But I don’t like remembering. It’s a useless, painful pastime, and anyway, we have plenty of real-life problems to fret over instead. I flex my hands and splash water over my face again, trying to banish that sour feeling in my stomach. Droplets trickle over my lips, salty with my dried sweat.
In truth, we’re all a mess.
Rose’s false leg doesn’t fit her. Sedge fashioned it after seeing someone wearing one in Snaketown, but all the parts are random scraps—old leather saddle straps and a woolen shirt and buckles from who knows where. She walks with the stump end dragging in the dirt. Sedge is determined to make her a better one, but despite his capability with turning odds and ends into other odds and ends, a false leg is more complex than a slingshot. He tries, bless him, because he loves Rose with all his heart. I think if he could cut off his own leg and give it to her, he might just do it.
I might, too, for that matter.
She’s hardly the only one with something wrong—Pickle gets sores all over his lips that nothing seems to cure, adding to the old scars left over from a bout of childhood smallpox. Andras is always getting eye infections, pink and weeping. Lila doesn’t talk about it much, but I know she worries about her periods—they’re irregular and painful, sometimes just a few droplets, sometimes an intense flow that sees her puking for the better part of a week.
Whit worries me the most—her cleft lip affects her speech to the point that she often prefers to stay silent, but it’s not her only issue. Lately she seems to be disappearing bit by bit, her eyes sinking deeper into her paling skin. I wonder sometimes if she’s sick with some invisible disease. She needs to be seen by a healer, but the closest one is in Snaketown, a three-hour ride away—and besides, we don’t have the money to pay for that kind of medicine or surgery.
Sedge is probably the healthiest, or maybe Saiph—and I’m just waiting for the day one of them cracks their head open during a raid. Saiph, being the most educated among us, often has to serve as healer, despite him being younger than most of us and knowing practically nothing besides how to stanch blood flow.
And me. I suppose I’m healthy, too, unless you count a body that creaks and groans from constant abuse, a quarry cough that flares up now and then, and a gnawing anxiety that the bottom is about to drop out of everything. That someone will finally give in to one of the million things ready to kill us. That the posses from town will finally decide we’re a scab that needs to be picked and root out our camp hidden up in Three Lines Canyon. That Whit and Andras and Saiph and all the rest will go back in the wagons, their lives bought and sold and dragged to whatever labor industry needs an extra pair of hands.
That, ultimately, the same thing will happen to me.
I sink my hands under the shallow water and leave them there, letting the weight of my hair stretch out the rod of tension in my neck. This is why I hate slowing down—when I’m busy stocking camp and caring for my campmates, I don’t have time to dwell on all the trouble lurking just outside our fire ring. But thanks to that jumped-up bearded stage traveler, all the little anxieties keep finding their way into the rare quiet moments.
Life could be different.
I frown, balling my fists under the water. I would love for things to be different. Pickle could get the right medicine for his skin. Whit could get real food and real care. Andras could go back to his family in Cyprien. Rose could get a false leg that fits, not one that blisters her thigh or slides off when she rides. Sedge could get a paying job, Lila could creep back to Lumen Lake to figure out if that’s really where she comes from. Saiph could go to school.
But rich folk like the man in the stage—folk who have never been on the slimy fringes of society—don’t understand the risk those things cost. If I walk into the nearest town with sickly little Whit, or chapped Pickle, or wayward Andras, what happens next? There’s no scenario I can think of—no plausible scenario, anyway—where someone doesn’t end up on the side of the road, or in prison, or back in the slavers’ wagons.
There’s a clatter of rocks from beyond the windbreak.
“Lark, are you done?”
Lila. I flip my locks back behind my head and look over the hide. She’s standing expectantly by the tiny creek that flows away from the seep, already unbraiding her dark blond hair.
“No,” I reply.
She huffs. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“So?”
“So it’ll get cold, and don’t tell me to get the fire pit going, because then there’ll be smoke, and the whole reason for wash day is to not smell like smoke for a few hours.”
