Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  He exaggerates the Lumeni pronunciation, putting a too-heavy twist on the oi in Moira’s name. I look again toward Eloise. It’s not hard to imagine how Queen Mona would have detailed her missing daughter in her letter, an unmistakable blend of the queen’s fair complexion and freckles and Rou’s warm brown skin and fine smoke-gray curls. Eloise laughs at something the chairwoman says, her nose and eyes crinkling. I think again of that portrait in Queen Mona’s desk, two sets of sparkly brown eyes and cascades of tawny hair.

  Her sister must have been so scared.

  “In that same letter,” Minister Kobok continues, and I wrench my focus back to him, “I received the distinct suggestion that the very foundation of the Moquoian workforce would soon be under scrutiny of the East, and that we should be prepared to acquiesce to a long list of foreign demands or risk the allied enmity of the Eastern World.” He snorts derisively. “Enmity! From a collection of countries strung together in a haphazard alliance, whom we can barely make contact with twice a year! The sheer arrogance, the utter compunction of such a threat, to undermine our very economy and infrastructure. But I soon found that Queen Mona’s threats were only that—threats, and empty ones. She could do nothing from a little dock in her faraway lake but shake her fist in Moquoia’s direction—a grieved mother, an embarrassed monarch. I penned a brief response, which I am not sure ever reached her, and did not give a second thought to that letter. Until I heard that none other than her husband, younger daughter, and now, apparently, the fourth child of the Silverwood monarchy, were coming for a friendly visit.”

  I’m staggered. I bristle at the way he’s talking about Queen Mona, by all rights one of the most powerful and legendary monarchs in Eastern history, and that’s even when standing alongside my own parents and Gemma Maczatl, the Last Queen of Alcoro. To write off Mona’s correspondence—a well-placed one, if we’re being honest, because where else do seabound captives go but around Cape Coraxia—to dismiss it as a meaningless product of grief and political embarrassment rankles me. It would rankle Mama even more—she poured her own blood and sweat into searching for Moira Alastaire, and I suspect her response to the minister would rely mainly on her closed fist.

  But the ugly truth is that if we’re going to get anywhere with Moquoian infrastructure, we need to be in this reprehensible man’s good graces.

  If such a thing is possible.

  “We’re not here on any personal errand of Queen Mona’s,” I say, with what I consider to be an admirable amount of diplomatic restraint. “The abduction of Moira Alastaire happened when I myself was a child, and it would be odd timing to suddenly bring it all back up now for no reason—at least, none that’s apparent to me.” I eye him, hoping I’ve at least irked him in as polite a way as possible. “As I said before, we represent the allied East and the University of Alcoro. Ambassador Rou was sent because he was one of the founders of the Eastern Alliance and has served as a liaison in all the courts of the East. Princess Eloise was sent because she is the next queen of Lumen Lake. I was sent based on my language study to open dialogue for a potential partnership. If such a thing is achieved, perhaps the next ambassadors will be more to your liking.”

  His mouth twists under his mustache. He straightens.

  “I must decline your request to ally with my colors tomorrow evening,” he says. “It would not sit well with many of my donors to see me mirroring si with our Eastern delegation, particularly not when there are so many questions about the murder of our previous ashoki. Oh yes,” he says to my sudden look of consternation. “I know the rumors, and a fair amount besides. You do our court a disservice by carrying on as if everything has been done by the book. Should you be interested in my advice, here it is: you gain nothing from hounding the prince. Rather than treating your stay like a farcical diplomatic summit, consider it rather a show of Moquoian hospitality—one you’ve worn rather thin so far.”

  I’m gaping at him—I can’t help it. I can’t think of a single thing to say. Kobok doesn’t wait for me to come to my senses. He gives a clipped bow and then turns back for the nearest group of courtiers, all standing in conspicuous silence just a few arm’s lengths away.

  My head reels with his tirade of accusations. A search for Moira Alastaire? The death of the previous ashoki? Murder? I look desperately for Eloise, but she’s nowhere in sight. As I make a second sweep of the room, I spy Mistress Fala standing near a cluster of couches. Anxiously, I set my unwanted cup of tul down on a side table and make a beeline for her.

