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“Just stick close,” Dallin told him as they led their horses to the gates. “We’re fine. No one’s followed us so far, and there should be no reason anyone would guess we’d come here. We’re as safe as we can be.”

Wil only shrugged noncommittally, though his gaze never stopped shifting, weighing, calculating. For all that he might as well have been on holiday when they’d been trekking in the wilderness, now Dallin thought Wil might spot trouble even before he did.

“You’ll have to check your weapons here,” one of the guards gruffed, bellying up to Wil with a superior look Dallin recognized all too well—something he’d seen often enough on the faces of Elmar and Payton back in Putnam.

This was one of those men who would only ever achieve minimal rank and command, lording it over those who 82

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didn’t know better, because they were the only ones he could bully effectively. Terrific. Just brilliant. “There’s a no arms edict in Chester on Market Day,” the man went on. “You check ’em here and pick ’em back up on yer way out.” He reached out toward Wil. “Unshoulder that cannon there, boy, din’t ye hear—”

Dallin saw it coming; it was only by virtue of reflexes that he managed to get between the guard and Wil as Wil’s shoulder dropped, the rifle coming around and across his torso in one smooth sweep. Dallin caught it before Wil could swing it up to firing-stance, angled himself in front of the guard’s hand before he could lay it to Wil’s arm and get it bitten off for his trouble.

“He’s with me,” Dallin told the guard calmly, surreptitiously keeping hold of Wil’s arm down low and slightly behind him, feeling the tension and vibrating stress running beneath his fingers. He was a little surprised that Wil didn’t wrench out of his grip and shoot them both, but he stayed still and silent, though Dallin would swear he could hear a low growl rumbling at his back. Dallin’s horse stretched her neck, dipped her great nose over and buried it in the crook of Wil’s shoulder; Dallin had to actually choke back a snort as Wil twitched and cursed at her under his breath. “I assume dispensation is granted to visiting officers?” Dallin said pointedly to the guard.

“And who’re
you
?”

Dallin sighed, dug out his badge and his papers, keeping his hand clamped to Wil’s arm. He’d rather not have to show identification—he’d hoped they could slide in and out of Chester without leaving much of a trace, and here they were, stopped at the gates, every passerby goggling and whispering as they sidled along—but there was absolutely no way he was going to allow himself to be disarmed, and he judged flashing his badge about to be the lesser risk.

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“From Putnam?” the guard asked suspiciously, squinting closely at the raised lettering around the sword and leaf pattern that was Putnam’s seal. “Ye en’t from Lind?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised Dallin, but it did. “Used to be,” was all he said.

The guard tilted a narrow stare at first Dallin then Wil.

“What’s yer business in Chester?” he wanted to know.

“Our business is not yours,” Dallin replied tersely, pushing all his years of command into his tone. “But we would be happy to discuss it with your superior, if you feel it necessary. Of course, then we might find it equally necessary to explain how, at least in Putnam, we don’t growl at visiting colleagues and attempt to manhandle them at the gates.”

Of course, Putnam had no gates, and all visiting officers were required to check in at the Constabulary and explain their business upon arrival within the city’s limits, but this man didn’t need to know that.

The guard glared but backed down a touch. He eyed Wil up-and-down, gaze going half-lidded with a knowing little smirk, but he addressed his next question to Dallin:

“Yer little, uh…
lad
got a badge?”

Dallin’s jaw clenched. He’d used the wrong approach.

He’d been looking for instant respect, or at least a pretense of it, when he’d pushed authority into his demand. What he’d got was instant jealousy and hatred. And since Dallin was too big to bully and had a badge that outranked the guard’s, the man chose Wil as his default. The inflection of the word
‘lad’
made the insult to Wil all too clear, and the sudden deliberate interest blooming in the flat stupid eyes made it clearer.
Prey
. Wil’s admittedly pretty face with its fading bruises probably nearly screamed ‘rough trade’ to someone like this. Dallin didn’t know if he was indignant on Wil’s behalf or his own.

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“As I
said
,” Dallin grated, tone low and dangerous,

“he’s with me.”

