by M K Hutchins
I was wasting time. This lump wouldn’t help. “Fine. Did the kidknappers take them east?”
Shake of the head.
“West?”
Nod.
“On the road to Napil?”
He shook his head again.
“On the Old North Path?”
He nodded.
Hardly anyone used that winding track through the woods, not with a straight road to Napil. Abandoned and surrounded by forest, they ran little chance of being spotted.
“Perhaps you should spend all night praying for my return so I can keep my promise and exorcise you.”
Fulsaan whined as I swung my feet over the window ledge, but I didn’t look back. I splayed myself over the shingles. The low moon did little to show me the steeply sloped roof and nothing to illuminate the dark haze of the ground gaping below. I dragged myself sideways, scraping my forearms as I went. A cool, spring breeze prickled my skin. At this rate, I’d make it to the kitchens by tomorrow afternoon.
Ghost-Fulsaan crept out the window and perched near the sill. He whimpered, asking me to come back inside.
“No.” I kept moving, trying not to look at him.
He shuffled over the shingles until he stood below me. Shame quivered in his fat. He lowered himself, offering me a chance to mount again.
The reek nearly sent me tumbling off the roof. “Only if you’re taking me where I need to go.”
He dipped his head once.
I pulled my neckline over my face, masking the scent slightly. I stepped toward him and tripped. The fabric jerked off my face as I fell.
Ghost-Fulsaan shifted his weight, uncannily graceful, and caught me against his side. Drops of his ooze splattered into my mouth.
I threw up. All those lovely noodles, all over the roof.
Breathing shallowly, I situated myself on his back and replaced my neckline over my mouth and nose.
Light as a spider, Ghost-Fulsaan slunk over the rooftops, down to the garden, and toward the kitchens.
Only Bane and Sorrel waited for me. I slipped off Fulsaan but opening my mouth to ask questions sent me gagging. All dry heaves; my stomach was long-emptied. Fulsaan huddled against the wall and waited.
Bane brought me some water, those brown eyes still kind under his dark, low-sweeping hair. Ancestors, I didn’t deserve any kindness from him. I wanted to thank him for showing me kindness anyway; I wanted to reconcile, but we didn’t have time right now to talk about any of that.
“Why...” My throat burned, raw. “Why isn’t Moss here? More military?”
Sorrel blinked slowly, his drugged eyes showing no comprehension.
Bane’s broad shoulders tightened. “There’s practically no military in the palace. Moss isn’t here—I’m guessing he’s at the safehouse. I could talk to people at the walls, but Lieutenant-General Behon’s in charge there. You said not to trust him or the Palace Guards.”
“Then let’s go to the safehouse.” I rubbed the side of my skull, trying not to think about how much I craved a hot bath.
“I, um, don’t know where it is.”
The pit of my stomach sank. “What?”
“It’s not much of a safehouse if everyone knows about it.”
I swigged more water, but it didn’t do anything to press back the panic rising in my gut. Sorrel slumped against the floor, right in the doorway.
“Sorrel?”
Bane cleared his throat. “He’s not going to be any help.”
“Didn’t he cook something to help himself recover?” I asked.
Bane itched his stump. “Well, he did start cooking. I’m no chef, but I’m fairly sure drinking honey mixed with maple syrup wouldn’t help. I took it away from him.”
Straight sweetness like that, unbalanced and misused, would exhaust him instead of increase his endurance. “I don’t know if we have time for me to cook him something proper and wait for him to wake up.”
Fulsaan quivered like an undercooked custard in his spot against the wall.
“We don’t.” Bane’s mouth formed a grim line.
“Did something new happen while I was coming?”
“No, but the message Sorrel told me about—they’re returning Red Lord Ospren to Askan-Wod. Napil’s besieged, but the Shoreed aren’t actually attacking yet. Don’t you see?”
I was no soldier. I blinked at him.
Bane sighed. “The siege is a lie. The Shoreed can leave a few men to maintain the appearance of a camping army, then circle up to Askan-Wod. With most of our men in Napil, it’s an easy target. Lieutenant-General Behon will probably open the city gates to welcome him. Under normal circumstances, it would still be crazy to take Askan-Wod—they’ll be pinched between Napil and the east half of Rowak with no supply lines. But many won’t want to fight with a Rowak Lord on the throne, especially with King Alder gone. Our leadership will be in chaos. Shoreed will destroy us.”
