"You're either clever or desperate. I'll keep you around until I figure out which." — Hella, caravan master
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Less than an hour after the patrol had passed he heard the caravan. He'd been walking. The road was long. His feet were sore. He'd thought about stopping to rest but the ditch had left him cold and he wanted to put distance between himself and the patrol. So he walked. And then he heard it — the creak of wheels, the sound of hooves. He turned. Dust. Wagons. People. For a moment he didn't know whether to step off the road or stand still. Aldric had said *caravan to Aldmere*. He hadn't said how to ask. Kael stood at the edge and waited. Wheels. Hooves. The creak of harness. He'd been walking with his head down, watching the ruts, and the sound came from behind him — east. He turned. Dust on the road. The shape of wagons. He stepped to the roadside and stood where the lead driver could see him. No sudden moves. Hands visible. Four wagons. Faded canvas. The lead driver was a woman — broad shoulders, shortbow across her back — and she was already looking at him. Aldric had said *caravan to Aldmere*. He didn't know how you asked. He didn't know if they'd stop. The wagons rolled closer. The world felt like it had suddenly remembered he was there. She reined in.
She was built like a root cellar. Low, broad, fundamentally immovable. Arms crossed, feet planted, a shortbow slung across her back with the casual ease of someone who'd used it recently. Her face had the weathered quality of old leather, and her eyes missed nothing. She'd seen him before he'd seen her. He was sure of it. The way she'd reined in. The way she was already evaluating. People who ran caravans didn't survive by being slow. They survived by seeing the stranger at the roadside before the stranger decided to do something stupid.
"I need to reach Aldmere," Kael said. His voice was steady. He'd practised the line in his head. "Can I ride with you as far as the city? I'll pull my weight."
She didn't answer immediately. She looked at his bag. At his boots. At his face. At the way he stood — not braced for a blow, but ready to move. She evaluated him the way a farmer evaluates a stray dog: potentially useful, probably trouble.
"You're either clever or desperate," she said, looking him up and down. "I'll keep you around until I figure out which."
"Can I be both?" Kael said.
"Most people who are both end up dead," she said. She jerked her chin toward the rear wagon. "You ride in the back, you eat what we eat, and you don't touch the cargo. If we get stopped by Crown patrols, your name is whatever I say it is. Clear?"
"Clear," Kael said. He didn't ask what name she'd give if they were stopped. She hadn't offered. He wouldn't push. Pushing was how you got left on the road.
"What do I call you?" she said.
"Kael," he said.
"And if you're running from something…" She held up a hand. "Don't tell me what. I don't want the story. I want to know if it's going to follow you to my caravan."
It was the real question.
"It might," Kael said.
She studied him for a long moment, then spat in the dust. "Honest." A beat. "That's either smart or stupid." A jerk of her chin toward the rear wagon. "Get on."
He'd expected more questions. Where he was from. Why he was alone. Why he had no pack animal, no companion. She hadn't asked. She'd looked at him and made a decision. He'd take it. She hadn't asked his name until she'd already decided to take him. That meant the name wasn't the point. The point was whether he'd be trouble. Whether he'd pull his weight. Whether whatever was following him would catch up. He'd answered honest. She'd spat in the dust and said get on. He didn't thank her. Thanks were for favours. This was a transaction. He had legs. He had hands. He could refill a waterskin and hold a trace and stay quiet. She had room. She had a direction. Aldmere. They were going the same way. That was all. The wagons would roll. The road would pass. He had a place. He had a baseline. He had a way east. The rest was tomorrow. The rest was watching. The rest was not giving them a reason to change their minds. She hadn't offered kindness. She'd offered a deal. He walked to the rear wagon the way he'd walked to the roadside — no hurry, no hesitation. The guards watched him pass. The farrier didn't look up. The boy was already staring. Kael kept his hands visible. When he reached the back of the last wagon he waited. Someone nodded. He got on. He kept his bag between his back and the crate — journal and crystal out of sight, nothing to invite questions. The caravan was twelve people and four wagons. Merchants hauling bolts of undyed linen. A farrier with arms like ship cable and the disposition of a wet cat. Two guards who looked bored in the way that meant competent rather than lazy. They sat on the rear wagon, cleaning their nails with belt knives, scanning the tree line without appearing to. The wagon bed was wood and canvas. Crates. Rope. The smell of leather and old sweat. He found a spot at the back where he could see the road behind them. The wagon lurched into motion. The boy with the flour-dusted mother was still staring. Kael didn't stare back. He watched the road. Nobody spoke to him. A few looks. That was fine. He'd expected worse.
