Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  I shift, testing the aches in my body—I’m on the ground, on somebody’s bedroll, with a cloak draped loosely over me. We seem to be under an overhang—the ground is shaded and cool, but the air is starting to warm. Carefully I turn onto my side, wincing.

  Lying next to me is the bandit, Lark. She’s on her back, her fingers laced over her chest and her head turned toward me. It looks like her hat was propped over her face but has since slid off. I study her for a moment, taking in her sloped nose, her full lips, her dark eyelashes, the spatter of freckles hiding under the grease and dirt and sunburn on her cheeks. She looks tough, it’s true, but it’s not the mean toughness I might have expected. It’s more of a resigned toughness, an armored veneer tacked up out of necessity. There’s a crease between her brows, but her lips are relaxed and her breathing is deep. The coydog is flopped over her calves, his paws twitching in sleep. I try to reconcile the placid image with the tales of the notorious bandit who has been plaguing the slave trade for the past four years.

  “Psst.”

  I look away from Lark to the edge of the rock overhang, where Veran is sitting in front of a tiny cookfire. He presses a finger to his lips and then scoots forward, hand extended. I take his arm and let him help me move toward the fire.

  “We stopped around dawn,” he whispers. “She made me sleep first. I only just managed to make her take a rest herself.” He has a shiny burn along his temple, taking a small bite out of his hairline, and the dark copper of his forehead is discolored with a purplish bruise. He hands me a canteen. “How are you feeling?”

  I swish water around my mouth and level my hand. So-so. He nods and gestures to the fire, where there’s a little pot bubbling.

  “I’m boiling some jerky and onions and a few herbs to make a broth. It might help more than the honey.” He points down the hill. “There’s a little creek in those willows. I can help you get down there if you want to wash.”

  I nod, and he helps me up. The process is painful and slow—I lean heavily on his arm as we shuffle down to the bank. He helps me dip water and wash my face and hands. I rub weeks of grime off my neck and arms, watching dirt slough away and cloud the water. He guides me to a gnarled old tree trunk to lean against, stepping away while I relieve myself. Once I’m put back together and marginally cleaner than before, he steadies me back up the hill.

  “’hang you,” I say to him back at the fire, trying not to wince at the tenderness in my mouth and the garbled edges of the words.

  “You’re welcome. Here.” He strains some of the broth into a cup and hands it to me. “See if that’s any good. Don’t have high expectations.”

  It’s not bad—more nourishing than salted corn mush, anyway. I sip it slowly. He offers a bit of an onion roll. I dip little pieces in the broth to soften them.

  He gestures to his pack. “I have some parchment and charcoal. Would you be willing to write? I have some questions.”

  That sounds like an ordeal, but I have questions for him, too. I beckon for the parchment, and he lays a few sheets on the back of his camp skillet and hands it to me. He waits while I block out some letters, my fingers shaky.

  WHERE ARE WE?

  “About fifteen miles from Pasul,” he says. “Lark thinks we can make it by this evening, though we’ll have to stop before that to rest the horses.”

  And me, I think. I sip some more broth and write another question.

  IANO WAS GETTING THE BLACKMAIL LETTERS?

  “Yes. They were delivered through the head of staff. Fala. We don’t know who was sending them to her. You have no idea who attacked your stage?”

  I shake my head. NIGHT. 5 OR 6 RIDERS. BLINDFOLDED, THEN—

  I gesture generally to my head, my mouth.

  He winces. “I’m sorry, Tamsin.”

  I go back to my broth, trying to appear unbothered. Because if I dwell on it too long, I’m going to sink back into that horrific spiral of fevered pain, of shock, of denial. The gutted realization of not only being completely powerless—hands and feet tied, eyes covered—but of losing a power I hadn’t considered losable.

  The broth swirls warm in my mouth, like blood. My scalp prickles.

  I turn a tremor into a hair toss before remembering it’s gone. I clutch the charcoal and write a question simply to redirect the conversation.

  WHAT IS HAPPENING IN COURT?

  “Oh, well—” His face blanches, as if in realization. “Um, there’s a new ashoki. It’s Kimela Novarni.”

  I had guessed as much—I saw her name specified in the first few blackmail letters, so the news doesn’t bother me as much as he seems to think it might.

