“When you earn like Talwyn,” Modera Pompare said, “then you get the right to complain. Get up, you fool.” She gripped Conmonoc by the ear and dragged him away and back toward her and Fadra’s carriage which, miraculous, appeared utterly undamaged.
“Uh, Whitney,” Gentry whispered once she was gone.
Whitney glanced down. Aquira was curled up in Gentry’s arms like a cat, which was odd, considering she rarely let anyone but him even pat her.
“What?” Whitney asked.
Gentry turned out his pockets, and only water dripped out. “I think I forgot everything we made in the cellar.”
“You, wha—” Whitney bit his tongue. This was why he always preferred to work alone, because he rarely disappointed himself. But, Gentry did a yig of a job that night, and not everybody was prepared to handle nearly dying properly. “It’s fine.” He rustled the boy’s hair. “We’ll make it up somehow.”
Gentry blew air through his lips like he was relieved. “We’re an unstoppable team,” he said.
“Yeah,” Whitney said as Aquira clambered up his arm. “We sure are…” he sighed, being reminded of Sora. He recalled the early days of their partnership when her raw power caused Bartholomew Darkings’ Bridleton manor to go up in flames, how he’d pushed her to go after him, which then caused Kazimir to pursue them, and their lives to be upturned.
I had a teammate, and I ruined it…
“Mr. Fierstown?” a man said.
Whitney turned to one of the pews and saw Leof Balleybeck sitting, his leg bouncing nervously.
“You’re here?” the barkeep said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Whitney said. “Why are you here and not at your inn?”
“When the storm picked up out of nowhere, it was so strong I saw Mrs. Potter’s chickens—gods-damned chickens!—flying down the street. A tree hit the roof and caused flooding. We emptied the inn and took refuge with most of the town here.”
Whitney stared at him, mouth agape.
Leof put a hand through his hair and said, “Were you not… oh… yes… I’m sorry. I must have—”
“First, you give away our room,” Whitney said. “Then you forgot about us?”
Aquira blew a small spout of flames over Whitney’s shoulder, and the barkeep hopped back.
“I’m sorry!” Leof cried, “Really, I’m so sorry. It slipped my mind.”
Whitney clutched him by the collar, and by the way the man cowered, there was no doubt he’d had seen how Whitney’d handled Conmonoc. Though, Aquira baring her teeth and snarling right beside his face certainly didn’t hurt.
“We were nearly crushed in that shog heap you call an inn, and we ‘slipped your mind?’”
“I… I… it was I who told your friends you might be there,” he stammered.
“Oh, so it didn’t slip your mind,” Whitney said. “We simply weren’t worth a trip to the cellar.”
Whitney reared his fist back, and Leof turned his cheek. But Whitney didn’t strike, even though the idea of physically intimidating people was one of the most exciting discoveries of his life.
“Gentry,” Whitney said.
“Yeah?” he replied.
Whitney grabbed the barkeep, rifled through his pocket and removed an autlas pouch. “I think I found a way for you to impress the Pompares.”
“Mr. Fierstown, that doesn’t belong to us,” Gentry whispered.
“Doesn’t it?” Whitney squeezed Leof’s shirt and drew him closer. “You nearly got me, Aquira, and a kid killed.”
“Take it, boy,” Leof said. He opened his eyes and shooed him. “Go on. You earned it.”
Gentry circled Whitney’s hand and studied the pouch from all angles, like taking it would make him spontaneously combust. Whitney snatched it and put it in his pocket.
“I’ll hold this one lest you leave it in another cellar,” Whitney chided. Then he turned to Leof and said, “I hope you enjoy what’s left of the inn.” He shoved the barkeep away. The man’s gut hit the back of a pew and knocked the wind out of him.
“What do you mean ‘what’s left?’” Leof groaned once he recovered.
“You’ll see.”
Leof’s eyes went wide. “Out of my way!” he shouted, suddenly gaining the courage to push by Whitney. He shoved and squeezed his way by everybody else, knocked the lock off the door, and burst through.
“No!” he howled, so loud it made the storm seem quiet.
