They stepped outside the diner to a full bustling road, Kriti shrugged and waved Spoon into the party. Everyone collected all their supplies and tried to get away from the power that had dragged them there in the first place. They left town heading not into the setting sun and known darkness plus dangerous horse leg breaking trails, but in the morning with clear light. Classic dessert got hand painted over everything, although Nettle could have sworn this part of the land typically had more than tumbleweeds and the odd vulture.

  Nettle urged his horse before the group, although he heard an annoyed snort from Bodi about it. But he did not turn back to let the shorter horse overload with the great bulk of Bodi hurry up. He needed time alone to think.

  Now that the djinn accepted this new matter, he really tried to consider the whole station. It was one thing to consider himself safe in the relative reality of space with strangers, but the truth was that he had no such considerations with Spoon. There were only two potions available. Either he’d been sent to assist Nettle and help his whole family succeed, or he’d been sent ultimately to insure that an unsure Nettle failed on this journey. And failure likely meant death.

  Those Spoons in his shoes. Very strange. Could be a sign of an enemy or friend that knew him extremely well. But he didn’t know which. The letter hardly helped. In the end, he’d given Kriti time to decided and so it had been done. She’d avoid unnecessary competition. He’d thus counted on an assassin revealing enemies, but not if her counterpart joined them. Could two assassins recognize another by appearance alone? Maybe they had codes, spies, or ciphers, possibly spyiphers?

  He could always tell another cobbler. Something in their shoes and in their stance. He’d made mistakes, but only in his childhood. Footwear told him everything he needed to know about a person. Maybe an assassin guild friend could show him secret bloody handprints tattoos or you know super subtle killer guild symbols stuff. Like marks on your hands or face.

  Naturally, she might not know. Maybe he’d been wrong and she might not be an assassin after all. That meant Spoons could be one and not working with here. Taking such a direct action of killing him would only be beneficial for a few of his farthest and most fervent enemies. Those types could use all sorts of methods. Family members who were undoubted enemies would be shunned or looked down upon if it was determined they had sent an assassin after their own family members. A hit could be interpreted as being weak diplomatically. Family could, however, send along a helper to force Nettle to make mistakes. Kill himself off along the way.

  He tried to sort through who would send him an unknown letter to match, for the letter had been singed not to tell him exactly who offered their patronage along with the man that handled it. It could be a group even outside the Fae which might be reflected by choosing the mixed species messenger. It might be a cheapness on the count of a Fae hand which fit with his own allies or perhaps the mixed breeding he couldn’t be identified immediately in the tall swarthy man might mean something else still. He ransacked his brains for answers and unconsciously urged his horse into a faster space, and if the speed of the animal might push forward his own greater thoughts although he knew that would not be the case. Nonetheless, on the press of his legs, the horse sensing its’ rider’s nerves and wish to be away from it all responded all too eagerly.

  There was truly no way to tell who Spoons might be. Nettle considered briefly that the woman on the road might target him. Maybe even Laural, seeing how elves were full of Fae hostility. Why couldn’t it be hospitality instead?

  Could they all be in on murdering him? If they were, would the whole party decide to slit his throat in the middle of the forest. Of course, being Fae that wouldn’t work the way they thought, but many species did not know how hard one need to work to kill a Fae. If they only damaged him, it would be destabilizing but he might return as a separate species. He’d met great white elks and a few other stags. They tended not to like the more human Fae much. Not that all elk or stags or other species were fallen Fae, only a few could be. He might he become a satyr if they cut him in half but left him under the full more or was it under the moonless night? He understood being cut in half to be a horrific experience that some Fae wished they died instead. Not that anyone could do that to him anyway. For now, he’d have to keep his skills to himself. An element of surprise to protect himself. There were many ways around his magic, but you had to know what to avoid.

  His thoughts were running away with him again putting his back in a place of fear, but it was not the first time he’d been surrounded by enemies. If he could find It, the *smudged text* he’d seen in so many ancient books. Any associated treasures should put him at such an advantage comparatively that they’d have to leave him alone. He could ensure his whole line got preserved even his cousin might be given a blessing on the ideas. It was complicated to be alive now.

  His father’s death, the family head, putting him in the worse place imaginable to take over the estate. Technically, Nettle wasn’t supposed to, but his brother really made poor will arrangements, thinking their father would keep living forever. Even without inheritance taxes, he’d been put into a deep bind in many other ways. Most Fae lived far longer than his father had and inherited success. Mother, his sister, the other women in the household. Everyone the houses themselves, it had a way of making your head spin when he realized just how badly his brothers were doing.

  At that speed, with no guidance from the distracted rider, the horse stepped on a rock, stumbling. Both Fae and horse went rolling towards the ground together, stunned by this intrusion on their inner monologues. Nettle produced a kinetic spell of shielding, to protect the side of the horse and himself as he tumbled free into the earth. The horse chucked him forward as it scrambled wild hooves in the air. With his double shield well prepared, the horse bounced over him and went crashing into the ground. He himself used the kinetic forced to reduce the horses fall and his own to pop himself back into the air like he’d been a rubber ball instead of a meat sack.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He fell back none too softly on his feet, but absorbed it with his knees, and a headfirst gentle roll onto the ground. Even as he got to his feet the horse which he could only shield himself was struggling up. The forward right hoof struck a rock showing a gash.

  Runing a horse heedlessly without thinking if it had broken a leg, they might be forced to kill it here and now. And they’d already lost a horse yesterday! Come to think of it, Laural had also killed his other horse that way.

