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herself upright. The carriage had indeed been waiting, along with an angry, impatient driver who had jerked open the door, pushed her up the step, and shoved her inside.
    She’d never been inside a covered carriage before and hadn’t known what to expect. She’d fallen into the only open spot, a wholly inadequate space between a very large, fragrant man suffering from gout and a woman who whispered about spies and coughed incessantly, necessitating the windows being up and the blinds being drawn the entire way lest the dust enter and make things worse for her. Aisling thought there might have been a trio of silent men with business of their own facing her, but she couldn’t have said because, again, the blinds had been drawn.
    Perhaps that had been just as well. She could honestly say she had never wept in the whole of her life, not even during the only other ride she’d ever taken, a journey in a rickety wagon that had left her hanging her head over the side and heaving continually until she’d been put into the care of the Guildmistress. She hadn’t wept as she’d realized that her parents hadn’t put her there on trial, they had left her there for good. She hadn’t wept a fortnight ago either as she’d stumbled in the dark to the carriage waiting for her, even though the vision of the Guildmistress holding triumphantly aloft a sword stained with blood had certainly been fresh in her mind.
    Instead, she had simply counted the days and greeted the approach of each new dawn with increasing dread.
    She hadn’t dared sleep at first, on the off chance that someone from Bruadair—no doubt an assassin trained in the art of following his countrymen to slay them outside the border—had followed her. After that, she had scarce managed to stay awake. Thankfully the gouty gentleman from Gairn, who was traveling to take the waters in Meith, had happily provided her with what his swollen foot told him was an accurate count of the days.
    By her count—and this she could hardly believe—by nightfall, she would have been journeying a full fortnight plus a bit. That left her almost another se’nnight to get from Istaur to Gobhann. The peddler’s bag of gold was heavy enough that she supposed she might even manage to hire a carriage of some sort to take her fromthe port of Sgioba to Weger’s gates. Though she was well read thanks to Mistress Muinear’s insistence, details about Melksham Island had always been rather sketchy, so she could only hope to find what she needed.
    Sgioba was the farthest point on the north side of the island where she could make port. If she could find a fast ship, she could make the journey in three days, leaving her ample time to reach Weger’s gates, get herself inside, then negotiate with him for the sort of lad she would need.
    She pushed herself back to her feet and spared a thought for what sort of decent bread might be purchased at dawn in a port town. Perhaps the leftovers from the day before. They couldn’t be any worse than what she’d had at the Guild.
    She brushed her filthy hands on her leggings and was grateful that at least the front of her was fairly clean. She reached down for her pack—
    And found herself suddenly sprawled face down in the muck.
    It took a moment or two to get far enough past the shock of that assault to catch her breath—and that she had to do carefully. She lifted her face out of the mud and tried to blink away the layer of slime that was now covering not only her back but her front. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, but that did nothing but smear more unidentifiable substances all over her face.
    She blinked enough to see a circle of lads surrounding her, pointing and laughing at her. She could hardly blame them, though she didn’t care to endure any more of their sport than necessary. She pushed herself to her knees and looked around her quickly for her pack. No sense in losing that to the giggling fools continuing to mock her.
    She blinked, but her