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Dawsyn shakes her head. “I am afraid the drink got the better of me. Ryon carried me halfway back.”

“Ah, a good boy, that one. And so very dashing. I’ve tried my luck with him at least a dozen times, but to no avail, I’m afraid. He prefers your type.”

“Women?”

“Yes, which you are, of course. And quite an extraordinary one at that, even without the whole escape story. Your beauty very nearly outdoes my own.”

Dawsyn grins. “I am but a damsel.”

“Ah, but you’re not even close, are you? Damsels do not survive a mountain like that, and they do not hide axes beneath their cloaks.”

She scowls. Esra is far more astute than he pretends.

“In any case, trust me when I say that our handsome friend is a good man, darling. He has done a world of kindness to an outcast like me and an old drunk like Salem. I’m asking you nicely, please don’t break my things. You look exactly like the kind of woman who could.”

How easy he makes it seem.

She replies evenly, though the words are thin, “I do not think we were fated, Esra. There is little need to worry.”

“You say that, love. But I’ve seen Ry come and go from this hovel many times, and none of those included a woman in his arms – certainly none who were bloody and half-dead.” He gulps down the last of his drink. “And speaking of such misery, my little iris, you’ve recovered remarkably well!”

“The mage, Baltisse. She paid me a visit.”

Dawsyn watches Esra shudder delicately.

“That woman shrivels my insides. She has her uses, however.”

“The kindest words you’ve ever imparted on my behalf, Esra,” comes a voice.

Dawsyn does not need to look to know that Baltisse stands behind them, as though she had materialized, which she very well might have. Dawsyn knows nothing of witches.

“I’m no witch, sweet. You’ll do well to remember it.”

Dawsyn’s skin ripples. “I didn’t say you were.”

“You did,” Baltisse says simply, rounding the bar to take her pick from the shelf. “Just not out loud.”

Several moments pass before Dawsyn’s thoughts collect to form a viable thread. The mage can hear minds.

“Pick up your jaw. It will sully the bar top,” she snaps, pouring herself an ample serving of wine.

Salem returns through the door behind the bar, a plate in his hand. “Mother of God. Would yeh freeloaders stay out of me liquor? It’s like havin’ badly trained animals!”

“Oh, Salem,” Baltisse drawls, “I tire of your whining.”

“Baltisse, I swear I’ll drive a wooden stake through yer unfeelin’ heart while yeh sleep if yeh so much as look at tha’ bottle again withou’ payin’.”

“But what will you do the next time one of your testicles blows up from a bee sting, Salem? Who will heal you? You’ll be walking around like you’ve lost your mount and don’t know it.”

At that, Salem’s round face turns a deep crimson red, and his eyes dart to Dawsyn and away. “Wha’ did I do to deserve leeches like the pair of yeh?”

Esra shrugs happily and reaches for the plate in Salem’s hand. Salem dodges it and places it down before Dawsyn. “Here you are, miss.”

Dawsyn eats, oddly content as she watches this most unlikely group cajole and insult one another, well-versed in the art of bothering each other’s existence. There is something homely in it – this conversational baiting. A dance. She does not, as she expected, feel ill to sit among them. She is not ousted by the familiarity they share, but a party to it. Esra throws a muscled arm over her shoulders and encourages her to throw slander in his defense. Salem winks at her every so often, refilling her plate before she can wave him off. Even Baltisse seems to ensure that her snarls are shared evenly among the three.

“Whatever happened to your ‘no liquor before noon’ rule?” Dawsyn asks Salem, stretching back to alleviate the pressure of her full stomach.

“Well, as yeh might have noticed, miss, these people don’t fuckin’ listen.”