Page 29 of The Sorcerer's Thief
Risk? What risk? I don’t understand. “Wait, is that dangerous?”
“Of course it is, Cricket.” He rolls his eyes. “People will seek to take advantage. They always do. Best they know nothing of me.”
I catch up to him so we can walk shoulder to shoulder. “So, how do you make friends?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, come on, surely, you have friends?”
He stares blankly.
Wow. “You really don’t have any friends?”
“No. Nor do I want them. More trouble than they’re worth.”
The sinking feeling I’d gotten rid of from the bridge returns in full force. A heavy sadness I can’t shake off.
I think of my community back home.
No family to speak of, not anymore, but many, many friends.
There’s Auri, who taught me to fish from the shore so I didn’t have to board a stupid boat. And little Button, whose favorite fruit is fabamelons that I could only steal from the highlands. I made special trips to get those melons for him. The memory of his blue-stained lips and tongue as he gave his thanks makes me grin. Kite, my mom’s best friend before she died, who tried her best to take care of us after. But she had four kids of her own, all of them as hungry as we were. Roslyn, who’s always been like a grandmother to me and to anyone else who needs one.
And so many more friends I couldn’t count them all.
Huh. No friends.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
I turn my gaze forward. To think I’d been feeling sorry for myself since the revolution made my life’s work irrelevant. Equality for all means no need to steal. No need of me. But no friends?
How lonely Julian’s life must be.
Chapter 9
Julian
Our travels bring us through a farming village that’s hosting an end-of-season harvest festival. The modest town square boasts far more people than could live here, so much so I assume all the surrounding villages have gathered in this one to celebrate.
Tent camps, earthen cook pits, and formal and informal gatherings have sprung up from the northern outskirts to the southern, all of which we see from the hillside as we approach the valley community.
“I smell roast pig all the way from here,” says Cricket. “My mouth is watering.” He sucks in a breath. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. No eating animals.”
I’m surprised he cares. Most people don’t. “You may eat them, of course. My convictions aren’t for everyone.”
“That’s good because no conviction I know of could stand between me and bacon when it’s fresh from the frying pan.” He smacks his belly for emphasis.
We lead Slinger down the crowded path and to a fenced pasture. We leave her here to wait for us while we explore. She ambles away toward fresh grass without so much as a parting glance. Her priorities firmly in order, she takes to grazing, and we walk farther into town.
I roll my neck and fix my disguise into place, leaving it so only Cricket can see through the glamor. I doubt we’ll run into guildsmen in a farming village, but precaution has served me well in the past. I won’t abandon it now.
Music livens the cobbled streets, a playful drumbeat keeping tempo for couples dancing along shop fronts. Colorful banners advertise sweet corn, fried pastries, and?—
“Spicy nillyslugs on a stick!” squeals Cricket. “Gross! Do people really eat those?”
“Apparently. There’s no accounting for taste these days.”
“Don’t be so snobby.” He skips ahead of me and straight to the cart where, to my dismay, he buys not one but two slugs on a stick. “We have to try them.”