“If Shoreed gives Rowak to Lord Ospren, it’ll be a vassal throne.”
“I know.”
I exhaled. Rowak couldn’t afford to lose its monarch or its capital. I wiped my hands on a part of my skirt that wasn’t covered in tarry ghost slime. “We have to alert the army to Shoreed’s maneuvers, then rescue King Alder and Purple Lord Heir Valerian. Do you know where the army is? We’ll need a squad of men to get King Alder away from the Palace Guards. He’s somewhere on the Old North Path.”
Ghost-Fulsaan cut in, whining.
“What’s wrong with that plan?” I asked.
“Dami,” Bane said, “if the cart is headed east across the Old North Path, that’s probably the direction the Shoreed army is coming. It circles from Napil to Askan-Wod through terrain with plenty of cover.”
Fulsaan bobbed his head.
Ancestors watch over us. “If they get King Alder to the Shoreed army...”
“If he’s that well-guarded, we’ve lost him,” Bane said. “The Shoreed would slit his throat before they let us take him. Keeping Rowak kingless will go a long way to putting Ospren on the throne.”
“So we have to be stealthy and fast.”
Bane sketched a quick map in the dirt—two lines that bowed out from each other, nearly touching at the ends. “Askan-Wod,” Bane said, pointing to one dot. “And Napil in the west. Rowak’s army camps here, on the main road, outside of Deben.” He marked the spot with an X. “Ghost, can you tell me where you think the passenger cart is on the Old North Path?”
Fulsaan’s arms couldn’t manage to write on the map, so Bane slowly traced the road until the ghost squeaked, then marked another X. They were roughly the same distance west as the army—I supposed the cart had headed east toward Sandhead at first, to avoid suspicion.
“How far apart are the two roads?” I asked.
“Over two hours, at a decent pace.”
Not particularly close, then. Fulsaan whined and shuffled toward the map.
“Do you know where the Shoreed army is, as well?” I asked, stepping back a few paces. Even so, my throat had that about-to-gag thickness from his stench. Bane looked queasy, too, but he did a good job of hiding it.
Fulsaan nodded and cupped his hand up near where his ear would have been. He’d overhead his captors? Or ghosts had exceptional hearing? I didn’t know.
Bane moved the stick again until Ghost-Fulsaan whined for him to stop. “There’s a spot about there where a river runs close to the path. Is this the Shoreed’s camp, or a moving force?”
Fulsaan gurgled unhappily. The question was too long for his limited ability to communicate.
“Is it a camp?” I asked. Fulsaan nodded.
Bane frowned at the map. “We still can’t make it.”
“Our ghost friend is fast. Incredibly fast.”
“It wouldn’t matter even if we already stood in the Rowak camp with a squad of soldiers ready to run north through the woods. The cart would still reach the Shoreed before we got to them.” He stared at his map for a moment more, then turned to Fulsaan. “Does that sound right to y
ou?”
Fulsaan keened sadly.
What to do? Sorrel snored softly—part of me wished I could change places with him.
“Fulsaan, could you get us to the cart before it reaches the Shoreed?” I asked.
He nodded. Bane stared at me like I was mad. “The two of us can’t take out the guards. Can your ghost fight?”
“He could probably hold one or two down, but other guards would run ahead and sound the alarm. Or kill King Alder. “That’s not what I have in mind. We need to overwhelm them all at once, like you said.”
“Three of us can’t manage that,” Bane said.
“I know.”
I stepped over Sorrel and packed an empty buckwheat sack. Wood, tinder, a crock. Parsnips, carrots, a knife. Osem’s clean, spare dress. It was the wrong rank for me, but I’d comitted worse crimes than dressing outside my rank.
“What are you doing?” Bane asked, following me into the kitchens.
“You’re right. I’m not just a birthgift.” I didn’t have to marry a man who was perceptive-of-taste-and-smell. I cared about more than cooking—I cared about my nana, my family, my nation. I could barter with ghosts, track down poisoners, and escape from jails. “But I’ve spent years honing my skills, Bane. I’m a good chef. I’m going to cook.”
