Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  A small side path winds through the trees a few yards to my right, one of many little pleasure jaunts in the grove. But Iano is cutting a line to my left, leaving a swath of squashed fern heads and heeled footprints in his wake. I stop just short of dropping to the ground and instead crab through the understory, occasionally jumping to my next perch when the branches become too slim. None of the sunlight and breeze from the open doors penetrates this far in—it’s still and quiet as a first snow. I pause against a trunk, and then I hear it—a low murmur, and a hush of whispers. I peer around the trunk—Iano’s turquoise capelet flashes through the branches about a stone’s throw in front of me. I can’t make out any words from here, but blessedly there’s a hefty split trunk perfect for hiding just one branch over. I splay my feet on the branch, just like on the scout walkwires at home—another thing I’m not supposed to do—and pad silently down the limb to the crook of the tree. I flush with pride at that successful traverse as I wiggle into the space between the split trunks—my brother, Vynce, still has trouble with his traverses, and he’s damn close to earning his Woodwalker boots and cord.

  I force my thoughts away from my own silly victories and peer through the open space between the trunks. Iano is a little to my right, half hidden behind another tree, but I have a clear shot at the person he’s talking to—it’s Mistress Fala. She’s more distraught than I’ve seen her any other time, her hands clasped before her, and her motherly face creased in desperation. Stifling my breath, I lean forward as much as I dare.

  “. . . I don’t know who it was, my prince, I swear I don’t . . .”

  “Light be damned, maid, how can you not know?” The anger in Iano’s voice startles me—he sounds even fiercer than last night. One fist is balled by his side, trembling. The other hand rests on the ceremonial rapier always attached to his waist. A flicker of unease needles my brain—I’ve never stopped to wonder if he’s actually proficient with the elegant weapon. Surely he wouldn’t use it against an unarmed, distressed subject.

  Would he?

  “He wore a hood and cape,” Fala answers tremulously. “And a cloth over his face, and he had a bintu knife in his belt, and he was so big . . . he made me kneel and keep my eyes on the ground while he gave me the message.”

  Iano gives an exasperated growl. “And? What did he have to say this time?”

  Fala’s voice drops quieter, her hands clutched in front of her lips. I strain forward even more, one scant grip on a scrubby branch the only thing keeping me from pitching headfirst out of the tree.

  “Speak louder, dammit! What did he say?”

  “He said . . . he said the eyes in the court are many, and that you . . . you must make a better effort at appearing n-natural. H-he said if you cannot keep up appearances, then . . . oh, please my prince—”

  “Then what?” There’s panic alongside the anger in Iano’s voice now, thrumming through the air. The cord on his rapier swings.

  “Then you may start to receive—items. He said . . .” Fala’s voice is shaking so badly, I can barely translate her words. “He said she . . . she has enough f-fingers and toes to send a daily reminder until your c-coronation.”

  Iano’s breathing is so loud I can hear it above Fala’s voice, until she breaks down, her palms pressed over her face to muffle her crying. My stomach squeezes at her distress, but Iano makes no move to console her. He’s quiet for several long breaths, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and dangerous.

  “And you have no inkling who this man is?”

  Fala shakes her head, lifting her splotchy face from her hands. “He’s only found me twice, each time when I was alone and in the dark—first cleaning the lamps in the portrait hall, and second when I was washing the breakfast room windows. The other times he’s left the letters—he puts them in with my other correspondences in the mail room . . .”

  “Have you spoken with your mail workers?”

  “They’ve never seen him. The letters are simply in the collection box when they come in the morning.” She fishes a handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose. “I am so sorry, my prince—I wish by the Light he had not sought me out, I wish by the Light he was not tormenting you with her safety, but what can I do—what can I do?” Her final words are akin to a wail.

  Iano’s breath streams out his nose. “Next time, come to me straightaway—I don’t care what time of the night it is. If he approaches you again, you come wake me immediately.”

  “He says if I do so he’ll—”

  “I don’t give a damn what he says he’ll do. This is more important. She’s more important. And if you’ll just keep your head next time, we may be able to stop him tormenting the three of us altogether. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my prince, yes.”

