by Jaine Fenn
But Pel was sitting back, looking pale. He’d dropped his parting-gift, and his gaze twitched between it and her.
“Just pick it up,” said Dej. “You’re not worth the effort.” She closed her eyes, making like she didn’t care.
But she did.
She’d assumed she’d change, somehow, before being bonded. That she’d become ready. Things would start to make sense, or at least she’d learn to accept when they didn’t. As her bonding approached she’d be happy to stop stealing, start obeying, and not question. She’d grow up, ready for the future, when she’d be with Min, free, out in the skyland. But that hadn’t happened – hadn’t had a chance to happen.
This was all too sudden, too soon. She was going to her bonding alone, and unprepared.
Chapter 11
They could still beat the cart. It had to use the wide streets that wound around the hill. On foot, Rhia could take a shorter, more direct, route.
The initial cut-through nearly tripped her up. Only Markave’s steadying hand stopped her from dropping the lantern and taking a tumble when she stepped on her over-long skirt. She smiled her gratitude then carried on more slowly, her free hand on the wall.
Etyan had come this way, at about this time of the morning, three months back. His path had been unplanned, random. But always downwards.
By the time they reached the middle city the sky was lightening.
In the lower city people were already up and about. Avoiding an open sewer oozing along one side of a narrow alley, Rhia almost tripped over a beggar. Markave shouted at the man to watch himself.
She had followed Etyan on a restday, and the streets had been quiet. He had not headed for the road, and had left home without a cloak or hat; not the actions of someone planning to leave. But leave he had.
They came out onto the north road near the bridge. Rhia looked along the road but saw no carts. She hurried over the bridge. The river, never wholesome, was reduced to a stinking, muddy stream. Just upstream was the low cutting on the bank which channelled water to the dyers’ pools. She did not look that way.
Beyond the bridge the road went through open farmland. She made out two carts in the grey pre-dawn, both heading away. One had a lone driver and open sides. The other, farther off, had several people in it.
“Far one?” she said to Markave, panting.
He nodded. “Fenera heard a rumour three men might be sent.”
“Then we must run.”
Rhia broke into an exhausted lope. They passed the first cart, a farmer on his way to the fields.
Her lantern went out. She flung it away.
As they got closer Rhia saw the second cart had benches down each side, with two passengers and a driver. One of the passengers turned to look at her. His face was distant, and in shadow, but something about the way he tensed alerted Rhia. Although he wore peasant clothes this was no farmer; he was reacting to a possible threat, like a soldier.
“Hold, please!” she called.
Both passengers faced her now. A lantern on a pole lit them from above. The second, younger, man looked to the older one. The driver gave no sign of having heard her, and the cart carried on.
Markave shouted, “Hold in the name of the duke!”
The cart slowed, then stopped.
The men in the back stayed as they were, hands near belts, as Rhia and Markave approached. Rhia pressed a hand to the stitch in her side while she waited for her dignity to catch up with her. Then she stepped up to the cart. Still the men didn’t move. From here she could see bundles under the benches, though not as many as she would expect traders – or those posing as traders – to carry.
She reached up and extended a hand over the cart’s back flap, as though presenting it to be kissed at court. “Despite appearances,” she wheezed, “I am Countess Rhia Harlyn, and I order you to take me with you.” She wore her comfortable old mask, the boiled leather faded to almost match her skin tone, but its mere presence should support her claim. Although she doubted any of these men had seen her before, given the interest her life appeared to hold for those at court, they no doubt knew of her disfigurement.
The men did not move. The older one had a thin face and dark hair salted with grey. The younger man was fresh complexioned, with thick fair hair; he looked to his companion who was also, no doubt, his commander. The driver, between the other two in age and the heaviest of the three, was looking over his shoulder at her.
The older man leaned forward and, without touching Rhia, examined the signet ring on her outstretched hand. He gave her a deep and calculating gaze; not the look of a man who believed what he had just been told. Rhia met his eye.
Finally, he leaned back and, still looking at her, said, “This is unexpected.” His tone was questioning, as though giving her a chance to change her story.
“I realize that, but I wish to fetch my brother home from Zekt in person.”
“The duke did not mention you in connection with our mission.”
Rhia enjoyed a moment of smug vindication: she had surprised Francin for once! He hadn’t thought she would dare disobey him, or he would have warned his men.
“Nonetheless,” she said, “it is my wish to accompany you, and you will respect that.” It was disconcerting not to be obeyed without question.
“M’lady?”
Rhia turned her head to see Markave looking back up the road. “M’lady, I believe your manservant is on the bridge.”
Rhia hesitated before turning, aware of the three militiamen’s regard. Then she withdrew her hand and looked back towards the city. A lone figure stood at the centre of the bridge, staring out. As they watched he turned away.
Rhia turned to Markave, “Go to him, quickly, I must have what he carries!”
Markave put her pack down then set off back towards the city at a tired run. Rhia turned to the soldiers, composing her face. Though they might not respect her, they would not harm her.
The older one had sat up straight. Something in his manner had changed. It took her a moment to realize that suspicion had given way to deference, presumably because of the way Markave jumped at her command.
