her through; and she sat, mind wandering, not quite listening to the babble of the water, or the rustle of lupins and dry grasses, nor the chatter of the tieke settling into their nests for the night. The sounds washed over her; seemingly heard a million times before.

She thought back on her day, and wondered if the knife had been an overly ambitious target. Purses were usually not missed until the previous owner settled on something they wished to buy or returned home. And the absence of a watch was almost never noted until the market’s close. What would make someone check the presence of a knife in the middle of such a commercial, non-violent, event? And why, when he had so many other knives to choose from did he have to audit that one? And how had he known it was her? She wasn’t the only one to look back when he yelled. But she had been the only one in his sights when she did. The scenario would bother her. It did not do to make a habit of being caught in the act.

Light pressure on her line brought her thoughts back to the present. She gave a gentle tug. The line yielded, then tugged back. Good. With a steady motion she began to wind the line around her wood block, the horsehair sitting neatly in the notched ends. She paused during intermittent bouts of insistent tugs, and then resumed drawing in the line until a trout nearly two feet long arced from the water, snaking into the air. She whipped the line toward her, bringing the fish to shore in short order and thwacked its head under a fist-sized rock. She hated them to suffer.

She returned to her camp, lit a fire, and cooked the fish on an old skillet. She then lay down to read by the last of the sunlight. Despite his failings – the biggest being abandoning his eleven year old daughter – her father had been a good parent, teaching her to fish, hunt, read, and even allowing her to try her hand at blacksmithing. Without such skills, she doubted she could have got by on her own as well as she had for as long as she had. Once again, she silenced the tiny voice in the back of her head that asked why her pa had put so much effort into making her self-sufficient. It hurt to think he’d planned it. It hurt less to think he’d ended up dead. That his body never turned up did little to sway her need to cling to that belief.

She shook herself free of such thoughts and opened her anthology of Faerie Tales. She cherished the opportunity to venture out of Cheer, experience life as a princess, or maid in a scandalous household, or even a prince yet to come into his inheritance. One day, she thought, she would find a way to leave Cheer. To travel down the length of Aghacia, to Ryaen, where she would catch a boat for Phyos. But without a horse or the money to hire one, such dreams would remain as such. She’d heard it was nearly a month’s ride to Ryaen. Far longer on foot.

The sun dipped low and the pulsing stars pierced the evening sky.

Llewella threw a couple more logs on the fire and stirred the embers. One more log, to be sure. Then she wrapped her blanket about her shoulders, sitting under her thatch hovel with just enough room to sit or lie down, staring into the flames. Summer was barely over, and already there would be a frost in the morning. She shrugged her shoulders in her coat. She would have to return to town to buy a new one, and that would eat up the rest of the money she had collected at the market. Growth-spurts were expensive.

* * *


Llewella strolled toward Cheer’s centre. No need to skulk and hide; she was no street urchin today, and she shrugged off the old guise completely. Well, almost completely. She was still a ‘he’ as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

The streets were quieter in the absence of the market. A few people wandered from store to store, but there was none of the volume of the day before.

“Llew!” The comparative silence was broken.

Llewella turned to the distressed voice. “Kynas?”

The boy was struggling in the grip of two uniformed men and Llewella instinctively stooped, stepping in by the side of a building.

“Help me, Llew! They think I killed Mr. Maddocks!”

“Well, who else?” one of the officers said, shaking Kynas, while the other looked about. Llewella stepped deeper into the shadows.

Damn it! She was meant to be an upstanding citizen today, not getting tangled with the law.

Mr. Maddocks was Kynas’ landlord - it would be stupid of the boy to put his deal at risk, but it was a logical conclusion for the lawmen to draw - any excuse to remove another urchin from Cheer’s streets.

“I don’t know!” Kynas wailed, kicking his legs and trying to wriggle free of the officer’s grasp. Realizing his efforts were futile, he relaxed. And then his finger was pointing at Llewella. “But, that one. Sh- he’s a witch!”

Air evacuated Llewella’s lungs.

