Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 144 of 150

Ben walked all night with the box under his arm. The set was complete now. Twelve pieces, whole and silent. But a finished set was a target, not a prize. The runner had seen his face. By morning every hunter in Butter would know he carried something worth killing for. He needed a buyer who would pay and let him walk away. He could not think of one. Robbers waited on the roads. The herbalist's people watched the crossings. His twelve pieces were worth nothing until he found safe passage. He stopped at a dry creek bed to rest. The weary gray creature dropped beside him. The little box-shaped one folded its stubby legs and blinked. Then the lid of his container shifted. The fox climbed out, quiet now, and pressed against his knee. Its blue eyes watched him. Warm fur touched his hand. Ben scratched its ears. "I know," he said. "There's nowhere left." The fox lifted its head. It stared north, then trotted three steps that way and looked back. It had guided him past patrols before. It sensed things he could not. Ben followed. The fox led him along the creek bed, away from the roads, into a fold of rock where the water ran under a low stone ledge. Ben crouched and looked through. On the far side stood a shed with no door, only a fallen frame. A safe hole. But the fox did not stop there. It splashed into the water and turned to face him. Water masks scent. Ben understood. The creek would carry him past the crossings without a trail. He waded in. The cold pulled at his boots. He held the box high and kept the fox in sight. The gray creature came behind, then the little box-shaped one, riding on the ledge above. They moved down the water for a mile. Twice Ben heard voices on the bank. Twice the fox froze, and Ben froze with it, and the voices passed. The creek carried his scent away each time. At last the fox climbed out where the water met a wider road. A cart stood in the reeds. A stranger sat on it, hood up, waiting. Not a hunter. The fox trotted straight to the cart and sat. "You're the one with the twelve," the stranger said. Not a question. "Word travels. I move goods no one else will touch. No horn, no knife. Half now, half at the coast." Ben looked at the fox. The fox looked back, calm. It had brought him here on purpose. He climbed onto the cart with the box. The stranger snapped the reins. The wheels rolled north, away from the crossings, away from the runner's horn. Ben had his safe passage at last. But he had traded his last freedom for a stranger's promise. He did not know this driver's name, or whether the coast held a buyer or a trap.