Whitney exchanged a sidelong glare with Gentry.
“Stay here with him,” Whitney told Aquira before taking off after the barkeep. Somehow, she understood what he’d said enough to listen.
When Whitney emerged, he found that the heart of the storm had passed. Clear skies were near, and all that remained was a light drizzle and a heady breeze. Many of the locals who weren’t hiding in the church had begun to emerge from their homes, weeping at the devastation.
“By Iam, what have we done to deserve this!” a woman pleaded. Whitney saw her kneeling before the body of the old man who’d been gored.
“Even his priests abandon us!” someone else cried out.
But none wailed louder than Leof Balleybeck, who stood before the wrecked inn.
“My inn!” he screamed. “My beautiful inn!”
Whitney walked up beside him and surveyed the scene. In the brief time since they’d escaped, more of the roof had caved in. Only a quarter of the two-story structure was left standing, portions of the wall still peeling off. The rest was a heap of debris as tall as a man, most of it soaked through by rainwater, but there was no mistaking the charred ends thanks to Aquira’s heroism.
“Your inn, huh?” Whitney said. “I thought you were ‘just an employee.’”
“I lied!” he shouted. “I lied and this was all I had in the world. Iam smote me for lying.” The man dropped to his knees and sobbed into the mud. “This was everything. And now it’s gone.”
Whitney reached down and helped him back to his feet, but the man shoved him away.
“No!” he yelled. “It’s not worth it anymore.”
Leof grabbed a sharp shard of broken wood and held it to his wrist. He was just about to slice when Whitney tackled him to the ground.
“Gerroff me!” he yelled.
“You lunatic!” Whitney shouted as they rolled back and forth in the mud. “You’re not killing yourself over a bar.”
“It’s my life,” Leof grunted. “I want to die!”
“You don’t want to go to Elsewhere!” Whitney wasn’t sure what came over him, but this time, he reared back and punched the man in the nose. The tumbling stopped, and the barkeep blinked several times, blood leaking from his nostrils.
“You punched me!” he yelped.
“I… I did,” Whitney said. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw the dark purple sky, and Kazimir seated along Troborough’s well, gazing thoughtfully like he wasn’t a monster, because in Elsewhere, nothing was as it seemed. “I’m sorry. It needed to be done.”
Whitney grabbed the shard and stood. Leof sat up in the mud.
“I’ve lost everything…” he wept.
“So, rebuild.”
The man blew out. “Like it’s that easy.”
“It is,” Whitney said. “Trust me. The second time through always makes a lot more sense. Maybe you’ll build a roof that doesn’t break and a cellar that doesn’t flood.”
The man threw his arms up in anguish. “For Iam’s sake, Fabian ‘Feel Good’ Saravia is supposed to be here, and there isn’t even a roof. “The barkeep slid forward on his knees and lifted a piece of wood, blackened on the end from Aquira’s fire. “Was it struck by lightning to come apart like this?” he said.
Whitney covered a cough. “Must have been.”
Leof’s hands fell into his palms. “Oh, Iam has surely cast his Light from me.”
Whitney bit his lip, then exhaled slowly. He reached into his pocket where he still had the man’s autlas pouch and tossed it at the man’s back for the second time in
as many days. He hated doing it with every fiber of his being—the man had swindled him after all—but he couldn’t help himself. He felt guilty over Aquira helping turn the place into rubble even though it was Leof’s fault. At least, that’s what he told himself to feel okay about losing the autlas he needed to keep the Pompares happy and stay with the troupe.
The impact of the pouch seemed to knock Leof out of a state of shock. He groped through the mud, found it, then stared up at Whitney, incredulous.
“You need it more than me,” Whitney said.
“Oh, bless you, Mr. Fierstown. Bless you.” He sloshed forward and took Whitney’s hand.
Whitney pulled away, then shook the mud off himself. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“If you ever return to Grambling, I’ll give you my own room if I have to… once it’s rebuilt.”
“If I’m ever back in this dump, kill me.”
“Yes, yes.” The man stood, stomping over the debris as if it weren’t still wet and rainy out. Whitney winced, worried the rest of the floor would cave in beneath Leof’s feet. “I can extend the great hall, put in a massive hearth and… and a taller ceiling! Really make the sound carry.”