  “Good afternoon, lord,” she says, lowering her eyes. “How are your feet?”

  Awful. “Fine, thank you. May I ask you an important question?”

  Her gaze flickers to the tray. “I suppose it is not to ask for tul?”

  “No, and I understand it may be delicate, but I desperately need an answer. Fala—how did the previous ashoki die?”

  She stiffens. “That is . . . not strictly public knowledge, lord.”

  “So I’m aware. But I think it may be impacting our work here, and I expect you know the truth. You must hear all the rumors, all the secrets. Please, if I can’t find out the answer, I worry we will only continue to make things worse and worse here, without knowing how or why.” I gesture in the direction of Prince Iano, his cheerful lemon jacket contrasting with his wan face and shadowed eyes. “I worry we will only bring Iano more stress, more grief.”

  She takes a little sip of air, glancing toward the prince, and then she deliberately sets about pouring me a glass of tul.

  I wave at her. “I don’t need a glass . . .”

  “Yes, lord, you do,” she murmurs. “You are already attracting too much attention speaking with me—the ministers are watching you. It will look highly irregular. Understand that it is not my place to know what happened to the last ashoki.”

  I blink in confusion at her last statement, until I realize that she’s pouring the glass of tul exceptionally slowly. Buying me the briefest moment of decorum. I nod vigorously and then, remembering Iano’s threat of having me watched, turn it into a curt movement, one a nobleman might be expected to give to someone inferior.

  “I won’t tell a soul who told me,” I say quietly.

  She takes another breath, her eyes on her work, and in the time it takes her to top off the glass and set the pitcher down, she says all in a rush, “The previous ashoki was killed in an ambush by the Sunshield Bandit, as her coach was nearing Vittenta for the night at the start of Iksi.”

  I lean back from her in surprise. “The Sunshield Bandit? What on earth does that have to do with us?”

  “Here is your tul, lord,” she whispers. “Now please, go back among the court, before you cause a scene. I implore you not to talk similarly to any of the other staff. It will only damage your image.”

  Dumbly I take the cup. As soon as I have, she turns and hurries away, head down. I clutch the cup without moving, staring unseeing at the shimmery mosaic wall over the couches.

  The Sunshield Bandit. My mind races back to the letter Colm wrote me, the tidbit he told me but not Rou or Eloise, about who robbed his stagecoach, and what he found out about her.

  Lark.

  Just in case.

  But . . . I still don’t understand why such a thing would solicit such hostility from Iano. The Sunshield Bandit operates in the Ferinno, it’s true, but surely he can’t think we’re involved just by that alone? If she really did attack and murder the previous ashoki, it would be the first such attack I’ve heard of—I thought the only people she killed were slavers.

  Still, Eloise needs to know, and she can decide if her father needs to know, too. I set the second cup of tul down, hoping it will be the last such offer. I’m about to turn back to the humming crowd—my debacle with Kobok now an afterthought—when a beam of sunlight manages to break through the rolling clouds outside. It’s brief, but significant—the glass patio brightens, dazzling the wet glass. The mosaic tiles over the couches flare, throwing off little pearly glints. A murmur swel
ls through the court at the sunburst. Many people press toward the windows, craning to see if there’s any chance of Kualni An-Orra—a rainbow, the manifestation of the Light here in Moquoia, accompanied by the twelve-verse Prayer of the Colors. It’s the rainy season, though, and the weather hasn’t broken enough in four weeks to produce a rainbow. I start to turn toward the bank of windows, but a flash at the corner of my eye makes me stop.

  As everyone presses toward the glass, I turn slowly back to the shining tile mosaic. The sun transforms what had been a pattern of tiles into a gleaming mass, a blinding mirror that stings my eyes. In another breath, the light is swallowed up again, and the room plunges back into ambient light. A few people murmur in disappointment. The mosaic resumes its pattern of geometric flowers, dull and dreary after the flash.

  Hurriedly I search for Fala in the crowd, wanting to clarify something she said. But she’s gone, invisible among the other black-clad servants.

  I don’t have any idea why it should matter, but it stands out, odd and irregular, as unexpected as the sunburst.

  Fala said the ashoki’s coach was attacked as it was nearing Vittenta . . . for the night.