  “He had to go through with it,” Veran continues, and I’m oddly touched that he’s defending Iano to me. “Appointing Kimela, I mean. He didn’t know where the threat was coming from, or how to make it stop, until we decided to seek out Lark. She was the only person I could think of who might be able to find you. And she did—she understood the bat in your signature right away.”

  It had been a long shot, but it had worked after all. I glance back up at the sleeping bandit.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to set things right?” he asks. “I mean—obviously you’ll need to heal. And I suppose . . . there won’t be much you can do . . . for a while . . . not that, I mean, that you can’t do anything, it’s just—”

  I wave to shut him up. I choose to be slightly offended, because it masks the real emotion simmering just underneath—he’s right, if we’re being honest. For so long my focus was on first surviving prison, and then dying with some shred of dignity, that I didn’t spend much time dwelling on how little I would be able to accomplish if I ever got out.

  I sip some broth, wincing as a shred of jerky catches in my teeth.

  FIRST THING WILL BE FIGURING OUT WHO ATTACKED, I write. CAN’T DO ANYTHING WITHOUT KNOWING WHO’S BEHIND IT.

  “But we have a lead, don’t we?” Veran asks. “The Hires. That’s something we didn’t know before.”

  IT’S SOMETHING, I concede. BUT NOT EVERYTHING. JUST BECAUSE POIA WAS A HIRE DOESN’T MEAN THE MASTERMIND IS.

  And anyway, the Hires aren’t like the philosophers’ coalition or mushrooming enthusiasts. They don’t advertise public meetings in the town square. Their business is conducted in people’s homes and tavern corners, and they’re known for protecting their own. Waltzing back into Tolukum and asking around for people affiliated with the group wouldn’t just be fruitless—it could turn dangerous.

  I close my eyes, thinking of all my enemies in court, everyone I nettled since my career began. I think of all the people who would have an interest in preserving an economy based on slave labor—quarry managers and plantation owners and angry change-averse citizens who mistake personal nostalgia for universal utopia.

  It could be—give or take—anyone.

  “This isn’t going to sit well with the Eastern courts,” Veran says, more to himself than to me. “Rou and Eloise assumed the alliance would be difficult to secure, but they didn’t expect it to deteriorate this much.”

  I’d forgotten about the Eastern ambassador and Lumeni princess. It suddenly strikes me that he hasn’t said anything about them leaving Moquoia.

  WHERE ARE THEY NOW? I write.

  “Well . . . I’m not entirely sure. If they’re not already in Pasul, they’re probably close. Why?”

  NEED TO BE CAREFUL. IF THERE’S AN ENEMY IN COURT . . .

  He frowns at my words, and then at me. “You don’t think . . . they might be in trouble?”

  I gesture uncertainly. LOTS OF MOQUOIAN DIPLOMATS OPPOSED TO EASTERN ALLIANCE. LOTS OPPOSED TO MEDDLING IN INDUSTRY PRACTICE. YOU DISAPPEARED WITH IANO. IF THE RIGHT PEOPLE THINK YOU’RE SWAYING HIM . . .

  He frowns. “Or if this group of fanatics gets wind that he and I set out to find you—if our enemy is a Hire, that is—it could be dangerous for Rou and Eloise. Earth and sky, I didn’t think we’d put them at risk. . . .”

  And maybe they’re not. But my fingers
are aching, and I can’t bring myself to write out a long string of pointless placation. If I know our court—and it was my job, after all—then the Eastern diplomats could very well be in trouble. Difficult questions they probably can’t answer, at the very least. Possibly detainment, or deportation.

  Or worse.

  Veran’s chewing on his lip. “Well, now I’m worried. We should get going. I’ll feel a lot better when we can all sit down together and lay this whole thing out. I’ll feel better when it’s back in Rou and Eloise’s hands.” He looks up to Lark. “I wish we could let her sleep longer, though.”

  I drink down the rest of the broth and flex my hand before picking up the charcoal again.

  WHY LARK? I write.

  He studies the two words for a moment, so I add, FOR RESCUE.