“Who he’s
with
, makes no nevermind,” the man informed him, still eyeing Wil in a way that was beginning to make Dallin’s skin crawl. Wil saw it, too, tensing even more behind him; Dallin could feel the throttled rage boiling. “It’s what he’s
got
that matters,” the man went on, eyebrows waggling. “Don’t know what sorts of arrangements they have out Putnam way, but here you’ll have to—”

“You finish that sentence,” Dallin said between his teeth, “and it’ll be the last your tongue sees of your filthy mouth. For the Mother’s sake, man, you’re
on duty
!”

The guard’s eyes narrowed and his lip twitched, but the hateful smile remained. “If he en’t got a badge, he can’t carry a gun.” He slid another slow glance over Wil, very clearly and purposefully lewd, then slanted it up to Dallin, challenging. Bluffing. Baiting. Ugh, he looked just like Elmar, with his square, stupid face and smug air.

Dallin doubted the man would even have Wil, even if Dallin shoved Wil at him with a cheerful grin—this was all poking and provoking just because he could. “Either he hands it over,” the man went on with his pompous little smirk, “or he’s with
me
, and you can pick
him
up on yer way out.”

Dallin made himself breathe evenly, made himself think it through. Knowing it was all a bluff wasn’t helping.

He didn’t like being provoked. The thought of giving in to the grandiose boor was repugnant, but the only two alternatives were to turn around and leave or to demand to see the man’s superior. And Dallin didn’t want to do either. He supposed there was always the alternative of beating the shit out of the foul troll, or letting Wil shoot him, but either of those—while probably a little too satisfying to imagine—would regrettably call attention 85

The Aisling Book Two Dream

to them they really didn’t want. Dallin ground his teeth, turned to Wil, grip still tight on his arm.

“You’ll have to give it up,” Dallin said, low and as even as he could manage through his anger.

Wil tilted his head, looked at Dallin from the corner of his eye, gave the horse a light swat and shrugged her away. “I know,” he answered, just as quietly. “I just didn’t want him touching me. And I… he’s…” He clenched his jaw, huffed. “I don’t want his grubby paws touching
it
, either.”

Dallin thought about that, too. Carefully. Then he smirked.

“As you wish,” he told Wil, let go of his arm, and held out his hand. “Give it to me, then.”

Wil frowned, peering at him curiously for a moment, then slid the strap from his elbow. He checked the safety on the rifle, and with one last glare for the guard, handed it over to Dallin. Dallin gave him a nod and a small waggle of eyebrows, slipped the gun’s strap over his own shoulder and turned back to the guard.

“There,” he said with a pleasant smile. “No badge, no gun. We’ll be going now. Unless you’d care to go fetch your superior for that little chat?”

The guard gawped, but Dallin nearly let a malicious little grin curl at his mouth when he heard Wil give a very quiet but very satisfied, “Ha,” behind him. The glare the guard gave them was sincere, but the flourishing gesture as he handed back the badge and papers and finally let them pass was grudging and thwarted. Dallin could feel those dead eyes between his shoulder-blades well after they cleared the gate and entered the city commons. Still seething, Dallin searched for and found a provisional livery with a post to tether the horses, waited impatiently for a call chit then flipped a gilder to the lad who tendered it with the promise of more if their saddlebags and Dallin’s crossbow were unmolested when he came back to claim 86

Carole Cummings

them. Tucking the receipt into his breast pocket, he pulled Wil over and around a leather-worker’s stall.

“Sorry about the gate,” he told Wil. “Took me a little off-guard. And we need to get something very clear.” He held the rifle up. “You can’t just go about shooting people when they piss you off.”

Wil dragged his arm from out Dallin’s grip with a bit of a sulk. “I wouldn’t’ve shot him,” he muttered.

It would be very unwise of Dallin to snort right now.

“You can’t point it at him, either, or wave it about, or even make threatening gestures, or look at him cross-eyed. I know he’s a great knob, but he’s got a badge and isn’t afraid to use it. You fuck with someone like that and he’ll have you in irons just because he can, and I’ll have a bugger of a time getting you back. Now, I’m hanging on to this—” Dallin held up the gun again; Wil scowled, opened his mouth. “Just until we leave Chester,” Dallin assured him quickly. “You can have it back again once we’re outside the gates, all right? But they’ve apparently got an actual law against weapons on Market Day, which makes sense, when you think about, and if you get nabbed with it, we’ll end up getting more acquainted with the local law than we want to be. And keep the damned knife in your boot. We’re lucky they didn’t actually search you at the gate.” He slipped the rifle’s strap over his shoulder.