  He flaps a hand at her. “Go. Report to me immediately with any scrap of information.”

  She bows herself in a half circle around him, her hands clasped before her again. “Yes, sir, I promise.”

  I lean back quickly in the tree as she turns and hurries away, frantically wiping her tears. She stumbles through the ferns, her sniffling fading away.

  Iano, meanwhile, stands stone-still under the trees, still gripping his rapier. In the new silence, I drag my tunic collar over my mouth to try to stifle my breathing. He stays there, rigid, for countless minutes, until I have dents in my palms from the cracks in the bark.

  Somewhere in the faint distance, a bell rings out again, and then another, and another, their constant ringing becoming a full-on peal. The Kualni An-Orra is over. The rainbow has been swallowed up by the clouds again.

  Iano makes a sudden movement, unsheathing his rapier and slicing it expertly through the ferns, leaving a perfectly flat gap in the brush.

  “Kuas!” he shouts.

  I don’t know that word, but something tells me it’s probably not in my Standard Primer of Moquoian Vocabulary. He turns toward my tree for the first time, scrubbing his palm over his face. I hold my breath as he sheathes his rapier, but he pays no attention to my tree as he winds back among the trunks. He trudges slowly through the ferns, his shoulders slumped in defeat. I hold still until I can no longer hear his footfalls, and then I relax against the crook of the cedar, letting my breath out in one long stream.

  Well.

  Someone is blackmailing the prince.

  A he.

  About a she.

  Well, well, well.

  Tamsin

  I have one whole letter carved in the door.

  H

  Lark

  I crouch on the rocks, peering over the twisted trunk of a fallen ponderosa pine. Below us, the thin ribbon of the South Burr slices through the flats. A meager road follows the near bank of the river, barely more than two parallel ruts offering a break in the scrub. We’re four miles off the split with the stage road, which angles toward the North Burr on its way to Pasul. This one continues along the South Burr for another mile. A cart towing a large wooden wagon bumps slowly along the track, its wheels and gears groaning against the rough terrain. The wagon is pulled by oxen, not horses—that’s what allows these travelers to take this remote road, rather than the main stage routes. And they know they’re in dangerous territory—three armed guards face each direction, quarrels loaded into crossbows. The driver snaps a whip, urging the team to move through this treacherous bottleneck faster.

  It’s a good position. The sagebrush flats are wide but rocky, and the wagon won’t be able to veer off the main track without breaking apart or falling in the river. We’ll move faster than the oxen team, even at their full speed. We outnumber the armed guards. And to top it off, they’re heading west—directly into the vicious late-afternoon sun shooting straight across the flats.

  I crawl back up to the stand of living ponderosas, where the others are waiting.

  “All right,” I say. “We’ll do this the usual way. Saiph and Pickle, you draw fire in front and give Rose and Sedge a shot at the guards. I’ll work on the driver. If t
hey try to outrun us, Pickle, you go for the cart wheel, not the wagon. Don’t get your head bashed in.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it!” He’s eager, his horse sidestepping and snorting underneath him, feeling his energy.

  “All right.” I put my toe in the stirrup and sling my leg over Jema’s back. I check my sword, buckler, and crossbow and then look down at Rat. “Ready, Rat?”

  He rises off the ground.

  “Don’t you get your head bashed in, either,” I say to him. “Oxen are stupid, but they don’t shy like horses. Stay clear of those hooves.”

  He puts one ear back and gives a short, perfunctory yawn of tension.

  “On,” I say.

  With a swish of his brushy tail, Rat slinks through the ponderosas and begins to lope down the hillside. Saiph and Pickle urge their horses after him. Rose checks the release on her crossbow—sometimes it sticks—and nods to me. I move forward after the others.