“M’lady,” said the older man, “our errand is not suitable for a noble, let alone one of the gentler sex.”
“Your errand is to fetch my brother, my only family. This matters more than my position or gender.” She was aware of the contradiction in her statement: she had asked them to obey her because she was a noble, yet now she asked them to ignore her rank and think instead of a sister’s love. She hoped they would not spot the anomaly.
The commander’s lips thinned. While he was still considering his response the driver spoke. “Captain, should one of us return to the palace to inform the duke of the countess’s request?”
Their commander shook his head. “No time for that.”
“I accept full responsibility for any fate that may befall me,” said Rhia.
“Begging m’lady’s pardon,” said the commander, “but His Grace may not see it that way.”
“I have prepared a letter stating this, which you may keep on your person in case of… mishap.”
For a moment, the commander was silent. Then he said, “M’lady must know we cannot make concessions to her status.”
“I accept that. As you see, I am prepared to travel as a commoner.”
The man nodded. “Then we will do all we can to ensure m’lady’s safety and comfort.” He didn’t sound happy.
Rhia suppressed a smile of triumph.
The driver looked uneasy, although the other lad smiled.
Sensing movement behind her, Rhia turned to see Markave jogging back. He carried a package in one hand; Rhia tried not to wince at the way he swung it as he ran.
He drew to a halt and huffed, “M’lady, your commission from the woodcarvers.”
“Thank you, Markave.” She took the paper-wrapped package. “Our militia have agreed to take me with them.”
“Very good, m’lady.” Markave bent ov
er, then winced and straightened. “Shall I put your luggage in the cart?”
“Yes, please.” She had a sudden urge to take her steward’s hand. She resisted, but did let him help her onto the cart. She sat next to the smiling young man who let down the flap for her, rather than his grim-faced commander. Much as she itched to see the woodcarvers’ handiwork she slid the package into her satchel.
Markave still stood at the back of the cart. “All will be well,” she said to him. She meant it as reassurance, but it came out sounding more like an admonishment.
He bowed his head. “Of course, m’lady.”
Behind her the commander said, “Let’s get going.” The cart lurched forward.
Markave watched the cart pull away. Rhia gave him a smile and a small wave. His response was invisible in the dim light. After a while he turned and walked back to the city.
Rhia faced the militiamen. “In case you are concerned, I have my own money. I will not be a burden financially.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” The commander probably expected her to be a burden in other ways. “I am Captain Sorne,” he continued. “And these are my corporals Breen,” he indicated the smiling young man who murmured, m’lady, “and Lekem.” The latter, hunched over the reins, nodded without turning.
Rhia smiled at Breen and Sorne. Silence fell.
She cleared her throat. “I believe you travel as traders?”
“We do, m’lady,” said Captain Sorne.
“I cannot see much in the way of trade goods in this cart.”
“I’m not sure how much m’lady knows of how business is conducted with Zekt.”
Rhia searched her memory for childhood lessons. “The Zekti value our wine, fine cloth and dried fruits.”
“So they do, m’lady. And all these items are luxuries, so trade in them is competitive. Perhaps one man with a pack might travel freely, but a cartload would arouse ill-feeling, possibly even open hostility from established traders.”
“But why send a cart at all? Why not send just one man?”
“His Grace is a careful planner. And, forgive me if this causes m’lady distress, but we don’t know the state and disposition of young Lord Harlyn. He may not be fit to travel.”
An unpleasant thought. And there was a worse one: that Etyan might be brought back bound and unwilling. “So, if you are not traders, what story you will give those who show an interest in you?” In us, she silently corrected herself.
“Should anyone ask, m’lady, myself and my two nephews are travelling to Zekt to start a new life.”
“Our poor mother passed away some years ago,” said Corporal Breen, taking up the tale. He had a pleasant voice, matching his easy smile. “Luckily good old Uncle Sorne here took us in.” Their commander shook his head at his subordinate’s play-acting. “But then our auntie died too, the poor ol’ girl. And there were those debts and maybe some other trouble we don’t talk about, eh?” he smirked.
“You’d imply you are criminals?” Rhia was shocked.
“My corporal here is trying to impress m’lady, which he can stop doing right now. What he means is that having a dubious reputation can be a good thing when you’re amongst strangers. Our actual trade is bakery.”
“Bakery?” Rhia wondered if she had misheard. “That’s very… ordinary.”
“Indeed it is, m’lady. Ordinary and unremarkable. However, as I’m sure m’lady has noticed, Shenese confectioners and bakers are highly skilled.”
Rhia had to agree. Those butter biscuits she enjoyed were but one of the delicacies visiting nobles from other nations commented on. “So you will claim to be able to, ah, bake?”
“Both Lekem and Breen can, to some extent. Having heard Zekt lacks decent bakers, we’re choosing to resettle there. Unfortunately, we’ll find that the local grain is not suitable for our needs, and be forced to return to Shen. If we happened to find a Shenese citizen who wanted to return to his homeland we would encourage him to travel with us.”