I sigh, splashing a last few handfuls of water under my arms and behind my neck. I could point out that the smoke keeps the flies from biting, but the truth is, I don’t want her starting the fire—over the years, we’ve picked Three Lines so clean of easy firewood that we have to ration it for the cookfire. Lighting a fire just for bathing would be a stupid waste of fuel.
“Fine,” I call. “The seep is yours.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice—Lila can be annoying, but if she’s vain about her appearance now, it’s only because she finally has the freedom to be that way. I slick some of the water from my skin and stand from the rocks. The breeze up the canyon slices over the water left on my skin.
Lila already has half her clothes off and is standing expectantly at the edge of the seep. I pick my way out of the water, and she instantly takes my place. I collect my clothes from the juniper bush and make my way down the little creek, shivering in the breeze. She was right—the sun is edging toward the canyon rim, and the air is cooling quickly. I push through the willow shrubs along the creek until I get to a good flat rock that’s still in full sun, and I settle down onto it, my feet in the creek. I’m not quite ready to leave the water, as little as there may be.
Rat snoots around in the water, pawing at the rocks and then sneezing when he splashes his nose. In the distance, a pack of coyotes takes up an early-evening chorus, a rattling of yips and long, high howls. Rat lifts his head, looking up at the canyon wall.
“You’re a mutt like the rest of us,” I say, rubbing a shred of sacking over my skin. “Don’t belong here, don’t belong there. Who was the coyote? Your ma or your pa? Or do you know at all?”
He looks back at me, one ear still cocked backward at the carefree singing of his half siblings. His name is like most of ours, too—made up. When I found him as a pup, he had mange so fierce he looked like a drowned rat, his tail bald as a whip. Now his coat is thick and coarse and studded with burrs.
I reach out and scratch his ears, his fur sticking to my wet skin. He half closes his eyes lazily.
“You’ve got it the best of us, though,” I say. “At least you can survive on mice and carrion.”
He licks a patch of sweat I missed on my arm. The cool air sweeps across my bare back, stealing away the last of the water from the seep.
Through the bushes comes Rose’s telltale step-drag. I straighten as she approaches, her own sack towel draped over her shoulder.
“Is the seep free?”
“Lila beat you to it.”
She swears mildly, setting her sack down. “So it’ll be a while.”
“Probably.” I dig among my clothes for my precious sliver of soap as she eases herself down on a rock by the creek. As I pour a few handfuls of water over my head, she unfastens the straps on her false leg, sighing as she slides the cuff off her knee.
“Are the new buckles helping?” I ask, rubbing the scrap of soap into the barest lather.
“No. They’re stronger, but now they blister.” She hisses as she rolls back her pant leg, revealing a neat line of welts along her knee. “Don’t tell Sedge.”
I massage the soap into my scalp. “Maybe you need something quilted to line the cuff, like one of those fancy saddle blankets. They sell them in Snaketown.”
“And what will we buy one with? Our good looks?”
“We’ve got the coins from that old man’s purse. There are a couple of silver key
s, at least.”
She snorts, dabbing a few of her blisters with creek water. “I’m not wasting a key on a blanket, not when we’re running out of cornmeal and you’re handling your soap like it’s a biscuit hot off the griddle.”
“If it keeps the stupid thing from hurting, Rose . . .”
“No. I’ll get a blanket somewhere else. Use the money on Whit, or Andras.” She pauses for a moment, examining the ragged scar above her knee, the only other remnant of the goring from the out-of-control bull, crazed by branding, that claimed her calf. “Speaking of which, have you . . . noticed anything about Andras?”
I let out a sigh. I’d been wondering if I was going to have to bring up the subject with her. “I noticed he missed the grab on a bucket handle last week. It was sitting there plain as day.”
She nods. “This morning he poured a stream of coffee straight past the cup and onto the ground.”
I dip my head forward and pour another few handfuls of water over it, watching it wash the precious suds downstream. I stay that way, leaning over my knees, my locks hanging down around my face. They form a curtain—I can almost imagine the whole world consists just of this little patch of running water between my feet, clear and cold.
