Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  I start to sit up, and then flop back down.

  “Oh,” I say aloud. “I hurt.”

  There’s a humorless snort from near the campfire. I roll onto my side to see Lark pouring hot water through a sack of coffee grounds that looks about as old as I am. I have to squint—she’s in front of the sun again. Did she purposefully go to sleep on the eastern side of the fire so the sunrise would be behind her?

  I put my hands on my bedroll, testing my weight. My elbows are quivery, hollow feeling. A tendril of worry curls through my stomach.

  “Ground too hard for you?” she asks, swirling her cup.

  I frown and push myself upright, my stomach sliding into place with a sour splash. Ugh.

  I shake my head, trying to rattle a little sense into place. “Is there coffee for me?”

  “Make it yourself.” She tosses her cup back with one throw, her neck arching above her lowered bandanna. Her coyote mutt is flopped against her thigh, its head on its paws. It side-eyes me, one giant triangular ear tilted back.

  I grumble in their general direction—I have good coffee, better than whatever swill is in her pouch, but I’m too achy to bother with brewing it at the moment. I dig for a handful of dry cherries and chew them slowly, surreptitiously testing the pain in my neck and shoulders.

  “How far to Utzibor?” I ask, trying to focus on our task.

  “Another day’s ride over the slot canyons to the Middle Porra, and then it’s another few hours to the camp,” she says.

  “And it’s a rustlers’ camp?” I ask, hunting in my pack for my canteen. “Do you think they were the ones who captured Tamsin?”

  “They don’t use it all the time,” she says, turning her head away. “It’s abandoned most of the year. And anyway, rustlers are too stupid and single-minded to plan a complicated political heist. If it’s not a cow, they’re stumped.”

  I laugh into my water, though I’m not sure she means to be funny. She’s still looking away, into the sunrise.

  “What do they use it for?” I ask, wiping my mouth. “The caverns, I mean.”

  She’s quiet for a breath or two, absently scratching Rat behind his ears. The beast is still watching me.

  “Branding, mostly,” she says. “They don’t go inside the caves—there’s no good entrance or flat ground to make a camp inside, and they’re full of bats, anyway. They’ve built a few outbuildings against the bluffs, and the rest of the space is used for branding pens. It’s got wide stone banks that form natural semicircles—they just add wooden gates and fencing in the gaps. They’ll come there with the cows they steal a few times a year to change their brands, and then they drive them to Teso’s Ford to sell.”

  “Don’t the buyers know they’re stolen?” I ask.

  “You’d be surprised how many folk don’t care about who owns what,” she replies flatly.

  I press my lips together, trying vainly to resist the urge to snipe back at her.

  I fail.

  “You don’t have to keep insinuating I’m the reason you were enslaved, Lark.”

  She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “Just shut up.”

  “No, I’m serious—”

  “Yeah, I am, too, Veran,” she says, looking back at me, her eyes narrowed over her eyeblack. “You don’t even think about it, do you? I bet this is such a thrill for you—camping on the ground, like a real adventurer. I bet it’s real fun, getting to play make-believe survival, knowing you’ve got a roof and a bed when you get tired of it. Sorry if I keep reminding you of ugly stuff. You remind me that there are some folk in this world who can’t sleep a night on the ground without aches and pains. You’ve never had to fight for a day in your life.”

  Something Mama-like flares up in my chest. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

  She snorts again and pulls her bandanna up over her nose. “Neither do you.” She gets to her feet, beating the dust off the seat of her pants. She grinds out the fire with her bootheel, scattering the coals and stomping them individually, like they each have my face.

  She turns and stalks toward our horses. “Come on, hurry up. We need to be past the slots before the afternoon storms. Come, Rat.”

  The dog slinks after her, its ears still cocked back toward me, head down.

  I’m simmering, my fists clenched up tight. My head pounds, making the world blur a little. I want to shout, I want to knock her down like she did me. Instead I grind my teeth against the metallic taste in my mouth and stuff my things back in my pack.