  He purses his lips and looks back up to the sleeping bandit. “She was the only person I could conclusively believe didn’t have a hand in your abduction. And . . . initially I thought she could help in other ways, but now I’m not sure. I think I’ve been an idiot.”

  After a moment’s pause, he looks back at me and sees my raised eyebrow. His sunburned cheeks go a little redder, and he shrugs.

  “I thought she could help me find Moira Alastaire. You know the story about Queen Mona and Ambassador Rou’s daughter? The one who was abducted in Matariki all those years ago?”

  “Uah.” I’ve heard the hearsay—especially the rumblings that this whole diplomatic affair was an attempt by the East to slander Moquoia with the Lumeni princess’s disappearance.

  Veran shakes his head. “I had this stupid, heroic idea that I might be able to find traces of Moira, and that Lark could help me do it. And she still might be able to—she has a part-Lumeni girl hidden away in her camp, and if that’s not her, she may be able to help me find her in the quarries.” He shifts and pokes the fire. “But now I realize . . . well, all the stories always make the Sunshield Bandit out to be either an untouchable desert deity, or else a wretched assassin out for her own gain. And I guess the smug part of me thought that whichever of those were closer to the truth, I could make use of it—her legendary prowess or her desperation. But she’s neither. She’s just . . . a person, doing her best. I mean—she’s amazing at what she does.” He looks back up at her, his expression almost reverent. “But I can’t ask her to get tied up in things that aren’t her concern anymore. She’s got enough of her own battles to fight, and at this point I’d rather make an effort to lighten her burden rather than weigh it down.”

  I hadn’t known I’d prompt a soliloquy, but he seems to be processing his thoughts aloud as much as answering my question. I pat his arm. He looks back at me, still a little red, and then his gaze travels past me, out to the desert. He frowns.

  “Looks like rain,” he says.

  I glance over my shoulder at the western horizon. Above the brushy willows, clouds are billowing, their undersides ominously dark.

  “We should get going,” he says, but before he gets up, I grab his knee. He looks at me inquiringly.

  I hesitate over the parchment.

  IANO, I write. HE’S OK?

  “He’s in Pasul,” he says, which doesn’t answer my damn question, Veran. “He’s worried sick about you. He’s been a wreck in court. What?” He ducks his head to see my face. “You keep making that expression when Iano comes up . . . like you don’t want to see him. I thought you were for love?”

  He means in love, but it’s the were that sticks. Past tense. I blow out a breath. I’m not sure how to articulate this on paper, and Veran’s near enough a stranger that I don’t know if he’ll understand.

  Iano wasn’t in love with me. He thought he was in love with me. I think I always knew the truth, but I was willing to overlook it—he was in love with what I brought with me.

  At this point, any scenario I envision of reuniting with Iano ends with a kind but quietly horrified succor, and that’s if he doesn’t immediately recoil. What am I going to do in that moment, when his eyes flicker in shock, when his hands falter as they reach for me? He and the people around him might have accepted the marriage of the king and the ashoki if it was presented just right. But now the power and the package are gone. He was in love with a pretty singer with good words and a comfortably unfortunate past. Not a ripped-down, maimed heretic flipping all the wrong tables in court.

  I adjust my grip on the charcoal, but still I don’t write. Veran’s gaze flicks between me and the page, waiting.

  Out over the willows, thunder crackles.

  There’s a thrash of boots, and Lark sits up. Her thick eyeblack is smeared on one side, and her bandanna droops in front of her lips. Her startled gaze jumps past us to the sky. She swears in Eastern. Veran replies, I think asking if we should sit and wait out the storm.

  She gets up and leaves the shelter of the overhang, squinting out at the clouds, and then she turns and scrambles up the rock, disappearing from sight. We hear her boots scattering pebbles over the top.

  Suddenly her voice cuts the air, sharp as a whip. Veran’s head jerks up. He blurts a reply—both of them are speaking too fast for me to catch on.

  I flick his sleeve. “Wha’?”

  “The bandit from last night,” he says. “Dirtwater Dob—he’s picked up our trail.” He calls up to the top of the overhang. “How far?”

  She responds, and he translates. “A mile or so.”

  Lark jumps from the top of the overhang, her boots crunching on the ground.

  “Have to ride, fast,” she says to me. “You okay?”