“He needs medicine,” Rose continues. “Something for his eyes, before it’s too late.”
“He needs to get back to Cyprien,” I say. “Back to his family.”
“And how is that supposed to happen? He can’t make that trip. He’d be snapped up by the slavers again, or robbed . . . blind.” The last word trips out almost by accident.
“I’ll take him.”
“And how will you make the trip? I know you can survive on sand fleas and good luck, but he’s just a little kid, and that kind of travel costs money—for food, at the very least, if not lodging and supplies. Our couple of keys would barely get you to Teso’s Ford.”
I take one of my locks and roll it between my palm. The damp hair curls up by my scalp. “I’m working on it. If we save some of the coin we have now, all we need is another good hit or two on the stages.”
She goes quiet for a moment. “So that’s our long-term plan, is it? Just keep turning over stages?”
“What other option is there, Rose?”
“One of us could get a job.”
I twist another lock and then start on the next. “Yeah, taking up space in the town prison. Who’s going to hire us?”
“I believe the Alcoran Senate has expressed interest more than once.”
“I’m not turning myself in to them.”
“I didn’t say you had to. I could.”
I twist my next lock with vigor. “So they can give you a badge and push you back out in the desert to take all the same risks as before, only for their benefit?”
“At least there’d be money,” she shoots back. “There’d be food, and blankets, and medicine. Whit and Andras could be taken care of.”
“In an overcrowded public orphanage, if they’re lucky—more likely prison, just like Voss. The same goes for the rest of us.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“It’s just a different form of slavery!” I yank my next lock a bit too vigorously. “They’ll own you again, only with papers this time.”
“What do you suggest?” she asks sharply. “Holing away out here in Three Lines for all eternity, while we all drop off like flies? The little ones can’t survive like this forever, Lark. We’re playing a dangerous enough game as it is. When you and I found this place four years ago, neither of us thought it was a permanent home, just a place to hide from the rustlers.”
“And then we found the water pocket and turned over our first coach,” I remind her. “And we realized it’s as good a home as we’re ever going to get. I’m not taking the others in to town. I’m not putting them at the mercy of a bunch of lawkeepers who wouldn’t care one scratch if we all went back into the wagons.” I roll another lock. “I’m not letting us all get scattered—you really want them to take little Whit or Andras away?”
“Are you scared about what will happen to them without you, or are you scared about what will happen to you without them?”
“I’m not scared.” I spit the words out and they hang between us. My scalp stings where I overtwisted my hair.
I’m not scared.
I’m terrified.
For all of us.
Rose sighs. She heaves herself off the rock and gives a little hop on her good leg so she can settle down behind me. She threads her fingers through my locks and rolls one in her palms, twisting more gently than me.
“I know you’re not scared,” she says. “The Sunshield Bandit isn’t scared of anything. But you are worried. You’d be stupid not to be. I’m just trying to consider all our options. We owe it to the little ones.”
I blow out my breath. “I know. And I’m going to make it better for them, starting with Andras. I’ll figure out a way to get him back to Cyprien. But don’t run off and turn yourself in to the Alcorans yet. Give me some time. I’ll figure it out.”
She snorts softly. “I’m sure you will.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am, too. Your life is one long I’ll figure it out. And you usually do.” She smooths a few of my locks down my back. “Just . . . remember that all that figuring doesn’t have to happen by yourself.”
I sigh and close my eyes. She’s probably right, but I can’t help but want to keep us all tucked up in the relatively safe haven of Three Lines Canyon.
The fewer of us actively battling against the Ferinno, the fewer it can claim.
Tamsin
Still not dead.
And able to chew again, hurrah!
I’ve tried to request a notebook and writing utensil from Poia and Beskin, but they’ve refused.
“We’re out of parchment,” Beskin says pragmatically.
“But you wouldn’t get any anyway,” snaps Poia.