  I wish Eloise was here, to share my incredulity at the Sunshield Bandit’s nerve. But in the next moment I’m glad she’s not—I hope she’s safe and well and doesn’t fully hate me for lying to her.

  Though if she does, I suppose I can just add her to the list.

  Tamsin

  After the second day, the hunger pangs lessen.

  “Tamsin,” Poia says. “Listen. You have to eat.”

  My hands are in their usual place, on top of my head, as my arms are bent around my face. I hook my pinkie finger at the barred window.

  “Don’t play with me. If we have to force you to eat, it’s going to be all the more painful for you.”

  I have no doubt of that. It’s been satisfying, this modicum of control, even as I feel my body palpably deteriorating. I’ve been holding this fetal position for so long that the few times I’ve tried to uncurl, my arms and legs sink to the ground. I’ve got no muscle strength to hold them in the air. It’s a fast, fascinating slope. How quickly one little decision flares out through bone and sinew, snuffing out the body’s little forge fires.

  Poia murmurs to Beskin outside the door. Another fascination—they’ve ceased bickering for the present. I’ve given them a common concern. What a powerful thing that is, the setting aside of petty differences to unite against a shared evil. No wonder history is full of leaders bent on splitting and categorizing their followers. A group united is a powerful thing.

  My mind lapses for a moment—guttering like a cracked lantern. I wouldn’t mind these hazy slips so much if they didn’t bring a jumble of all the memories I’ve been purposefully avoiding these weeks. My final few performances, that last one in particular—the whooshed silence in the hall after my final chord. The glancing of courtiers toward influential people—oh, it’s so easy to see where loyalties lie when one is waiting to mimic a response. So easy to pick out the leaders and followers. The pockets of applause, some wild, some reserved. The tide of murmuring through the curtains as I carried my dulcimer into the wings.

  The sound of running footsteps, the brush of long-fingered hands, the press of silk and skin against a wall. All our earlier discussions of tact, of subtlety, of strategy—they all dissolved in that moment as Iano caught me up and covered my open mouth with his. I had threaded my fingers through his, dulcimer calluses against bowstring calluses, pulling us both against the wall.

  Even in my body’s weakened state, it still has the ability to thrum with eagerness.

  I squash my elbows harder against my aching jaw, physically trying to stave off those visceral memories. Iano’s face fuzzes out of focus, and I grapple to replace it with something else—rain, rock, glass. The flush collapses from my stomach and leaves a hollowness behind. My arms tremble from the effort of keeping pressure on my cheeks.

  “Maybe we should let her outside,” Beskin says on the other side of my door—I’d forgotten they were there. “Let her walk around a bit.”

  “Our orders are to keep her locked up,” Poia counters—good old Poia, such a rule follower. Anyway, the time when a walk in the fresh air would have helped was about three weeks ago.

  “We’re also supposed to keep her alive,” Beskin says.

  “I know,” Poia growls.

  I’d smile if I could.

  What a conundrum.

  Lark

  We ride through the morning, silent. The dandy’s obviously pissed, but I don’t care. He can pout all he wants. I’m more concerned with taking the right
line through the land in front of us—too far east and we’ll hit the slot canyons where they widen out, making us backtrack along them before we can find a place narrow enough to hop over. Too far west and we’ll arrive at the Middle Porra in the rapids, where the water’s too deep and fast to ford. Both routes would tack an extra half day onto our travel time. As this is Dirtwater Dob’s range, I want to keep travel time as short as I can.

  Also, I’d really like to be rid of the dandy as quickly as possible.

  The sun continues to rise over my left shoulder, raising the dust under Jema’s hooves. I tighten my bandanna over my nose and mouth. The few times I glance back, whether to look for Rat or check the landmarks around us, the dandy has his head down and his hood up against the glare.

  The first time he speaks is close to noon, when I turn Jema up a bare bulge of sandstone instead of continuing our line around it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Water,” I say. “For the horses. There won’t be much between the slots and the Middle Porra.”

  “Why are you going up?” he grumbles. “Last time I checked, water runs downhill.”

  I stifle a sigh and spur Jema a little faster, not wanting to waste the breath on a response.