  By a bandit who uses the sun as a weapon.

  Lark

  I pick through the scrub, leading Jema behind me. My body aches and groans from spending the night on the ground, bunched up tight to keep warm in the chilly darkness.

  I’m famished—I haven’t eaten since I left camp yesterday, and I’m still two hours away from Three Lines. I spied dust along the road this morning, coming from Snaketown, so I expect the sheriff is out trying to pick up my trail. I hope she doesn’t have dogs, but just in case I’ve been turning up and down every draw and drainage I come across, trying to muddle our trail. I’ve swung so far south of the road I’m nearly to the tower mesas that rise like giants from the horizon. What should have been a three-hour ride from Snaketown has turned into a six-hour slog cross-country, but I’d rather the authorities think I’m fleeing south than along the river. Three Lines is well hidden, but the fewer folk poking around north of the road, the better.

  Problem is, I’m well outside my usual stomping ground—if we’re drawing lines in the sand, this is technically Dirtwater Dob’s territory. He’s more of a poacher than a bandit, skirting around hunting restrictions for bison and pronghorn, which are less plentiful down here than up on the prairie, but we’ve crossed paths more than once. Back before I was able to send Bitty and Arana back to family in Callais, we had a full-out brawl with Dob’s posse over access to the stage road. We drove him off, though Bitty came away with a broken hand, and since then Dob has mostly stayed to his side of the mesas. Still, I’m keeping a sharp eye out. I’d prefer to avoid any run-ins. I’m tired and beat-up, and I don’t have Bitty’s tree-size biceps or Arana’s twin knives or Rose’s crossbow to back me up.

  Rat sauntered off a little while ago in the direction of a willow seep, probably sniffing out ground squirrels. Jema’s hooves are making a fair amount of noise over the stony ground, and I’m distracted with wondering if I can risk turning north again—when I round a cluster of boulders to find I’ve walked right into an armed robbery in progress.

  Sun be damned, it is Dirtwater Dob, as if conjured from my thoughts, though he seems to be down a couple of allies—there are only two beefy bandits backing him up, with a third rolling around on the ground with her hands to her bloody face. In their midst is a stout woman with a strip of blue fabric tied over one eye—it’s the Moquoian woman from Patzo’s general store, the pox-marked one arguing about the mail. She’s facing the three bandits with a confident grip on a broadsword, but she’s also favoring an ankle and backed into a tangle of juniper. A horse’s panniers are scattered across the ground, parcels and parchment strewn on the rocks. The horse is nowhere in sight.

  Everyone stops midmotion to stare at my sudden appearance, save the bandit on the ground, still clutching her face.

  “The Sunshield Bandit,” Dob says in surprise, his grungy eyebrows flying skyward.

  The victim doesn’t lose her head and uses my momentary distraction to plunge for Dob. He recovers a second too late, parrying slowly with his dinged-up mattock and earning a glancing blow to his forearm. The other two waffle between jumping in to assist and wondering what I’m planning.

  Joke’s on them—I have no plan. But I have to say, I don’t particularly like the odds here. I could side with Dob in the hopes of splitting the victim’s panniers, but it’s more likely he’d remember the brawl over the stage road and turn on me as soon as he finishes his target. Besides, I’m not big on killing innocent travelers. I’ll take all their stuff, sure, but I try not to take happenstance lives or strand anybody where they’re going to die of thirst.

  Yeah, yeah, the old man’s stage. He was just outside Snaketown, though, and clearly he got back all right, didn’t he?

  My face on the wanted poster flares up again, and without waiting any longer I slide my longsword out from under my saddle. I could run, I guess, but if Dob kills this traveler, in the same terrain I fled after Snaketown, in all likelihood the crime will be pinned on me, and then they might strike out the Alive part on my bounty. I spur Jema forward.

  “Hey, Dirtwater! Don’t you have bison to poach somewhere?”

  One of Dob’s cronies has joined in the struggle with the traveler, but the third wheels back to me as I bear down on them. He’s got a nasty-looking scythe in one hand, and he whirls it toward Jema’s shoulder, but I sling my buckler forward. A splash of afternoon sun washes over his eyes, and he flicks his head. It’s enough—I kick out with the toe of my boot and connect with his jaw. A tooth flies like a junebug. He spins a full circle and drops.