The little—

The second officer spotted her and started running. Llewella shot off down the road, taking the first turn and continuing on a convoluted path through the streets of Cheer. It didn’t have a great many to choose from and she had to cover the same ground several times, but forethought and speed kept her ahead.

She had never shown Kynas what she could do. She’d been very careful about that. Was this because she wouldn’t go to bed with him again? She was marked, now. A witness to a crime that could be pinned on a street kid, no matter how reliable, meant you were gone in Cheer. ‘Cleaning up the streets’, they called it.

Not by preference, she headed for the seedier side of Cheer, where shadows seemed deeper, drunks seemed drunker and morals were all but missing entirely. An array of street kids loitered outside a half-collapsed building. These children were evidence that mining could be dangerous and prostitution had side-effects Llewella preferred to avoid.

“Hi, Llew.” One of the girls looked up from a game of knuckle-bones to smile at her.

“Annie.” Slowing to a wary walk, she tipped her head to the younger girl in the tatty dress; at the moment still young, and pitiful, enough to successfully beg, she would soon graduate to a place in one of Cheer’s brothels. She had never mastered the art of picking pockets. “You didn’t see me, okay?”

“okay.” The girl looked perplexed.

Llewella flashed a reassuring smile and stooped through a hole in the wall planking to a space under the building’s floorboards. The children behind her became silent, watching. She scooted along on her belly and was pleased to hear sounds of the children’s games start up again.

Somewhere on the other side of the building, her head emerged. The alley was deserted, so she clambered out, dusted herself off, walking briskly in the general direction she had been going before. If he was still after her, there was nowhere she could disappear. She had to hope that he had enough doubt in Kynas’ accusation to give up. Although, she didn’t doubt that simply removing another kid from the street would be incentive enough.

She jogged a little farther to appease her nerves and rounded a corner, walking past a man sitting on the rickety wooden back steps of an old store.

“Lady Llewella, are we peddling our goods today?” His voice slurred, and her skin crawled.

“No, sir.” Head down, she carried on walking past, not looking at him. How could he have picked her for a girl let alone know her name?

“You wouldn’t turn away a paying customer now, would you?” His feet began to scuff the dusty road behind her.

Llewella spun to face him,  recognizing one of her father's old drinking “buddies” - for want of a better term - but continued to walk backward. “Japod, even if I did that kind ‘o thing, you never were a paying customer. In fact, I think you still owe pa money.” She turned and continued her forward trek. The rasp of his feet over the course sand grated her ears.

“Your father ain’t been chasin’ me for it.”

Her mind raced with plans to lose him without running straight into the lawman, when he suddenly lunged, grabbing her legs and sending them both to the ground. Llewella got a face full of gravely dirt, while the old man was cushioned by the backs of her legs, and scrabbled to start yanking at the waist of her trousers.

“Geroff!” she yelled, and began to cough from the dust she had inhaled.

Her belt-rope was thin and it gave under the man’s determined tugs. Llewella’s efforts to right herself were thwarted as her legs continued to be pulled out from under her in Japod’s efforts to unwrap his prize. Her pants slipped, exposing her long johns. The two buttons didn’t deter him long, and soon a plump, round arse was revealed that the man couldn’t help pausing to grope before resuming his task. A short complaint issued from her assailant as the skin of Llewella’s cheek healed. The distraction gave Llewella the pause she needed to swing an arm back at him, knocking him off her. He rallied quickly, though, and was on her again, holding her to the ground. He was not nearly as appealing as the young man that had held her in the same position just the day before, and she struggled much more furiously.

Japod’s long hair was greying. His chin was unshaven, and his remaining teeth yellow, and his breath was a mix of the rotting remnants of his previous meals and whatever concoction he had just been drinking. He planted a wet, semi-toothed smooch over her lips, which she clamped shut, biting them closed against the onslaught.

“Get off me!” Llewella’s arms and legs worked furiously to fight off the rangy man, who was stronger than he looked, when his lips finally peeled away.