Alarm drums pounded from the direction of the Royal Bear House. I cursed and stuffed a jar of lamp oil and another fistful of herbs into my bag. “We have to go.”
“Sorrel?” Bane asked.
I glanced at him. His head flopped back at an awkward angle and drool glistened on his chin. “He stays. If the guards find him, he can rightly claim he was poisoned, too. Let’s put him in my old room.”
They’d look for him in his quarters or the kitchen proper, after all. Bane shrugged and helped me drag him onto one of the musty mattresses.
I grabbed two rags and a few slices of hotradish.
“What are those for?” Bane asked.
I tied a rag around my face, then his. I handed him some hotradish. “Put this in your mouth. Chew as needed. It’ll dull all your senses a little—straight hotradish is definitely not a balanced dish. But that’s something of a mercy right now. We’re going to ride a Hungry Ghost.”
Bane blinked at me but followed me back outside.
I bit down on the radish, burning my mouth and nasal passages. The reek reduced to an unpleasant undercurrent, masked by spiciness and muted by the effects of straight hotradish. The horizon blurred, everything sounded a touch muffled, and my fingers tingled like they’d fallen asleep. “Bane, I’ll hold onto Fulsaan. You hold onto me. Here. I’ll tie my pack around your back.”
“Fulsaan’s here?”
I gestured at the black blob of ghost whining on the grass, then secured the pack.
Bane stared, but he didn’t comment. I climbed on first, wedging myself between two oozing rolls of fat that nearly engulfed my legs. Bane followed. His good arm slid around my waist; his stump rested against my side. In other circumstances, I might have been embarrassed at his closeness, but simple gratitude flooded me. I needed Bane—real, warm, and solid against this strange and cold night.
Without hesitation, he’d climbed up on a ghost with me. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t have time to find the right words for Bane. I swallowed the burning hotradish juices streaming down my throat. “Fulsaan, take us to the cart. You’ll have to move fast.”
Fulsaan groaned and rose up on his tiny limbs.
“Run, Fulsaan. Run like all the food in the world is waiting ahead of you, one step out of reach.”
Ghost-Fulsaan ran. I clenched my arms around him, gut soaring into my throat as he leapt across rooftops. I glimpsed bits of shingles, streets, a barking dog. Wind whipped my hair back—I murmured a silent apology to Bane for that.
My legs ached. My arms ached. Buildings gave way to knobcones, firs, and then redwoods. A hint of their cool, evergreen scent made it through the spiciness and stink. We skimmed the forest like an angry black cloud. The moon shone brightly overhead, a queen among a sea of stars. Everything below blurred—either Fulsaan had sped up, or the hotradish was taking its toll.
Bane’s grip tightened on me.
I tucked the chunk of hotradish to one side of my mouth and spoke, knowing that the wind would whip my words away. Perhaps I could say it because I knew he couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry I hurt you. And I’m so grateful for all your help. I wish we’d met as Plum and Bane. Maybe then I wouldn’t have told myself that I only enjoyed your company because Dami would have. That you only cared for me because I was a pale imitation of her. If we survive this, I want to start over. With no more lies. Though somehow, I think I lied to myself better than I ever lied to you.”
It felt right to say, even if I had to chew down on the hotradish after opening my mouth.
A moment later, Ghost-Fulsaan jerked to a stop. The treetops swayed, creaking ominously. He gestured downward with his puny arm.
The passenger cart. The encroaching ferns brushed its wheels, but the guards still traveled at a good pace down the Old North Path.
To the south on the main road, smoke curled up into the sky, maybe two hours’ walk away. That would be Rowak’s army, camping for the night on their way to reinforce Napil against the decoy siege. I swayed, dizzy, but Bane held me fast.
“Fulsaan, how far is the Shoreed camp? Can you tap the hours with your hand?”
Once, twice he hit the branch under us. Bane was right—even if we could alert the Rowak army this instant, they wouldn’t arrive in time to snatch the king and his heir before they rejoined the Shoreed army—but that’s why I’d come prepared.
