Paedrin looked at Hettie narrowly and then back at Annon. “It seems your sister went a little too far with it today. You had to strike her to get her to stop. I volunteer next time.” He started back on the road at a brisk walk, never looking back at them.
Annon glanced at Hettie, trying to understand her. She stared at Paedrin with a look of defiance, her mouth twisted unpleasantly downward. Then she whispered, “Thank you, Annon. I nearly lost myself in the flames. The men hiding in the rubbish were not Preachán. They were Romani.”
As she said the final word, her eyes burned with hatred.
“How many times have you used it?” Annon asked her, pulling her after him. “I was worried about you. The look in your eyes frightened me.”
She nodded, casting her gaze down. “Me as well. I don’t like to use it. It makes you want to use it again and again. There are stories of those who go mad.”
“I know,” Annon said, gripping her arm so that they could keep pace with each other. “I think you have used it more than I have. If we face danger like that again, let me act alone at first. Resist it, Hettie. Unless I need you.”
Without arguing, she gazed into his eyes, a haunted expression in hers.
To call Havenrook a town implied that there were borders and streets and houses. That was a better description of Kenatos. Instead, Havenrook was a stockyard adjacent to a slaughterhouse—all pens and sheds and braying animals, smoke, and reeking fumes. There were wagons loaded with various cargo; wiry Preachán men stood atop, shouting bids for each wagonload there. The words mixed with flashing hands, tapped noses, until a bell tolled signaling the end of the trade. A cart of lettuces was sold. A wagon loaded with apple barrels lumbered by. Pens of pigs and black-and-white cows filled every available space. The crowds were endless. By the cups of beer sloshing in nearly every available hand, Annon realized that the trades were probably turned over three or four times before dawn when the Romani caravans would start off on a new day.
As Hettie, Annon, and Paedrin entered the fray, looking for anything even remotely resembling an inn, a constant shove and jostle tensed Annon’s patience into a thin wire again. Paedrin was the only Vaettir amidst the crowd of Aeduan and Preachán. Some looked at him in surprise, leered at him, and continued haggling over a cask of salted fish.
The smell of Havenrook was six degrees of dying. Goods were exchanged. Heavy chests loaded with ducats exchanged hands as well. The jarring noise of the callers, the snapping and whistling and goading of horseflesh had made him physically ill.
Paedrin slapped his palm down against a man’s hand that was groping at his robes, then he quickly torqued one of his fingers and snapped it, making the man howl in pain. With a shove, he sent him sprawling away.
Annon looked at him in surprise.
“He touched me,” Paedrin said with disgust. “Keep going. Any thoughts on where we will find your friend?”
Annon shook his head, but looked at the largest building that he could find. It was possibly an inn, but it seemed about ready to collapse under the weight of its beams. Miraculously, the crowd thinned around them after Paedrin had broken the man’s finger. Pain was a teacher, indeed.
Hettie lifted her hood and covered her hair, keeping close to Annon. Her face was impassive, but he thought he could sense fear and loathing in her eyes. There was a steady stream of men and women coming from the doors of the enormous, misshapen building. Most emerged with tankards or mugs. As they drew nearer to the doors, Annon noticed a hulking Cruithne standing outside, soot-skinned and muscles bulging. With the thickening shadows, they had not seen him before.
“I thought the Cruithne hated the Preachán,” Annon muttered to himself.
“Everyone has a price,” Hettie answered. “And in Havenrook, everything is for sale.”
The Cruithne scanned those coming and going, his eyes blue and dark like jewels. He noticed them and scowled.
Annon approached him directly. “Erasmus?”
He studied them a moment and then nodded toward the doors, letting them enter.
Inside was a huge gallery filled almost entirely with tables. Gathered around each one hung crowds of Preachán, most of them gesticulating wildly, shouting at men with small silver tokens who sat at the heads of the tables. At one table, they seemed to be trading a cargo of pears. At another table, they were trading for a girl with one Romani earring. Annon’s stomach lurched when he saw the men bidding for her. At another table, they were betting on whether a caravan would arrive safely at its destination. At another, they were betting on the outcome of dice. The noise was deafening.