  “Lark,” he calls. “I don’t want to climb over some exposed ridge just to have to lead the horses back down. One of them’s going to break a leg.”

  “Fine,” I say over my shoulder. “Stay here, and when your horse drops dead from dehydration, you can walk along with Rat.”

  He curses under his breath, but I hear the clop of his horse’s hooves on the pale stone as he follows me. The climbing sun glares off the rock. I pull my hat lower, grateful for the greasy eyeblack on my cheeks.

  “It’s too bright,” he calls.

  “Blazes, shut up,” I reply.

  He does, following me silently as we plod up the slope. I sweep my gaze over the terrain in front of us—I haven’t been up this particular ridge before, but it should have a water pocket of some kind. This secret is one of the few things I’m grateful to the rustlers for. Despite being stupid, they do have to know how to keep a herd of cattle alive when driving them cross-country, away from the main roads along the rivers. Cook used to send Rose and me scrambling up the white stone rises, searching for the hidden wells that collect in the channels and basins. We’d take our time when we found one, lying on our stomachs to suck down our fill of rainwater before it could be mucked up by cows. Back when I was called Nit. Back when Rose had two legs of flesh and bone.

  Before Utzibor.

  As we crest the first swell in the rock, I spy what I’m looking for—a natural depression carved out by a thousand years of rain. It’s dry up top, but it slopes down to form a little well on the northward side of the ridge, shaded by a lip of stone. Water sparkles clear and still in a pool.

  I dismount and lead Jema along the channel. Behind me, the dandy’s horse stops.

  I glance back to see him staring from the saddle.

  “Yeah, water runs downhill,” I call, unable to resist. “If you want to dig twelve inches in the dirt to make a mucky seep. This isn’t Moquoia.”

  He doesn’t answer, just blinks under his hood.

  “Come on, get out your canteen before the horses have their fill.”

  He slides heavily out of the saddle and walks a little bowlegged toward the well. I pull down my bandanna and lower onto my stomach, the stone warming my skin through my shirt and vest. I dip my lips to the water and drink. It’s cool and clear, no grit or leaves or cow crap. These ridges have the best water around.

  I drink until my belly groans and slither back, licking my lips. The dandy stiffly settles down and lowers his head, touching his mouth to the water. His face is dusty, his copper cheeks a little pinker than yesterday. Maybe I should offer him some eyeblack.

  Maybe I will, if he quits being unbearable.

  He dips his palms and splashes his face, making muddy rivulets down his cheeks. I give him some credit for forethought—he makes sure to do this away from the surface, to avoid dripping into the pocket. The water collects on the blunt curve of his nose and his unnecessarily long eyelashes. Up on one eyebrow is a little pink scar splitting it in half. I wonder what luxury athletic event he hurt himself in—hawking or promenading or sparring with those bendy toothpick swords with the nubs on the end.

  A flicker of guilt flares in my gut, but I’m not sure why. He seems like the kind to hurt himself reading a book.

  Silently—blazes, I’ve shut him up good—he unstops his canteen and fills it.

  Rat is standing a little way from the edge of the pool, which surprises me—normally I have to fight to keep him from wallowing before I can take a clean drink. He’s panting and has his ear cocked back, like he’s distracted by something. Maybe he still doesn’t like the dandy, like me.

  “C’mere, Rat.” I dabble the water, and he lopes forward, head and tail low. He splashes right in, slurping and snorting in the water until it’s cloudy with dirt and dog slime.

  We let the horses water. I look out over the ridge and check the land in front of us—we’re heading in the right direction. I can see the distant buckles where the slots run, almost directly ahead of us. I study the slope on the far side of the sandstone ridge.

  The dandy doesn’t come up to look with me. He sits down with his hood up, his head bent over his knees.

  “I think we can keep going over the ridge, instead of backtracking,” I say, coming back down to the pocket. “We may need to lead the horses, though—it’s scrubbier than the other side. There might be loose stone. All right, Rat, you dope, come on.”

  Rat quits rolling around in the water and stands, shaking happily. The dandy wordlessly gets to his feet, gripping his horse’s saddle, almost like he’s steadying himself.

