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It's a small town, and not the only one Reese has passed through -- nor the only place where he has been seen. The twins are tracking him by that, by the people who've glimpsed or met along the way, because they long since learned a game that Reese himself probably wouldn't be able to play well.

For one, they split up whenever they reach a town, with only one of them actually going into the town. Though there are many who find twins to be uncanny, even cursed, no one can know that they're twins if no one knows there's two of them. Whichever twin it is that goes into the town then plays the game they call 'Me Ol' Da.' Wearing rougher, coarser clothing than they're ever seen sporting in the city, and talking with a thick country accent, the Friedrich will go on and on to anyone he meets about Me ol' da, what sent me to city, and he's a good man, only his leg's gone lame, it has, and he carn't run no mill like he uset to, an' he's a good man, me ol' da, but things be so tight, and me mam's been gettin' sick, so me ol' da, he sent me ta city ta sell an old heirloom he gots from his granther, only some slick city boy, he came up in tha night, and stole-d it ..

They find that it really is amazing what they learn from people, being slow and stupid and just a bit silly, and above all young enough to be pitied. In a few years time this gambit will no longer work, but on this trip it serves them well enough. It means that on that sixth day, when Reese sits so easy at the fire, enjoying his book, a country lad in homespun clothes plunks down in a chair beside him and offers him a mug. He looks a simple sort, at first, in his plain clothes and ugly, muddy boots -- but there's a hard glint to his eyes, and a little smile on his lean face that isn't silly at all. Even the fact that he's visibly injured doesn't lessen the faint thread of menace in his expression; a nasty gash has been sewn up on his forehead, the stitches still visible, and under his shirt there's a taunt layer of bandages across one shoulder and around his upper arm. It doesn't look like the sort of injuries a farm boy would have: it looks like the results of a fight.

"Long way from Palisade, ain't it, mate?"

There's no one else, leastways no one visible: just the simple country boy in front of him with the hard, almost angry eyes. He's good at guarding his expression, at keeping careful watch of what his face tells the world, but he's not half so good at it as Reese. No, there's always something in these eyes, whatever it may be; he's far better at laughing when he's angry than he is at seeming distant or disinterested.

He smiles more broadly: he hasn't even seemed to notice Gwen, no more than he's noticed the color of pants that Reese is wearing, and perhaps that's just as well. "Haven't thought about much, I'd wager," he offers, in a casual tone, as if they are discussing the taste of the beer or the warmth of the tavern compared to the cool night air. Even when his voice drops to a softer tone it remains easy, each word spread smoothly before them. "Like how maybe them knives you took up might've belonged to someone else. Or that someone else might follow you all the way out of Palisade, down the whole long, lonely road."

The boy's eyes glitter, as if he's amused by Reese's seeming willingness to draw on this public forum to protect himself. How does he think that's going to go? The twin's betting on his false persona -- how battered he looks, how young and how sad he can look, versus somebody with a grimalkin what makes good folk nervous, some slick city boy that's sat all aloof since he got here. Do you really wanna play it that way? He seems to be asking, tilting his head and watching Reese for a moment before he speaks.

"A little 'bout you, a little 'bout me, maybe a little 'bout the future. You know, what ifs and maybes and might've beens. Like, what if you gave over something that's just so coin-ci-dent-ally gone missin', purely by accident, and what if them that had been interested in it didn't get so mad." He shifts in his seat, and scratches his bandaged shoulder carefully, with a visible wince. " 'course, this is all just speculation, y'know. I mean, if I knew somebody that'd followed a man six days out've a city, a city he got serious business in that he can't rightly leave, I bet that somebody'd be pretty peeved off."

Finally the young farmer's boy seems to give over the game he's been playing with words, maybe because Reese has shown a disinclination to play it with him -- maybe because of the way folk about them have ceased to pay them any heed. His gaze gets sharper, though his posture does not change; he remains slouched over his mug, his body proclaiming to the world nothing of interest happening here, move along.

" .. y'ain't foolin' none. Pair of daggers, sharp as you like, set with some of them blue stones: they belong to me ol'da," and the last of that sentence is a set of murmured words, a lie said just to be said, uttered with perfect conviction. "There ain't many as followed by grave-minders, so no pretending it weren't you." He nods stiffly to Gwen, as if according her the respect which he feels she is due -- but otherwise he strives not to look at her, this being a matter between him and Reese only. The Freds have already made one grevious error regarding the bond between a man and animal: they are not eager to make another. "I'm hankering to have them back, mate. There's a score of ways we can settle this, and it's up to you to decide how it falls out."

For one long, silent moment the other man stares at him as if he cannot quite believe the thief's boldness: the brazen demand that he be paid for nicking the knives that the Freds had themselves been eying. While such an insult ought not to go unpunished, the youth sitting across from Reese twitches .. and then cannot help but snort a sudden laugh, as if the entire thing has suddenly struck him as hilariously funny. Chuckling, he leans back and folds his arms carefully over his chest, a surprisingly good-natured grin slipping across his face as if it belongs there. There is mischief in the look, moreso than a farmer's boy would wear, and the expression is somehow much more real than any he has yet worn.

"Yer a rat b*****d, you know that? But a damned brave one, I'll give you that. Alright. We can deal. Didn't really feel like beating the s**t out of anybody tonight anyway." He rolls his wrapped shoulder with a small snort; sleeping on the ground and traveling all day probably hasn't helped with the healing of it.

In his current garb, he'd probably be laughed out by the inn keep himself, or offered a place in the stable. But the false farmer's son does not look offended by Reese's implication that he's too poor to afford quarters here: he snorts a laugh, running a hand back and forth through his hair. "Got camp and horses back by the trade road, where the stream crosses it." The words are casual, but may spark some hope in Reese that the boy will be able to pay for the knives, at least; no farmer's son should be able to afford to outright pay for such things, but no landsman like him should be able to afford more than one horse, either. "My brother's back watchin' it, and it's him as has got the coin."

"Din't suggest naught, now did I?" He pauses for a moment to watch Gwen, and his ability to hide his thoughts is not so practiced as the thief's: he regards the grimalkin with more than just a hint of wariness. What had he called her? A grave-minder .. and he's no interest in the grave being his. "I'll leave it to you t'do the suggesting. You got them that I want, he's got the gold, and I don't much fancy just popping out and coming back to find you've changed your mind and moved on."