  I make sure Jema steps on him as he screams and curses on the ground, and then I’m on the second bandit. He’s got a length of chain—did these guys just raid a logging camp for their weapons? He’s on my sword side, and I angle my blade, preparing to deflect a swing of the heavy metal links—but he whirls them instead at Jema’s nose. She tosses her head and sidesteps, treading again on the scythe bandit but throwing me off-balance. I grab a tighter hold on my reins and arc my sword just in time to parry a jab from a hunting knife. He’s quick, going for Jema’s flank, and I put all my strength into an awkward strike with my hilt. It cracks against his skull, and he drops both chain and knife, clutching his forehead.

  “Hold! Hold—Mosset, hold.” Dirtwater Dob tosses up his hands, mattock hanging pick-side down from his wrist. His gaze flicks over his groaning companions and then up to me. “You’re a ways off the road, Sunshine.”

  “And you’re getting a little bold, Dirtwater.” I adjust my buckler to make the most use of the glare. “Are the bison too smart for you? You’ve had to stoop to jumping single travelers?”

  “At least I haven’t blundered into tripling the price on my head.” He palms the slice on his forearm. “Heard you held up one of the university deans and got your face on a bunch of posters along the road. Is that why you’re sneaking around down here? Sheriff on your tail?”

  I don’t know what a dean is, but it’s my luck that the old man was somebody important.

  “There’s been a price on my head for three years, and they haven’t flushed me out yet,” I say. On my right, the bandit called Mosset adjusts his grip on his chain, the links clinking. I lay the edge of my sword along his neck. He freezes, scowling. There’s a welt on his forehead the size of an egg.

  Dob huffs. “All a matter of time, Sunshine, and then you won’t be lording over the road any longer. Come on, Mosset, Berta . . . Goon, quit rolling around under the horse.”

  “She knocked out one’a my teef!” whimpers Goon.

  “You got a bunch left. Come on.” Dob flicks his head at the one-eyed traveler. “Lucky day for you.”

  The traveler doesn’t reply, just glowers at the posse as they collectively stagger to their feet and file away through the sage.

  I grind my teeth, watching them go. I watch until I’m s
ure they’re really retreating and not just bluffing, and then I turn back to the traveler. She’s warily collecting the goods from her panniers, though one fist is still closed on her broadsword. She eyes me as I slide from Jema’s saddle.

  “What’re you traveling around here for?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, reaching for a bag of cornmeal that’s threatening to split along the seam.

  “Want help?” I ask. “I wouldn’t mind helping you pack up in exchange for a meal.” Plus I just saved your ass, I decide not to add.

  She grunts, though I can’t be sure if it’s in agreement or not. I kneel and reach for a bundle of blank parchment that’s spilled across the ground, many of the sheets peppered with somebody’s blood—probably Goon’s. Before my fingers close, though, she whacks my hand with the flat of her blade.

  I jerk my hand away. “Hey!”

  “Niq-otilai.”

  Moquoian—right. I’d forgotten. My Moquoian is rusty—I haven’t had to use it since the mines.

  “Again?” I ask, the foreign word awkward on my tongue. “Slow?”

  “I said, go away,” she repeats.

  I scowl, but I’m not fluent enough to snap back or suggest she offer a thank-you instead. From a little ways off, I hear Rat’s coyote yip-yip—perhaps at a wandering, riderless horse.

  “You ride a horse, yes?” I ask flatly in my uneven Moquoian, eyeing a packet of thick jerky. “If I am go to get your horse, you can share a food?”

  She huffs. “No. Go away.”

  “I can rob you.” The threat sounds pitiful in my broken speech. She scoffs. I’d scoff, too.

  “I fight better than that group of nobodies. Go away.”

  “Fine.” I’m too tired and hungry for a devoted swordfight anyway. I put my hands on my knees, preparing to stand, when she moves suddenly—her hand lashes out to grab my sleeve. She pushes it back to reveal my longsword tattoo—and the old, scarred circular brand. Her face goes as dark as yesterday’s thunderstorm.