“No, you wouldn’t, but especially because we’re out of parchment,” Beskin adds.
Poia’s uncovered eye twitches in vexation, rumpling the pox scars that dot her skin. I hold back a broken laugh from where I’m sitting slouched in the corner (I’m choosing to view this as a silver lining of endless prison: the freedom to slouch). Honestly, these two could perform a marvelous comedy routine—oblivious, orderly Beskin, grinding unconsciously on Poia’s singular remaining nerve. Apparently Poia was an armed guard for the Moquoian stage line, possibly with a few black marks in her ledger. I’m sure the only thing that keeps her from wringing Beskin’s neck is the necessity to leave one person here in the compound while the other resupplies. Oh, it’s fun to watch her boil, though.
To think I get all this entertainment for free.
I would very much like a notebook, however. I’m never without one—I had no less than four in my satchel when the coach was attacked, but I suppose they’re all ash now. Months of work gone, verses and notes and turns of phrase. Destroyed. Plus my sheet music, with the nearly complete chord progression I’ve been wrestling with since Akasansi.
What does it matter, I suppose—it’s not like I’ll be plucking any dulcimer strings for rapt ears anytime soon. Or ever again, likely. My fingers press imaginary frets into the packed dirt floor, wilting petals sinking toward a still-frosted earth.
That’s not a bad fragment, actually. I wish I could write it down.
Great Light, I am beyond bored.
That’s okay, though. Being actively, aggressively bored distracts me from everything else. It distracts me from the fact that I’ve lost weight. Not much—I still have an appreciable swell to my hips and stomach, but weeks of bad food have left my skin loose and wrinkled, not smooth and taut as before. That’s another thing that’s worrying me. My skin, once a mellow golden brown, has turned dingy and dry, thanks in part to the stale, thirsty air and the lack of accessible daylight. The tiny window near the ceiling is about a hand square, but the bright patch of light it casts never hits the ground—it just travels acro
ss the opposite wall like a lighthouse beacon. Wherever I am, my room must face north.
My hair is the tiniest bit longer now, mossy and tufted. The razor cuts have all healed over. I ignore the pang of indignity in my stomach and instead imagine what I’d look like with all my favorite ornaments stuck on my shorn head—the jeweled combs, carved pins, and glittering baubles all sticking out of my black hair. Back before leaving Tolukum Palace, I had sat for a preliminary sketch for the portrait artists, strategizing different hairstyles and accessories. We’d decided on a string of amber marigolds connected with cascades of superfine gold chain. With my long hair piled high on my head, I thought they looked like sunlight glancing off dew. Now I expect it would look like I got my head stuck in a cobweb. I smile at the thought.
That hurts. It turns into a grimace instead.
Lest I be accused of laziness, I have already worked my little cell over multiple times a day. But there are only three things of interest I’ve found besides my own body, my own waste, and, twice a day, food. One is the bucket that holds my waste. I’ve gotten to know it well, but I doubt it will serve me beyond its implied function. It’s a wooden bucket with two metal rings holding the thing together, and it’s too short to give me any leverage up to the little window. Even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t turn it over without spilling the contents, and my conditions are already bad enough.
The second feature is my bed, which consists of a woven reed mat and a woolen blanket. The reed mat is scratchy and only marginally better than sleeping directly on the dirt floor—I know, I tested it. The woolen blanket is too short—my feet stick out the far end. Me, short and stubby, and they couldn’t get a blanket long enough to cover my whole body? I imagine it must have been a conscious effort on their part.
The third feature is the window, which I suspect is actually a vent for this repurposed storage room. There’s nothing to grab to haul my face up to the hole. Even if there was, I doubt I’d be strong enough in my current state. The most I can do is stick my hand up into the little square of sunlight as it moves across the far wall. I can see no trees or foliage through the window, no matter where I stand. This tells me for certain I’m not in Moquoia any longer, along with the dry air and adobe walls. I’m in the Ferinno Desert for sure, probably in the no-man’s-land east of Pasul.
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