Brasley had felt some vague mix of relief and apprehension when the great mass of Merridan had risen up ahead of him. A permanent brown haze hovered over the city, the result of tens of thousands of cook fires constantly pouring smoke into the sky. Some claimed a million souls dwelt within the city walls and outlying suburbs. Brasley couldn’t quite believe that. On the other hand, why not? Merridan was the capitol city of a vast, sprawling kingdom, the center of religion, culture, and power for a continent.
This part of the city reeked of livestock. It was a place where all the outlying districts brought animals and produce to market. Farmers, not nobility, came through the drab southern gate but Brasley was too weary to circle the enormous city to the grander eastern or western gates.
Brasley remembered the brass-hinged eastern gate with the three-story fluted columns on either side from his visits to the city with his father and uncle—General Aujusto’s Gate they called it, named for one of the many heroes of the ancient Mage Wars. To the right of the gate a twenty-foot bronze sculpture depicted the general on a throne atop a pile of skulls. The statue was a brief history lesson, the skulls representing Aujusto’s vanquished foes and the throne a gesture to the general’s ambition for the crown, an ambition that would eventually bring about his assassination. Brasley’s family had brought him to Merridan as a teen to gawk at the grandeur of Helva’s capitol. And gawk he had. The city could swallow Klaar ten times over.
But there was nothing grand about the squalid square he found himself in now, a wide expanse of gray stones covered with the shit of goats and cattle and horse and sheep. The wide-mouthed stone well in the center of the square explained everything. Sellers brought their animals here to be watered before the auctions began. Cattle and swine sold in mass for meat were penned in the large corrals outside the city gates. The animals being watered in the square were prize breeders and show animals, but there were still so many that their stench was nearly overwhelming.
And if Brasley hadn’t lost all of his money on a stupid card cheating scheme, he would have been able to find a clean inn and take a hot bath. He liked the aroma of roast pork much more that the stench of the live pigs scrambling past him now. He sat on a stone bench at the edge of the square, enduring the stink, trying to ignore the squealing din of the livestock so that he could figure just what in blazes he would do next. He was penniless, and that limited his options down to almost nothing. I’m a tired, dirty, wounded failure, and I have no idea how to turn things around. He chuckled mirthlessly at his own dilemma.
Perhaps a solution will fall out of the sky.
“You, sir! You there on the bench.”
Brasley didn’t look up at first.
“My good man, your attention please.”
Brasley frowned and turned.
Two men occupied a carriage at the mouth of the square. One was old, bright white hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. The other stood up in the open carriage, waving for Brasley’s attention with a walking stick. Both men were well appointed, long velvet coats and silk shirt fastened at the throat with colorful bows. The standing man looked young, probably only just of age, a spoiled lordling out with his father, perhaps. He had the pale, soft look of a man who had been waited on hand and foot all of his life.
Brasley would have loved the chance to cultivate a similar look.
“Is that your horse?” the lordling asked.
Brasley looked back at his horse, then back to the noble. “Yes.”
The lordling waved him over with the walking stick. “Let’s have a look, then.”
Have a look …?
Of course!
Brasley had taken his saddle off the horse to give the animal a rest, and he realized how it must seem. He looked like the rest of the men in the square who’d brought their animals to auction. They thought his horse was for sale.
Brasley leapt to his feet immediately, smiled. “Of course, sir. Only happy to oblige.”
He led his horse toward the two nobles, realizing why they were reluctant to step down from the carriage. He looked at his boots. They were splattered halfway up the shins with animal shit.
Brasley tried to recall what he knew of the horse. He’d borrowed it from his father’s stables six months ago, so it wasn’t technically his. He wasn’t much for animal husbandry, but he knew enough to understand it was a good animal, strong and young, a tall stallion the deep color of midnight. The sort of animal a young knight might take to war or that a spoiled noble could take on a hunt.
He brought the horse close enough to the carriage for the lordling to reach out and stroke its nose.
“What’s his name?”
Brasley had no idea. He knew men who’d loved their horses, but to Brasley the beast was simply transportation.
“Titan,” he said, remembering the game of Kingdom Cards.
“A magnificent name.”
“For a magnificent steed,” Brasley said. “Bred from the finest stock.”
“He’s just what I’m looking for.” The lordling turned to the old man. “Father, what do you think?”
The old man sat forward, looked the animal up and down with a squint. “Let’s see the teeth.”
Brasley pried the horse’s lips apart, gestured to the teeth with a flourish.
“A decent animal,” the old man admitted reluctantly.
“I want him,” the lordling said. “He’s big and black just like I imagined. I’ll look fearsome astride Titan, won’t I, father?”
The old man frowned, waved the boy to silence and turned back to Brasley. “We’d like to purchase him.”
“Excellent.” Brasley’s smile oozed sincerity. “I wish you luck at the auction.”
That got the old man’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. The horse auction is last after the pigs and goats and chickens. I’m not waiting around in this shithole until then.”
The lordling looked stricken. “But father, you said if we came down before the auctions started, we could make a better bargain.”