For a fraction of a second, Llewella believed he had listened to her, as the weight of his body lifted from her. Arms looped under her armpits, helped her regain her feet and pulled her off to the side of the road. The dark young man who had folded Llewella over his fist the previous day was ramming Japod into a nearby wall with the same action, repeatedly. She turned her head and recognized the other young man. Al. That was it. She shrugged her shoulder free from his lingering hand and pulled her pants up. He was intent on watching Jonas plant several solid punches on the old man’s jaw, so Llewella supposed she had maintained some dignity.

She ran her tongue along the inside of her lips, where it seemed she had managed to cut through with her own teeth in her efforts to prevent sharing too much with the old drunk.

Before the old man lost consciousness entirely, Jonas threw his limp body to the ground and turned back to his friend and Llewella. He maintained a dark expression, despite his victory. On seeing her, though, he turned abruptly, heading to the cart that, in the midst of her struggles with the old drunk, she had not heard approach.

“You all right?” asked Al.

“I’m fine.” Llewella cleared her throat and forced her voice deeper. “Fine.” At least at her assumed age she could brush the slip off as voice breaking.

“Guess we’re even, then.” He flashed a smile and leaped into the cart beside Jonas.

“Yah!” Jonas urged the bay horse into life, and it moved off at a walk.

Images of a very short future in Cheer flashed into Llewella’s mind. Even if the lawman had given up on her for today, she was well aware that developing hips and breasts could not be covered forever. She needed to leave Cheer. And here, and now, an opportunity had presented itself.

Llewella began walking alongside the cart, wondering how she could get them to take her along. Al must have caught a glimpse of her in the periphery, for he suddenly laughed, grinning over his shoulder.

Jonas looked at her, turned away and urged the horse into a trot. Llewella began to trot along behind, hoping he wouldn’t go to a canter.

Al kept looking back at her with sparkling eyes, now and then saying something to his gruff companion.

Finally, Jonas reined in the horse. Llewella ran into the back of the suddenly still cart, and took a moment to lean on it and catch her breath. Jonas jumped down off the cart, stalked the length of it and rounded on her.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“Coming with you.” She fought to keep the pleading question out of her voice.

Jonas shook his head. “No.”

“Come on, Jonas. Hear the kid out.” Al swung down from the cart and joined them at the rear.

Reflex found Llewella saying “I ain’t no kid”, as she folded her arms, scowling at her supporter, who laughed. She narrowed her eyes further, to no effect, then returned her attention to Jonas. “You’re leaving Cheer, right? I want to leave Cheer.” She needed to leave Cheer, but she was having enough trouble admitting it to herself, let alone them.

“Not our problem.” Jonas stepped back, crossing his arms.

“No. But all the same. I have a little money. Not enough to get me a ticket on a coach, but I could make myself useful, earn my passage with you.”

“Ain’t nothin’ we need from no thief.”

“I wasn’t always a thief. I used to help my pa in his smithy. I can help.” The selection of knives in Jonas’ vest, again, caught Llewella’s eye. “I can fight.”

That got a brief laugh out of Jonas.

“I can!” She made fists, waving them in front of her as she had many a time against boys she’d rough ’n tumbled with on the streets of Cheer.

Al placed a hand over hers, pushing down.

“We could at least see what Aris has to say,” he said.

“No, Al. This ain’t no job for a criminal. No matter how good his words sound.” He narrowed his eyes at Llewella.

A movement behind Jonas drew Llewella’s attention. The uniform! She dived into the back of the low cart, pulling sacks and an old blanket about her.

“Get out,” said Jonas, with a flat look that brooked no argument.

“Please.” With the realization that her safety was in the hands of someone who had every reason to turn her over to the law she could think of nothing else to say. She threw everything she had into the pleading look she gave him.

Jonas looked down his nose at her, then up the road at the approaching lawman. Then, with a grunt, he flicked the blanket over her.

Llewella allowed herself a sigh as she waited to discover her fate. The sack closest to her nose smelled of dirt and potatoes. Something nearby smelled sweet. Apples? She inhaled and tried to relax. For now, she could do nothing but ensure her own stillness.