  He sighed to himself feeling a new guilt welling up. Things about the past and future all tangle up and forgetting to keep going, at the present were bad. He reached for the hoof, but the horse squeaked and danced away limping on its foreleg all the same. He waited for the others with a complete lack of calm. Laural would scold him for this, the hypocrite. Angrily, he took out the stone in the dirt and tossed it into the side of the road and giving it a surly. Stupid unfair rock.

  He saw the dust of the caravan long before he saw anything else. He really had outdistanced them in his search for mental answers.

  The first to reach him was Spoon. His face was sweaty and his horse more so. He glanced down at Nettle with a deep frown.

  “You got yourself thrown?”

  “Sure, enough running over that roadway. It’s best you don’t follow suit.”

  “Is your horse lame then?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t let me touch it. And anyway, I wouldn’t be able to tell how bad it is. We need Laural.”

  Spoon regarded the whole thing then gave him a critical eye. Now would be a perfect time for Nettle to die. After having a tumble then killed by a man he should have openly rejected. First making a fool of himself then leaving plenty of time for an enemy to charge ahead and decide to kill him here on this road and leave the group to do whatever they may with his body.

  Spoon kicked out of his saddle and offered his canteen. “Drink? Looks like a hell of a tumble.” He pointed at the marks in the dirt. “You must have been going at speed.” He titled his head trying to make out the situation. “You look like you took it well.”

  Nettle picked up the canteen and rattled it feeling suspicious. But if they wanted to poison him, would they really have a flask ready for when he stumbled off a horse? Would he look bad for refusing it? In the end cool water and feeling hot and frustrated was too much of a temptation. He drank and sighed over the matter.

  Spoons offered nothing else. They both waited for the others in silence.

  The rest of the group rattled up all together. Day riding in front of the cart which he noticed with surprise had actually been content to the back of the group, eating the Western dust all day. The Cook didn’t mind handling the reins at the front. With two carts it meant the group had less mobility, less safety in event of a problem and that he’d need to figure a way to sort that out soon enough. They couldn’t leave behind in their cart yet as they still ended a large load of supplies for such a long journey in the first place, but he wanted to leave both carts if he could.

  Laural threw herself off her horse and dashed over to the stallion with a cry.

  “Oh no!”

  “It’s my fault,” Nettle snapped. “I had him at a run while not paying attention. Just wanted to feel the breeze and then, well. It’s the stone’s fault. See it is a rather large one. We fell.”

  Now Laural gave him a suspicious look. “But there is only the damaged hock. If you two fell even at a trot why aren’t both of you bleeding?”

  Nettle kept his face schooled neural and gave her a shrug. “I guess we both tumbled well.”

  Her eyebrows knit together before she heard the horse give another cry of pain and darted back over to him with her face a mask of concern. She tenderly tested out the hoof and ligaments by feeling along them. Her body language grew more, not less, tense.

  “We’ll have to stable him at the next town. He won’t be able to keep pace or travel long distances. It’s not a killing injury by any means but enough that he won’t be allowed to trail on with us. We need a place to drop him off nearby.”

  “Great,” Nettle exclaimed. “Where’s closest?”

  Laural squinted at him. “Don’t you have the map?”

  “No. The guide does.” He frowned. “The guide that quit the day before we left.”

  Bodi rolled his eyes. “Map less is totally better.”

  “No-“ before Laural could start yelling Day broke it up.

  “I have a map.” She unlocked the back door of the bottom peeling red wood and got her map out.

  She walked over to them holding it up. Nettle quickly noticed this map had lots of things on it the last few he’d seen didn’t have. He quickly tried to read titles.

  Day explained a plan. “If we take the left trail we can get into Dickason. It’s a suburb of the bigger town we left this morning and not quite turning around. It’s not the greatest of placed, but it is easy for us to drop a horse there and only lose half a day’s time. We won’t reach anywhere faster. I know about the farm folk there. They’re a good lot by all measures and will be happy with a stabling fee. If you wait and carry on to the towns, you’ll pay twice as much and get half the care. Some of those stables even rent the horse they’re supposed to be boarding. None of them know a thing about dealing with injures.”

  Everyone shuffled about uncomfortable. Going off of trail towards a rougher area of world might put them all at greater risk, but Nettle felt a great deal of guilt for pulling the horse’s ligament in the first place.

  “Will be safe going in and out of there. Day?”

  He shook her head and then said, “Only if you all stay with me and my cart the whole time. It’s not safe for you, but fine for me. They don’t take kindly to strangers, but I am not a stranger there.”

  It did nothing to ease his mind, but he watched the horse struggling to move and sighed. “We’ll try it.”

  He’d drank the bath water. Might as well let the person sent to trap and kill them spring her trap as well. He felt even more defeated when Laural got him a new horse, the ragged two-colored horse gave him a glare and pinned its’ ears back. It was also squat short and slow. He felt quite sure if he asked it to run this particle party pony wouldn’t even have known how. He got into the saddle and found the horse’s gait extremely chopping and to his great chagrin, it was listening more to Laural than any of his instructions. He was the sack now and the horse well knew it. He rode on in relieved silence, even more so than before. But his misadventure hadn’t changed any of his apprehension. The group he’d collected to find the treasure might all be plotting to kill him. He couldn’t even figure out which one to protect himself from all while out in the wilderness dangerous enough to kill him. And now, he’d been able to read the small script on the map in Pidgeon speak. Now they were going to Bandit’s Den.