Rhia liked the words “wanted” and “encourage”. It implied they would not coerce Etyan, which in turn implied they were unaware of his possible crime. Then again, what else would they say to her? And Francin had ordered his men to use subterfuge. She knew why. Etyan was a Shenese high noble who had secretly travelled to a shadowland Shen had shaky relations with. To openly demand his return from the Zekti authorities as though he were being held hostage, or even to admit he had fled his homeland, were politically unwise moves in the games of status and power the shadowlands engaged in. “The duke has thought of everything,” she conceded aloud.
“Indeed he has, m’lady.”
The Sun was rising; Breen lowered the pole and extinguished the lantern.
She wondered what the soldiers’ precise orders were. To go to Zekt and find Etyan and bring him back to Shen, yes. But to what fate? And what were these men instructed to do if Etyan tried to run again? Was not letting him get away more important than letting him live?
Whatever the details of their orders – and she could hardly ask – they had not included escorting the sister of their quarry. She stared at Shen city, her home, watching the early light wash over it, until dust kicked up by the cart hazed the view. When the Sun pulled free of the eastern uplands, the day began to heat up.
Rhia reached for her pack.
“May I help, m’lady?” said Breen.
“Ah, yes. Hold this steady for me.”
She dug out the wide-brimmed felt hat she wore when visiting the Harlyn estate, one of the few items of clothing she had not borrowed. Breen stowed her pack again.
From under the brim of her hat Rhia observed the land. Crops away from the muddy irrigation ditches were withered and brown. Soon there would be hungry mouths, here and in the city. Hunger, unrest and more riots.
She raised her eyes to the burning sky. How much brighter would it burn in the skyland? The priests claimed the First shaded the shadowlands from the Sun’s excesses, but whilst the Church took this on faith, the mechanism was a matter of debate for those natural enquirers who took an interest in the heavens. Presumably some sort of aerial shield followed the Sun across the sky from dawn to dusk. Or rather many such shields, as each shadowland would surely need its own shade.
“M’lady?”
She looked down to see Sorne holding out a waterskin. “Did you want a drink?”
“Thank you.” She took the waterskin. The water was warm and tasted of leather, but she must learn not to be fussy.
“We should consider,” she said as she returned the waterskin, “how I might best fit into the necessary fiction you are travelling under.”
“M’lady?”
“Could I perhaps be your sister, or failing that, your cousin. I know it is a stretch but I can see no acceptable alternative.”
“Indeed not, m’lady.” The captain did not mention the unacceptable alternative: that being of a similar age, they might pose as man and wife. “We are not alike in looks so perhaps cousin would be best, m’lady.”
“Your widowed and childless cousin, yes. And when we are in company you won’t call me m’lady.”
“Of course. M’lady.”
Was he mocking her? His face was unreadable.
“With m’lady’s permission, we are using our real names, as they are unmemorable enough, but yours is from the top of the hill.”
“Then perhaps… Rhina.” In the space of a morning she had gone from Countess Rhia to Mam Rhina. Quite a transformation.
She returned to surveying the fields. Distant workers shimmered in the morning haze. They passed a field of oilseed, bearing up under the heat, and a sparse olive grove where pigs rooted round under the trees. The soldiers continued to politely ignore her, so she dug in her satchel for the paper she had been reading the day before, a treatise on nightwings, snaredogs and other skyland hunters.
The lunch of hard cheese and cornbread handed out by Captain Sorne took some chewing but stopped her stomach grumbling. During siesta he swapped place
s with his corporal to take a turn driving the cart. Although Rhia had not expected to sleep, she dozed, lulled by the Sun’s warmth and the clop of the horse’s hooves. She woke to find beads of sweat oozing out from under her hat and mask. She wished she had thought to ask Fenera for a fan. Her own fans, intricate constructions of stained wood and painted paper, were too conspicuous.
Finally the Sun sank, bringing blessed relief from the heat of the day, though not from the awkward intimacy of the cart.
In the fading light Rhia saw a tight cluster of low buildings past the hunched shoulders of Corporal Lekem. A wayside inn. She had visited such a hostelry over a decade ago, in the company of Uncle Petren and the household guards. It had been an adventure, a chance to experience how the other half lived. She suspected her uncle had done it to bring her out of herself after Father died.
“We’ll pass the night there, m’lady,” said Captain Sorne, having followed her gaze. She had thought him asleep, but he appeared to be able to go from sleep to wakefulness faster than a cat. “Inns are a good place to gain intelligence, although, if m’lady does not object, it would be wise if you stayed out of sight.”
“Right. Yes, of course.” This time she could not expect any special treatment.
Chapter 12
By the time darkness fell, Dej and her companions had eaten half the food and drunk most of the water, not to mention using the chamber pot, which did nothing for the atmosphere in the wagon. Pel was asleep, mouth half-open. They hadn’t stopped; skykin didn’t take siestas.
They carried on in the dark for some time. When the wagon slowed Dej panicked, then calmed. All at once, she knew what she had to do.
Before they came to a halt, she stood up. By the time the skykin unlatched the door, she was on the balls of her feet.
Then she was off, out the back of the wagon, like a hen from a fox.
Just run. Run into the night. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to live in the skyland, with an animus inside her. She wanted to go home, to Min. She had to get away–