“What happened here?”

“Old drunk walked in front of us. Spooked our horse,” said Jonas.

Llewella released her breath.

“Yeah. He just stumbled out of nowhere,” said Al.

“You two aren’t from around here.” The officer sounded suspicious.

“No, sir. Over from Phyos,” said Al.

“What for?”

“Just helpin’ a friend,” said Jonas.

“Where you staying?”

“Postmaster Muor’s house,” said Al.

“Nice place.” The lawman sounded genuinely impressed by their connections.

“Sure is.”

“He’s a good man,” said the officer, the suspicion ebbing away. Another pause, as though he were waiting for the boys to confirm. “Well, maybe the old drunk’ll learn for next time, huh?” The officer laughed, inviting the two young men to join him. They didn’t. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen a young lad: about so tall, white shirt, grubby, would you?” Grubby! Pah! Well, she had scrabbled under that building. But, Llewella prided herself on her cleanliness.

“Just that old boy,” said Al.

“If we see him, we’ll be sure to let you know,” said Jonas. “What did he do?”

“He’s wanted for questioning about a murder.”

“Murder?” Llewella muttered a silent prayer. Al's surprise sounded a lot like it might turn into her revelation.

“Yeah. We have an eye witness saw him do it.”

Silence from Jonas and Al. Llewella tensed again. This was it. They were going to give her up. She’d swing from a rope by the end of the week. Or worse.

“All right.” A hand slapped the side of the cart. “You boys stay out of trouble, okay?”

The distant sound of children playing reached Llewella’s ears. A bird fluttered overhead. She kept her breathing shallow. Listening. What would they do? They hadn’t revealed her, so far. That was something to cling to.

After an interminable wait, the blanket was pulled back.

“Get out.” said Jonas, looking down the street.

“I didn’t do it. You have to believe me,” she pleaded with him, disregarding any effort to keep her voice deep.

“I don’t gotta do nothin’.” He looked at her with his stoney expression. “Out.”

She turned to Al. “I’ve been falsely accused. I’m innocent.”

Al raised an eyebrow.

“Well, maybe not entirely innocent. But I didn’t kill anyone. On my mother’s honour.” They still seemed unconvinced. “She was a good woman!”

Jonas grabbed her triceps, half lifting, half pushing her from the cart. Llewella made herself as heavy as possible and dug in her heels, but it made little difference.

“You’re heading for the Postmaster’s, right?”

“So?”

“Well, if I’m going to leave Cheer, then I need to start at the Postmaster’s anyway. Maybe he’ll let me earn my ticket. At least take me that far.”

“You can walk.”

She jutted her jaw and narrowed her eyes at him. She knew he wasn’t going to change his mind. It didn’t mean she had to take his attitude. He turned his back on her and returned to his seat at the front of the cart.

“I’m sorry,” said Al, coming to the same conclusion. “Good luck.” He returned to his seat at the front of the cart and Jonas flicked the horse back into life, and again up to a trot.

Llewella stood for a time, watching her brighter future disappear into the distance. “Fuck.”

“I knew I seen you come this way.”

She turned to the voice, then darted away, the law hot on her heals once more. Unfortunately, this time there were two of them, and one of them was young, tall, and fit. He had her on her belly in less than a minute.

“I knew we’d get yer.” The older officer knelt in front of her while the younger pulled her hands behind her and cuffed them. “No point running from the law, ya scoundrel. We always get our man.”

The younger officer wrenched her to her feet, one arm over her shoulder, cupping the opposite armpit. His hand slipped and he took an experimental squeeze.

“Or woman.” He tugged at her shirt, pulling several buttons free. “As the case may be.”

Llewella felt the dry Cheer air caress her exposed breast.

“Well, course she is,” the older officer said as though he’d known all along and eyed her appraisingly. “She’s a witch, ain’t she? Let’s get her back to a cell. Then we can read up on what’s usually done in cases such as these.”