“It’ll be grander than the Cathedral of Yarrington,” Whitney said, voice dripping with sarcasm. The barkeep didn’t seem to recognize it.
“Grander than the Glass Castle itself!”
Whitney shook his head. “Just make sure to ask this great Fabian fellow to write a song about the hero you left to drown in your cellar. He won’t have anything else to do.” With that, Whitney turned and headed back to the church, taking a moment to survey the town again now that he could see. So many homes needed repair. It reminded him of how Sora had lost everything when Troborough was burned down by the Black Sands, though at least storms didn’t burn the skin off men alive.
The clouds broke on the plains to the east. More supplies and fabric from tents were sprinkled haphazardly over patches of dying grass.
Whitney breathed a sigh of relief. If the troupe hadn’t acted so fast in finding real shelter—and forgot to locate Whitney and Gentry in doing so—they might have had to stop traveling for a few days or even a week to repair.
Whitney couldn’t spare that. He needed to keep moving east, and his years of adventuring had taught him never to traverse the roads east of the gorge alone. There were far too many bandits and vagabonds, and now, rumors of Drav Cra raiders to add to the Shesaitju rebels after the alliance with Redstar broke. And those were just the bad guys. The Glass soldiers posted to defend against the Black Sands had a knack for taking advantage of citizens. After all, the only difference between a Glass soldier and a bully was that one wore a sigil.
Whitney found Gentry in the church, hugging Aquira like his favorite blanket. She’d even fallen asleep, judging by the puffs of smoke lifting from her snout. At least traveling with the group, Whitney could continue to watch over the boy. Iam knows he needs it. He was a good kid, even if a bit too honest, and Whitney was excited for Sora to meet him.
He just needed to earn some autlas at their next stop and fast, before the Pompares kicked him to the curb. Especially after even his most genuine attempt at stealing some went up in flames.
XII
THE DAUGHTER
Aim just above the ridge of the head.” Muskigo pointed over Mahraveh’s shoulder.
A large, male pit lizard laid out in the sun, drying after a dip in the oasis. It was rare the creatures came so close to Saujibar, but not unheard of. After all, even the desert-dwellers needed water to survive. Its yellow eyes were closed against the bright day, totally unaware of its potential fate should Mahraveh’s aim be true.
“I know how to aim, Father,” Mahraveh said. She straightened her shoulders, squinted one eye slightly, then reopened it and let the arrow loose.
It missed spectacularly. She groaned, lowering the bow and her eyes followed it to her feet. Even though she didn’t look at him, she imagined the way her father rubbed his bald head when he was frustrated.
“You didn’t aim at the ridge,” Muskigo said.
“No, I didn’t,” she whispered.
“If you insist upon sneaking away to hunt these creatures, you must know how to kill them. If you want to shoot it through the eye, you must aim above the eye. If you can hit your target without an arch, you are too close. And if you miss, it will kill you. Nock again.”
The pit lizard hadn’t even flinched when the arrow dropped.
“Now, aim for the top of the skull, pull back, and wait,” he said. “Steady your breathing. You must strike hard and fast like the snake.”
Mahi could feel his hot breath against her neck, and it gave her goose pimples. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, then opened them again.
“Release,” Muskigo said softly.
The string thrummed, and the arrow soared, arching slightly and then dipping. The barb bore deep into the beast’s eye. The pit lizard twitched several times, rolled over onto its side, and flailed, spraying sand every which way.
“Ah ha!” Muskigo wrapped his arm around her and shook. “That is how a warrior provides for his village. I mean her village.”
Mahraveh smiled proudly but didn’t let Muskigo see.
“Now, go retrieve it,” he said and gave her a gentle shove.
She crossed the rocky ground, no longer worrying about the rocks crunching beneath her sandals. She looked down at the pit lizard’s lifeless body, easily twice her size. She’d seen the village men carrying lizard’s half the size in pairs, but she grabbed it anyway and pulled. Its scales were so razor sharp. Sharper than she’d expected and with a yelp, she yanked her now-bloody hand back.