Kael recognised the technique. Aldric had done the same thing. Pretend to be relaxed. Watch everything. He sat with his back to a crate and did the same.
He ran a baseline. Aldric had taught him: notice everything, so you know when something changes. So he did. Twelve people. Four wagons. Hella at the front — authority, no question. The merchants talked in low voices; the farrier didn't talk at all. The guards had the look of men who'd seen trouble and hadn't run. The boy's mother had flour on her apron and a knife at her belt, small, for cutting rope or bread. Everyone had a role. He had to find his. The farrier didn't offer a name; the guards didn't either. A young boy behind the crates, maybe eleven, staring. A woman with flour in her apron — the boy's mother. Cargo: linen, tools, trade goods. No weapons in the open except Hella's bow and the guards' belt knives. The rhythm of the caravan: stop at midday for water, stop at dusk for camp. Who spoke to whom. Who didn't. Baseline two. A snapshot. So he'd know if tomorrow didn't match. The wheels had a rhythm. Not walking. His feet had stopped hurting. His mind hadn't stopped running.
When the wagons stopped to water the horses, Hella came back and thrust a waterskin at Kael. "Make yourself useful. Refill this at the stream. And take the boy — he knows where it is."
The boy's mother nodded from the second wagon. She didn't smile. She didn't object. So Kael and the boy walked to the stream together. The stream was twenty paces off the road, through a patch of scrub. The boy didn't speak. He pointed at the right place to fill the skin — where the water was clear, not muddy — then stood with his hands in his pockets while Kael knelt. The water was cold. Kael filled the skin and drank a mouthful himself. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was. The boy watched. Not hostile. Just waiting to see what the stranger would do next.
"You from the forest?" the boy said finally.
"Yes," Kael said.
"We're not supposed to talk to people from the forest. Ma says they're running from something," the boy said.
Kael handed him the full skin. "Your ma's not wrong."
The boy took it. He drank from it himself before they started back — a long pull, throat working. Then he wiped his mouth and looked at Kael as if he'd passed some small test. "I'm Tam."
"Kael," Kael said.
They walked back. The scrub was dry underfoot. Tam led the way without looking back. Kael could have run. Could have disappeared into the trees with the full waterskin and the boy's silence. He didn't. Running was what you did when you had no other move. He had a move. He had the caravan. He had a direction. Tam didn't duck when Kael looked at him after that. Just once he said, "You're not like the other ones we've picked up. They usually talk more."
Kael didn't ask what had happened to the other ones. People who talked a lot on this road were usually running toward something. He was running from. It made you quieter. It made you watch the tree line. Aldric had taught him that. Tam's mother was still singing when they got back. The song had no words Kael could make out — or it was in a dialect he didn't know. It didn't matter. It was the sound of the caravan. The sound of people who had done this before and would do it again. He'd passed the first test. There would be more. He handed the waterskin to Hella when they reached the wagons. She took it without comment. Nodded. That was all. He'd passed. For now. Tomorrow there would be more chores. More chances to be useful or to slip. He'd take them one at a time.
He'd earned a place. Small. At the edge. But he was in. He had a baseline. He had a direction. East. Aldmere. The Broken Compass. The wagon creaked. Tam's mother was singing something low and half-forgotten. The horses shifted. The road rolled under the wheels. He'd done what Aldric had said. *Caravan to Aldmere.* He'd found one. He'd asked. He'd been honest enough to be useful and quiet enough to be tolerated. The rest was up to the road. Up to Hella. Up to whether whatever was following him — if anything was — stayed far enough behind. For now that was enough. Whether it would stay enough — whether the caravan would keep him or something would change — he'd find out the same way he found out everything: by watching, and waiting. That night he slept with his bag under his head and the crate at his back. The camp settled around him. Voices dropped to murmurs. The fire cracked. He didn't close his eyes until the guard had taken the first watch and the horses had stopped shifting. Then he slept. Lightly. The way Aldric had taught him. One night down. The road ahead. Aldmere in the distance. He'd get there. The wagons had taken him in. Hella had looked at him and made a decision. Tam had given him a name. The stream had given him a test. He'd passed. The road would give him Aldmere. He'd take that too. One night. Then the next. Then the city. The road would get him there. He'd make sure of it. Useful. Quiet. No reason to leave him behind. The caravan rolled on. He rolled with it. East. Aldmere. One day at a time.