  As little as I want to indulge his delicacy, I also don’t want him passing out from heat exhaustion—it’s not even midday yet.

  “Hey,” I say, gathering up Jema’s reins. “You’re okay, right?”

  He gives some kind of response from behind his horse’s withers. When he doesn’t say anything more, I assume he’s still just rankled from being wrong about the water. I start to lead Jema along the ridgeline.

  We head up and over the bump of white rock, the flats spreading out before us like a blanket. This high up, I can see the Middle Porra glinting in the distance, and beyond them, a dark line on the horizon that can only be the rocky breaks of Utzibor caverns. The sheer meanness of this trip hits me again—traveling back to the place I swore I’d never, ever go back to. The place that gives me sick heaves just from its memory. For the hundredth time, I wonder how I was talked into this.

  Then I remember Rose, and Andras, and little Whit, and Lila. I remember Sedge’s bad back and metal collar, and Saiph’s lost potential, and Hettie’s faraway family.

  I remember Pickle, and how easily any one of them is next.

  I pick up my pace. The downward slope is steep and shaley, and my boots slip on the loose pebbles. Jema picks along beside me, weaving among the occasional stands of sage and yucca.

  We’re wading through such a patch, scratchy and thick, when the dandy speaks for the first time since the bottom of the ridge.

  “Uh . . . uh, wait.”

  I look over my shoulder. He’s stopped walking, gripping his horse’s reins with an iron fist. His face is wide with something akin to dread.

  “Lark, uh, Lark,” he says—too loudly, like I’m a quarrel shot away instead of a few feet in front of him. He drops his horse’s reins and swats her nose. She tosses her head.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. Rat is pressing against my leg, letting out that high-pitched squeaky gate sound he makes when he’s anxious.

  “I need . . . I need to sit . . .” He waves his arm like a blind man, dragging it through a tangle of sage—he doesn’t seem to feel the scratches. His knees start to bend.

  “Veran.” I turn to face him, which is hard because Rat is practic
ally between my legs. “What’s the matter with you?”

  His hand is out unseeing for the ground, but he doesn’t make it to his seat. He gives a short, sharp groan, and then his body stiffens. Half crouched, he drops like a tree, his face hitting the earth without any move to break his fall.

  “What the—Veran!” I untangle myself from Rat and lunge up the slope, leaving Jema behind. Veran’s on his stomach, nearly under his horse’s hooves, head facing downhill, and he’s shaking—writhing, practically bucking off the ground. His arms jerk on either side of him, his legs buckle and release at his knees, kicking up dust. His horse snorts and shies, hooves dancing—I lean hard on her shoulder to push her aside. She sidesteps into the yucca, and I dive down to Veran’s side.

  “Veran!” I heave on his shoulder. He rolls, rigid, onto his back, still convulsing. His eyes are nothing but whites.

  I curse, panicky. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what’s going on. His back bows off the ground, thumping again and again, filling the air with dust. He chokes, his lips frothy with spit.

  I do the only thing I can think of—I roll him onto his side, trying to brace his head with my thighs. Spittle flies from his mouth. His arms churn the dirt. His body’s tight as a wound spring.

  “Rat! Here, Rat!” I wave frantically—Rat hovers a few paces away, ears back, head down. I pat the ground behind Veran’s bowing back. “Here! Come here, sit!”

  He reluctantly slinks forward. I grab his ruff and drag him down to buffer Veran’s back.

  “Veran!” I clasp his head, trying to keep it from scraping the ground over and over. “What do I do?”

  And then, just like that, the shaking slows. His hands twitch on the ground, his feet kick feebly. His back stops heaving, his eyes go half lidded. Spit seeps out of the corner of his mouth. A sour smell fills the air—I look down to see a wet patch spreading across his lap.

  Rat heaves a whimper wrapped up in a sigh.

  I let out my breath, still clutching his face. His trembling slows, and he inhales—only to suck in a cloud of dust. He coughs, spraying spit, but he doesn’t come to. I fumble at the knot to my bandanna and shake it out before draping it over his lips.