“Careful!” Muskigo called. As she peered over her shoulder, she could see him smiling and walking toward her.
She sucked her forefinger where the deepest of the cuts were. The taste of iron on her tongue made her thirsty.
“Let me help you,” he said when he neared. Muskigo grasped the lizard by the heavy end and pointed toward the other. “Grab it there.”
Together, they hefted it and began dragging it into town.
“Let this be a lesson to you, sand mouse,” he said. “Even in death, your enemies can be dangerous.”
Mahraveh spent most of the journey back to Saujibar reliving old memories of her father. She’d never been sentimental, but she’d also never faced the thought of her father’s mortality. Muskigo had always been greater than death, unable to be killed. But now, so many voices claiming he was as good as dead had her thinking. What if word returned from Nahanab that her father’s head now stood upon a spike?
She glanced over at the oasis, at the exact spot she’d killed that pit lizard all those years ago. She followed the trail to the fire pit where she and her father dressed the beast and cooked it over an open flame. With so little wood available, her people hated wasting fire on anything but cooking. Blackwood was for arrows and posts. They much preferred the soft glow of the nigh’jels, and would probably cook with the luminescent jellyfish if it were possible.
“Mahi,” Jumaat said, drawing her away from her memories.
“Oh, sorry, what?” she said, looking over at him. He looked strange with a sheath hanging from his side. It didn’t belong near his skinny arms, even though soon she knew he’d have to learn to wield the blade hidden inside.
“I thought I lost you there for a minute. I must have said your name a dozen times.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I was just thinking.”
“About Farhan?”
The accusation made her feel guilty. She hadn’t been thinking about the man who’d given his life for her. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought of him much at all throughout the afternoon. No Shesaitju was a stranger to death, after all. A good death meant an eternity at sea with ancestors, and death in battle, however short Farhan’s was, was worthy.
She looked at her friend, Jumaat, her eyes telling all they needed to.
“Your father, then?” he aske
d.
“My father,” she said, her head sinking.
“He is going to be fine, you know,” Jumaat said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “He is the strongest afhem alive; my father always said so. Said he watched him in the Tal’du Dromesh the day he claimed the Ayerabi Afhemate. Said he was like a god of the sand.”
“Well, he’s not in an arena anymore.” She didn’t mean for the words to come out so harsh, but the way Jumaat’s lip twisted made her think she’d been too brash.
“Come on,” Mahraveh said, changing the subject. She gave Honey’s mane a tug to get her moving. “I’m starved.”
Nigh’jels hung from the corner of every home in Saujibar and posts lining the walkway. It was still hot, even at night, but it was no different from any other hot night. They passed by the unlit village fire pit, where several older men sat talking. She knew there wasn’t one amongst them that wouldn’t have been by her father’s side had age or ailment not kept them in Saujibar. Everyone loved Muskigo, and they trusted him, no matter what.
In the distance, Mahraveh could make out the string of nigh’jels that lined the roof of her father’s adobe manor. As relieved as she was to be home, the pit in her stomach over her father wouldn’t go away. Being back only made it worse. All the memories they shared; fear that she might not see him again.
They climbed the three steps leading to the door of her home.
“I should be getting back home with these,” Jumaat said. He thumbed back at the bundle of nigh’jel filled jars draped over his zhulong’s hind-quarters and the cart it pulled.
“You aren’t going to get me all the way inside?” Mahi said. “Some gentleman. Didn’t my father tell you to protect me before he left?”
He smirked. “Fine.” He brushed the curtain of the door aside and beckoned Mahraveh inside. “After you, milady.”
The interior of the manor was dark, but the comforting green glow permeated the room. Muskigo kept a modest but inviting home, but really it was Shavi. Most afhems had a harem of wives to care for them, their home, and their progeny. Muskigo had Shavi. She’d traveled with him to Winde Port, along with the other women who chose to help serve the army, but he’d sent her home with Farhan after they were driven out. Mahraveh imagined, probably, to keep her from doing something stupid. She had more fire in her belly than half the men in that army.
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