“Now. I smell roasting meat coming from somewhere—

would a hot lunch lift your spirits any?”

Wil looked down, scuffed his boot in the dirt and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Some,” he mumbled, the scowl not quite so fierce now. “A hot lunch and a beer would do better.”

Dallin snorted and rolled his eyes. It really was true—

feed him and he’d forgive you just about anything. “Come on, then,” was all Dallin said.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

They were at a gunsmith’s stall, Wil ogling the small array of handguns, running careful fingers over each burled grip, Dallin haggling with the owner over the cost of shells, when Wil quietly and casually sauntered up behind Dallin.

“Shouldn’t’ve pissed off that guard,” he murmured into Dallin’s ear, flicked a surreptitious look to the stall owner and then leaned around Dallin. Dallin thought at first that Wil was perusing the knives set out on a black velvet cloth on the table to his left, but his eyes darted a quick sweep to all points beneath the brim of his hat before he picked up a knife, held it up like he was showing it to Dallin. “There’s two of them over by the fountain,”

he said quietly, turned the knife about in his hand and caught the light with it. “Your friend from the gate and three others are standing across the street, pretending to but not actually buying pasties from a very angry-looking cart owner.”

Shit. Shitshit
shit
. Seriously. Could Dallin have
possibly
bungled their supposedly unnoticed entry into Chester more badly? Bloody hell, he was better than this, he
knew
he was. Where had his instincts gone?

He nodded at the knife. “You like that one?” he asked Wil, a little more loudly than he needed to, but the gunsmith was eyeing them with a touch of suspicion now.

Dallin leaned down to Wil, even slipped a serene smile to his face—just a silly smitten man, having a private moment with his companion, perhaps deciding whether or not to treat him to a new blade. “Good eye,” he said calmly. “Well done you.” He turned back to the stall’s owner. “We’ll take that and this.” He pointed to the knife in Wil’s hand, and gathered the ammunition over which he’d been arguing just a moment ago.

Wil gave the owner a smile that was somehow shy and sly all at once. “Is there perhaps a back way out of here?”

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He nudged Dallin then flicked his glance down to where Dallin’s purse hung from his belt. “A nice quiet…. oh, alley, maybe, where a man could say proper thanks?”

The gunsmith pursed his lips, but when Dallin drew four gilders more than necessary from his purse, laid it all out on the bench next the purchases, the man sighed with a grimace. “Through the curtain past the longbows,” he offered grudgingly, though he swept up the coins in his nimble fingers without hesitation.

“Have you got a sack for all this?” Dallin asked him.

He waited for the man to turn then leaned down again.

“You first,” he muttered to Wil. “Calm and slow, like you’ve been doing, then wait for me.”

Wil didn’t even nod, just patted at the small of Dallin’s back, almost-intimate, like he’d been doing it all his life, then wandered to the rear of the stall, very noticeably eyeing the array of bows. The curtain was drawn, but for a narrow opening to the side; Wil made to walk past it, did a bit of a double-take, like something behind it had caught his eye, then angled himself through.

Dallin had to stop himself from grinning and applauding the performance.

“Don’t see too many Linders fraternizing,” the gunsmith observed, lifting an eyebrow as he loaded the sack with the ammunition for which Dallin had just paid far too much. “They’re usually in and out o’ here without much more than a
Mother may I
to anyone else.” His eyes narrowed—not with suspicion but with interest.

“You one o’ them Exiles?”

Someone driven from the village, ostracized and shunned for any number of things, the most common Dallin remembered being too much collusion with outsiders. Service in the military was the only exception.

The Old Ones didn’t abide the thinning and dilution of their flock.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

And how was it that he was suddenly remembering these things, when he hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten them?

“Yes,” Dallin answered simply. It had felt like a stone in his mouth. He’d never really thought to wonder what his reception in Lind might be, or what they might think of a man who’d run away as a boy and returned as an outlander. And somehow, he didn’t like the way his reply had tasted, strangely bitter on his tongue. Still, it was the easiest answer and the fastest way to end the conversation and get out of here. The stares of the men behind him were beginning to tingle at the back of his neck.