“No,” the old man corrected. “I said I would send one of my huntsmen down to pick one out for you.”
The lordling stomped his foot. “But I want to pick out my own horse.”
He stomped his foot. The spoiled bastard actually stomped his foot.
“Mylkin, will you please shut up.”
The old man composed himself and turned a haughty eye on Brasley. “Thirty silver. That’s fair. It’s a good animal, but you might wait all day for the horse auction and still not get that.”
“Perhaps,” Brasley said. “But as you observe, I’ve resigned myself to being here all day.” He gestured at his own disheveled appearance and shitty boots. “Your lordship must determine exactly what it’s worth to you to speed your person back to a more hospitable environment.”
As if to punctuate Brasley’s assertion, a bull in a passing cart pissed a hot yellow stream which splattered on the paving stones.
The old man sighed.
Brasley left ten minutes later with a hundred and fifty silver coins and his saddle thrown over his shoulder.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rina had turned south after parting with Brasley, heading overland, villages and other settlements, even the odd farmhouse, growing scarce and finally vanishing all together. The wilderness had swallowed them utterly. Over the course of a week, the green lands had turned brown and dry, and then the earth had grown cracked and hard. Nights were still cold, but they now shed their cloaks in the daylight as it was warm enough for shirtsleeves, even hot enough to be uncomfortable in the midday sun.
Two months behind them, Klaar was just now being chewed by the teeth of winter. Two weeks ago, Brasley had headed north to Merridan where the ladies at court would still be wearing winter fashions and yet already eyeing fabrics and patterns for their spring wardrobes.
All Rina could think as she sat astride her horse on the crest of the low ridge was how many layers of clothes she could shed and still remain decent when t
he southern heat really began in the coming months. Already the hottest part of the day made her tug at her clothing, wishing for a cool breeze, and technically it was still winter. She was a woman of the north and her blood wasn’t made for this.
She puffed the stub of a chuma stick, inhaling the smoke, which eased the tension in her shoulders and neck. It seemed like she’d been riding all her life.
Heat and discomfort vanished when she tapped into the spirit.
As always, her environment became something of an abstract concept as she closed her eyes, opening herself to a view of the world through the senses of the falcon. It took off from its perch on her outstretched arm and flapped for altitude before gliding gently toward the village below them.
They’d reached the edge of the Nomad Lands, the vast desert which stretched south and west until it became the land of Fyria, Kork’s homeland. One day, out of respect for her former bodyguard and mentor, she hoped to visit the place, but for now, her destination was at hand.
The village in front of them was a drab, brown, ramshackle affair, a dirty, dusty smudge on a wide, bland, baked landscape. Bigger than Hammish, Rina thought, but smaller than the village of Crossroads back home. Not that the sad village was really enough to hold anyone’s attention, with the great mountain of orange stone rising beyond it. Two thousand feet high, it rose inexplicably from the flat land all around it. They’d been walking toward it for two days before reaching the top of the ridge and spotting the village.
And the village, at the moment, was everything.
Rina, Alem, and Maurizan were down to half a skin of water and food for one more meal. If they couldn’t get what they needed from the village, they would die.
The falcon came in low over the village. Through the bird, Rina smelled the cook fires, a heady mix of sharp, exotic spices and smoky meat. There was a well of fresh water in the center of the village. The falcon circled lower and screeched, drawing the attention of one of the villagers who looked up suddenly. He was dark eyed, and olive skinned, and looked up with a frightened scowl, part apprehension and part defiance.
The falcon perched on the roof peak of a shabby hut and scanned the main street of the village. Men and women scurried from building to building like they were afraid to be caught in the open. All had the same loose-fitting, draped robes and olive complexions. They seemed strange and foreign. Because they are. You’re a long way from home, duchess. Rina had sent the falcon to see if it was safe, to find out if strangers might be welcome to come down into the village and haggle for food and water.
But the faces were all mysterious and unreadable, some hidden behind veils.
If she hadn’t been tapped into the spirit, she would have been struck sharply with a feeling of homesickness and discouragement. She wasn’t prepared for the world beyond Klaar, filled with its perilous oddities, its unfamiliar people and places. She might have been nervous under other circumstances, but her predicament was simply information to be analyzed and categorized and either put to use or discarded.
Even as Rina observed the village through the eyes of the falcon, she was aware of Alem and Maurizan on their horses next to her. They’d been good traveling companions and had grown close to each other. It was only now, looking inward and tapped into the spirit, that Rina could examine her feelings.
She vividly recalled a night around the campfire when Alem had made some joke and Maurizan had laughed, touching Alem lightly on the arm. When Rina had felt irritation, she’d told herself that it was because she’d been tired and in no mood for frivolity. She now understood it was because she hadn’t wanted Alem to enjoy Maurizan’s attentions.
Looking inward while tapped into the spirit was dangerous, Rina realized. She saw herself with the same clarity she saw the rest of the world. The many intersecting lines of emotion that connected to even the most trivial events in her life were dizzying in their complexity. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall into the depths of herself and never come out again as she picked apart every relationship with everyone she’d ever known.