  We weave down the rocky slope, angling toward the oncoming wagon. I can see the moment we’re spotted—the three armed guards wheel from their watchful but casual positions to full alert, scrambling to make sure their quarrels and knives are easily accessible. Rose and Sedge split off to take a line behind the wagon. Pickle is out in front, swerving smartly around the rocks, muddling the aim of the guards. By the time we’re within range, we’ve hit the track, and the sun is at our backs.

  Rat snarls, and one of the oxen bellows in response. A quarrel whizzes somewhere close by, and I hear Pickle cheerfully chide the guard’s poor aim. He wheels his horse in the opposite direction, and I see three quarrel points shift to follow his path. One fires and misses. Before the other two can release, Sedge materializes alongside the driver’s box on the far side. I don’t see everything that happens next—there are a few shouts, and then one of the guards topples from his perch. The wagon makes several sickening jolts as two sets of wheels bounce over the body. We canter on—I look over my shoulder to see the huddled form lying motionless on the side of the track, swept by a cloud of dust.

  But if I thought that meant we were down a guard, I was wrong—the driver slaps the reins against the galloping oxen’s rumps and pulls her own crossbow out from under her seat. Setting the reins under her boot heel, she stands up in the driver’s box. One of Rose’s quarrels flies past her ear. The driver swings her sights to me and fires—I veer Jema out of the way just in time. A near miss—but it’s made me give up my position ahead of the wagon. I slap Jema’s haunches and urge her back up the track, hoping to regain my ground before one of the guards trains their sights on me again.

  Rose aims and fires—she catches a guard in the shoulder, and I hear him swearing colorfully as I catch back up to the wagon. My gaze sweeps over the door—sometimes the wagons are canvas, able to be ripped into, the victims inside hauled to freedom before running the wagon into the rocks. But this one is solid wood bolted shut with a heavy lock, not an easy thing to undo at a gallop over rough terrain. No, we’re going to have to bring the thing to a halt, a gentle one, too, if we don’t want to hurt those trapped inside.

  There’s a shout of dismay, and I look back to see Saiph falling behind. His mule, Weed, is stumbling over his foreleg. He must have taken a bad step. I turn forward again—I can’t worry about Saiph at the moment. Truth is, all the better if he’s out of harm’s way.

  The driver wheels her crossbow around to me again, thinking she has the edge with the sun now in my eyes, but I’m ready for her—I tilt my buckler straight toward her face. She squints, but she’s smart enough to duck behind the driver’s box just as I pull the trigger on my crossbow. My quarrel skips off the top where her head had been.

  “Lark—to your left!”

  I twist in the saddle just as a crossbow releases. I swipe my buckler up impulsively, and the quarrel glances off. But Jema weaves away from the groaning wagon, and as I scramble to keep her line, my own crossbow slips from my fumbling fingers. It smashes on the rocks below.

  “Dammit!” I spur Jema to get her ahead of the creaking wood and metal coupling. “Pickle!” I call. “Jam the wheel!”

  He swerves along my other side. Another quarrel whistles between us. “The driver’s hot!”

  “I don’t care—get this thing stopped!” I lean low over Jema’s neck, pulling my sword from its sheath. A whip cracks. Jema snorts nervously.

  Pickle shouts to his horse, Scrub, and spurs him around the back side of the wagon. The remaining uninjured guard tracks him, his fingers tensing on his lever. I grab for my crossbow before remembering it’s in pieces behind us. I glance for one of the others—all I see is Rose. She aims and pulls her crank.

  It sticks.

  The curse forms on her lips as she rejams her quarrel, but in that split second the guard fires. There’s a shrill whinny from Scrub and as the wagon lumbers on, I see the horse on the ground, flailing in the dust. But no Pickle.

  “Pickle! Damnation—Rose! Sedge!” We’ve got to get some order back on this thing.

  There’s a shout, and suddenly the top of the wagon sports not two figures, but three. Pickle dives into the guard box, swinging his metal staff.

  “Pickle!” I shout in frustration. The driver snaps her whip. She’s trying to outrun us.

  And the way things are going, she’s likely to succeed.