  Does it matter? I take her proffered arm, my fingers closing around the swirling water tattooed over her skin. She hefts me to my feet and waits while I steady myself.

  “Ride with me?” she prompts. Her Moquoian is slurry, roughed not so much from translation but from learning it at the edges of society.

  I look up at her—she’s a foot taller than me, at least. Her face is rugged and sun freckled from life in the Ferinno, creased with squint lines. But those eyes are clear, and I realize what I took for ferocity last night is more akin to dauntlessness, frightening only in her sheer acceptance of bad luck.

  I nod, and she breaks away to where the horses are tied. Veran scrambles around our campsite, stomping out the fire and stuffing things back in his pack. I try to be helpful by tottering to the edge of the overhang, steeling myself for another grueling ride. Cool air gusts from the thunderstorm ahead. As I come out into the doomed sun, I squint at the horizon behind us. A figure is stopped about a mile distant, dismounted next to his horse. He’s peering at the rocky ground, and then he straightens and turns our way.

  Our flight has become a hunt.

  Lark

  Tamsin sweeps a muddy forefinger in the dirt by her side.

  WHY DOES HE FOLLOW? she writes.

  It takes me a moment to translate the patchy letters on the ground, and another moment to organize the right response, all compounded by trying to keep the food bag out of the rain. We’re crouched in a little stand of pines—the closer we get to Pasul, the more these copses dot the landscape. We’re just a few miles from town, but there’s a whole bunch of open land between here and there, and we need to let the horses rest before we attempt it—especially Jema. She’s strong, and Tamsin weighs so little, but I imagine having the load unbalanced on her saddle is as uncomfortable on her back as it is on my butt. I rub my thighs, sore from leaning back to give Tamsin as sure a seat as possible. Rat, too, is sleeping like he’s dead—keeping up with the horses has pushed him almost to his limit.

  “Stage road,” I explain, offering her the last of Veran’s soft onion rolls. She pinches off a little piece, and it takes a good deal of restraint not to scarf down the remainder myself. “Dob wants the road. I make him mad. He knows I am alone.”

  And wounded, I think grimly. That blow he landed with his mattock is the real reason he’s tailing us so confidently. I surreptitiously shift my shoulder again. The blood was easy enough to pass off as somebody else’s,
but it hurts like fire to lift my buckler. I itch for a crossbow—if I had one, I could wait somewhere and snipe at him as he picks after our trail. I’d like to think we can outlast him, especially in the rain, but if it comes down to another swordfight . . .

  Thunder booms. Worriedly I glance up at the sky. It’s darkened dramatically in the last ten minutes. I’d hoped this storm would rush through like they often do, perhaps blowing off to one side. But the clouds haven’t cleared, and our route is taking us closer and closer to the dark center. So that’s what we have—Dob on one end and lightning on the other. Normally I’d choose a fight over a storm, but pain shoots up my shoulder again. I grit my teeth.

  Tamsin notices. She reaches up to brush my shoulder, quirking an eyebrow.

  “I am okay,” I say. More and more of my gutter Moquoian is coming back after our handful of exchanges in the saddle. She drew letters on my back a few times, mostly to ask for water. At one brief stop she finally corrected my inflection with a persistent upward jerk of her thumb—apparently I was saying you’re delicious instead of you’re welcome, which makes me wonder about my past few forays into Pasul.

  She smooths her palm over the dirt and writes again. VERAN CAN’T FIGHT?

  I glance over my shoulder. Veran is at the edge of the copse, keeping an eye on the drainage leading up to us—if Dob still has our trail, that’s where he’ll come from. In one hand Veran’s holding a fancy knife that I would have stolen off him the first day if I knew he had it. His other hand is absently scratching Rat, who’s sprawled by his knee.

  “He can maybe fight a little,” I say. “But not, uh, not mulch.” She shakes her head and tips her thumb down. I try again. “Mulch. Molch. Much.” She nods and goes back to pinching off the onion roll. “He cannot fight much. He has a—problem.” I tap my head. “He falls . . . down, falls asleep very fast, and he shakes.” I twitch my hand back and forth.

  Miraculously, she seems to understand this garbled explanation. “Ah,” she says, nodding.