“Fulsaan,” I whispered. “Take us another hour down the road. You’re going to leave me there and take Bane to the Rowak army camp on the main road. I’ll stall the kidnappers until Bane returns with a troop of soldiers. If the cart reaches the Shoreed army, we’ve lost them. Bane, you’ve got to tell the army what the Shoreed are planning, too. Otherwise we’ll get King Alder back to Askan-Wod just to watch it fall.”
Bane shook his head. “Dami, you can’t—”
But I never heard the end of the sentence. Ghost-Fulsaan sprinted, nearly jerking me from his back. We soared, faster than a hawk, trees blurring beneath us.
Fulsaan slowed, then spiraled down a redwood tree with thick, burled roots. “My bag?” I asked.
Bane fumbled with it. “I’ll stay with you. Fulsaan can fetch the army.”
I smiled sadly at him. “He can’t talk. They’re as likely to attack him as to try and listen to him.” I straightened the insignia around Bane’s sleeve. “You’re a military messenger. Go deliver the message.”
Bane must have been a good soldier. Determination solidified his expression—he saw this was necessary. He bowed as if I were his officer. “I accept your command.” Softer, he whispered, “Try to stay alive until we come for you.”
He mounted Fulsaan, situated himself, then disappeared up the trees.
Woozy from the ride and the hotradish, I struggled to open my bag with half-numb fingers. I got it eventually, but I cursed that it had cost me precious extra seconds. I pulled out the wood—dry wood that wouldn’t smoke and bring the Shoreed army—then dumped the lamp oil all over it and sparked a fire. Watch over my efforts, please, Nana.
While the fire burned, I ditched my ghost-soiled dress deep in the woods and pulled on Osem’s fresh one. No one would want to eat with that stink around. I folded the dress sleeves on top of my shoulders, so the wrongness of the length wouldn’t distract me. The cool night air prickled my arms and filled my nose with the rich smells of pine and loam—the ill-effects of the hotradish were wearing off.
I jogged back to my fire. If I made a perfect meal, a perfectly enticing aroma, the passenger cart would stop. They’d eat. And hopefully that delay would give Bane enough time to bring the Rowak soldiers.
I exhaled. Spicy, salty, sour, sweet. I’d saved a child’s life before with a perfect dish. Now I needed to save a
nation.
I started by making sure my crock was clean.
After hiking through the woods in the dark, the kidnappers would be exhausted. Endurance-of-limb and soul; that would entice them to stop, to eat. I diced my parsnips, carrots, and beets in equal amounts. That would target the arms, legs, and navel. I sweated them in the bottom of the crock with a little salt.
I rummaged through my bag for my waterskin of stock. More wood, herbs... there was the waterskin. I opened it, but something seemed off. I sniffed.
This was plain water, not stock.
My throat dried. I’d grabbed the wrong waterskin in the hurry to leave.
I exhaled. Panicking wouldn’t help. I had half an hour until the cart appeared and a few moments until the carrots burned.
I shifted the crock a little further off the coals to give the vegetables more time to cook. Well-caramelized carrots, parsnips, and beets could still give me the depth of flavor I needed for this dish. I stirred carefully, waiting until they turned dark brown, then tossed in the water. It hissed and steamed, sending the rich flavors into the air.
I shoved white coals around the already-hot crock and seasoned the dish—a bit of grated hotradish; chopped parsley for its balancing, sour quality; and a touch of maple syrup, to play up the smoky-sweet vegetables. I made a slurry of white bean flour to thicken and unify the soup, which added additional, nutty layers of flavor.
Warm and bubbling, thick and aromatic. A touch on the sweet side, to grant endurance. I put the lid on. Now it just needed to simmer.
A cold obsidian knife pressed against my throat. “Stand up.”
I did so slowly, trying not to swallow the lump in my throat shaking against the blade. I hadn’t even heard him approach. The man turned me around.
He wore the uniform of a Palace Guard.
“I—”
“Not another word or I slit your throat.”
He pressed the knife against my flesh, forcing me to stand on tip-toe.
Then we waited. He had the cold patience of a snake.
My ankles both ached and tingled by the time the cart and its dozen Palace Guards rattled up the road. Fir walked in front, all white teeth and dashing smile. He raised a fist and the cart stopped. “Hello, Dami.”