  Gritting my teeth, I spur Jema forward again. If I can get near the oxen with my sword, I may be able to cut through some of the harnesses, or wound one of them. Anything to slow this thing down. Rose is coming up along the carriage, still fighting with her crossbow. Sedge is trying to draw fire from the guards, but he can’t get a clear aim with Pickle in the tussle. I can’t see Rat, and we’ve left Saiph far behind.

  I hug the cart as closely as I can to avoid the driver’s crossbow. But as I clear the box, I find that her focus isn’t on me. She’s standing up again, the reins back under her boot. She cocks her whip arm back and flings it along the top of the wagon. I can’t see where it lands—I only hear the snap splice the air, a startled shout, and then two bodies topple off the swaying top. The swerve of the wagon sends them into the rocks along the ruts, where, unable to roll, they simply smash in a heap.

  My guts freeze.

  A metal staff bounces off the roof. It catches Sedge’s horse, Pokey, flat across chest—the horse shies and bolts into the scrub. Rose swerves around the loose staff, twisting in her saddle to confirm her fears. Seeing Pickle on the ground, she turns back around and, with a yell, forgets fixing her crossbow and spurs Blackeye faster. The final guard stands up unsteadily on the wagon roof, wrestling with the crank on his crossbow.

  “Rose!” I call. “Stop the wagon!”

  Her thoughts are the same as mine. She disappears around the far side of the wagon. Gritting my teeth, I turn back for the driver’s box.

  Now. This driver.

  Jema is wary and tiring, but I bring her flush with the racing cart again. The box is on my left. It’ll make for an inelegant thrust, but all I want is to make contact—to wound enough that she’ll give up the race. I slide my buckler up to my forearm and switch my sword into my left hand. I slap Jema’s rump and clear the driver’s box, arcing my sword toward the driver’s calves.

  She sees me at the last second and gives an ungainly hop to avoid my blade, dragging the reins with her. The panicky oxen low and weave toward the rocky bank. The wheels leave the ruts of the road and instantly tear apart on the rocks. If we were going more slowly, the whole thing might skid to a stop. But the cart and wagon are racing almost out of control now, and instead of slowing down, the whole cart jumps skyward. The wagon follows it with freak suddenness, and there’s a breathless moment where every remaining wheel is off the ground.

  The whole thing lands in the ditch with a smash, followed by a shriek of pain.

  Everything in my body seems to lurch upward into my throat. Rose. There’s an astounding moment of silence that follows, as if everything is drawing breath. Then the sounds begin. A wounded bellow from one of t
he oxen. The grind of a spinning axle. The tinkling of shattered glass. A moan from near the wagon.

  A moan from inside the wagon.

  I pull Jema up short and swing from her back. I run on watery legs for the locked door, but another sharp moan from Rose makes me veer for the other side of the destroyed wagon. Please no. Please no. I don’t know what I’m praying to or for—just no, no, no.

  I round the corner.

  It’s not as bad as I feared.

  It’s worse.

  One of the oxen is on its chest, its foreleg bent clean in half. The other is tugging agitatedly at its yoke, lowing and tossing its horns. Rat is crouched in front of them, one paw tucked gingerly under his chest. What remains of the final guard is dashed on the rocks a full fifteen feet from the side of the road. There’s no sign of the driver.

  In the ditch is Rose, flat on her back. Her false leg has been twisted under her, caught in the movement of the wagon as it reeled out of control. The foot end is splintered. The strap end, where it attaches just below her knee, has taken her knee with it. A white knob of bone protrudes from her skin. My stomach sours, and I wrench my gaze away, dropping down to her side. She’s breathing feebly, staring straight up at the sky, not seeming to see me. Her fingers are hooked into the dirt on either side of her, trembling.

  “Rose,” I whisper, brushing her forehead. Her skin is slick with sweat. “Oh Light . . . Rose.”

  She licks her lips, tear tracks staining her cheeks. “Is it bad?” She’s whispering, too.

  What do I say? I dare a glance at her leg again. Why isn’t there more blood? You’d think there’d be more blood. No, there’s only her knee rent to one side, as if someone twisted the top off a jam jar.