If she’d been able to feel shame, she would have for the way she resented the young gypsy. But why? What claim did Rina have on Alem? Some instinct told her to release her hold on the spirit, and she did.
The vague sense of fatigue washed over her immediately, not too severe but palpable. Even when the exertions were minor she could still feel it. There was also the knot in her stomach from her unexpected and unwanted look inward. She felt some ownership of Alem that wasn’t justifiable, and Maurizan’s obvious youthful infatuation with the boy continued to grate on her nerves. It was foolish and unreasonable, but there it was.
Because he’s the only one you have. You sent Brasley away, and the girl doesn’t like you.
The thought of being utterly alone in the world twisted something in her stomach.
“What did you see?” Maurizan asked. “Is it safe?”
Rina sighed. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not helpful,” the gypsy said. “We need to know.”
“If you don’t like how I do things, you can go your own way,” Rina said crisply. “Nobody invited you.”
She spurred her horse and trotted downhill toward the village. It wasn’t something she’d planned, but sitting there helpless and irritated had suddenly become unappealing. She heard the hoof beats of the others following. So this was it. They’d go into the foreign village and see what happened. Rina frowned. Not her father’s idea of reasoned leadership. Full speed ahead and damn the consequences.
I’m no leader. I’m not anything. I’m no duchess, that’s for sure.
She puffed the chuma stick in the corner of her mouth. The smoked hung in the air. There was no breeze.
The three of them trotted down the main street of the village, the horse’s hooves kicking up dust as they entered the main square. Women in loose robes, faces covered with veils and hoods, scattered from the well, splashing water from earthen vessels as they scurried, eyes cast down and away from the strangers.
Okay, not a good sign.
Alem pulled his horse alongside Rina’s. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“There might be a reason the village is so remote,” Maurizan said behind them. “My people know a little something about not wanting to be found.”
“We’re not leaving without food and water,” Rina said. “And information.”
Alem gestured to a hut across the small square. There was a wooden stand in front of the hut, a dismal display of pale melons, some long yellow fruit that came in bunches and what looked like apples but with fuzzy rinds. Flies buzzed around the stand.
“I could try over there,’ he suggested. “A flash of silver might bring them out.”
“Let’s give them a chance to come out on their own.” Rina nodded at the well. “In the meantime, let’s get the water.”
Maurizan and Rina tossed Alem a half dozen empty water skins, and he began filling them at the well. This was at least one of their problems solved. Alem drank deeply, splashed his face with a handful of the cool water.
“Here they come,” Rina said behind him.
He turned to see the five men striding across the square toward them.
Rina puffed the chuma stick, flicked her reins, maneuvering her horse between Alem and the approaching men.
“You want some help with them?” Alem asked.
She frowned down at him, raised an eyebrow. Are you kidding?
Alem shrugged. “It’s only polite to ask.”
She dismounted and handed the reins to Alem. “Load the water skins onto the horses. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
She turned toward the approaching men, hands spread, palms up. See, no weapons. We don’t want trouble. “Hello.”
“That’s our well,” said one of the men, voice gruff and heavy with an unfamiliar accent.
“We’ve travelled a long way across barren lands,” Rina said. “We’re thirsty.”
“You’re thieves.” T
he man’s hand fell to the hilt of a curved sword Kork had called a scimitar. She’d trained occasionally with the blades to get the feel but still preferred her rapier.
Rina tapped into the spirit and appraised the men.
They wore blousy, overlapping robes like the rest of the villagers, but with the loose fabric bound by strips of cloth at the ankles and wrists to keep the billowing material from getting in the way during combat. She took in the way they stood and moved. Legs just a little too far apart, stances just a bit off balance. These were men educated in the blade but out of practice. They would be slow to start and best finished quickly.
“We aren’t thieves,” she said. “We can pay.”
The man’s dark face spilt in a wide, white grin. He was missing an incisor on one side. “You’ll pay with your lives.”
He drew the scimitar as he rushed forward.
He probably thought he had an extra second to make his strike, the time it would take for Rina to draw her sword. He was wrong. She sprang forward as he swung, ducking below his blade and ramming an elbow into his gut. Rina heard the air whuff out of him. She grabbed a fistful of the man’s robe, turned her body and pulled in one of the simple throws Kork had shown her. With the strength from the bull tattoo it was easy. He went up and over, landed hard on his back, dust kicking up from the rough stone. That took the remainder of his breath, and he sprawled there, mouth working to suck for air.
Already the other four were in motion, blades drawn and screaming some kind of blood-curdling war cry.
She went low and twirled a leg back, catching one at one man’s ankles and upending him. She drew her blade, popped up and parried a sweeping strike so hard the scimitar flew out of the man’s hands. When he shifted his gaze upward to watch his lost weapon fly into the air, Rina kicked him in the chest. He flew back twenty feet landed hard, and curled into a ball.
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