My lungs are desperate for me to cough out the water I’ve inhaled – it burns at the back of my throat and further down in my chest – but I clamp my mouth shut with all I’ve got. Another gulp down the wrong way could be my last.
Then my shoulder bumps rock. Hard. A cry of pain involuntarily escapes my lips.
The water rushes in.
Everything hurts.
I’m lying on my stomach on an outcrop of rock. Head, one shoulder and arm dangle over the churning rage of green-white waves. Something cuts into my stomach and chest. My satchel strap. It snagged on part of the outcrop and kept me here.
I scrape snakes of hair from my eyes, blinking away the saltwater sting. My tunic and trousers cling cold and sodden against my skin.
Cringing, I lift my head. I’m surrounded by sea on all sides. Where is this place? How long was I out? I crane my neck. There. Blurred, but unmistakable. The coastline. Maybe three or four hundred feet away.
In the opposite direction, the sky is all shades of grey, the clouds roiling as much as the waves with a coming storm, flashes of lightning coursing through it all like white fire.
I tear my eyes away and look back to the jagged rocks lining the shore. The thought of swimming that distance in the churn and swell should scare me, but somehow being battered and bruised and bone-tired leaves no room for emotion. I’ve only got the energy for one thought: I must get to shore. Soon. Before the storm hits.
I don’t want to think about the odds of whether I have enough left in me. Doubt they’re good. If I somehow do manage to make it, if the waves don’t drag me to the depths, I know one thing: I’ll never turn my back on the ocean again.
With a groan of effort, I unhook my satchel strap.
Sink or swim.
CHAPTER 31
ASH
A Ranger never gives up the hunt.
It’s one of the things everyone knows about the elite imperial force. I never thought I’d experience it first-hand until Rakel and I were on the run trying to save Nisai. I definitely never thought I’d be mimicking them one day. But here I am, dressed in Ranger uniform, the stylized map of Aramtesh that acts as a badge of office hanging on a thin strip of leather around my neck. This one is bronze. Entry level. Still plausible that I won’t be personally recognized by senior command.
I didn’t ask Kip where she got it.
From what she told me of her past, I could guess.
And I wasn’t going to push her any further – who knows where I’d be if she had decided not to turn away while I made a hasty exit?
I took pains to keep the Ranger garb hidden as I fled Aphorai City. The residents were chirping like baby birds whose nest had been disturbed. I couldn’t blame them. The groundshake had wreaked destruction through several quarters, splitting the great walls as if Riker himself had descended from the sky and cleaved them with his axe. People gabbled in the street, frightened, some leaving, some deciding to wait for more news. No wonder, given the mixed messages that flew about the place.
The gods are punishing us! The enemy will soon fall upon us!
The Prince has left us to die!
Can’t you smell the forest for the pines? He’s saving us, they won’t divert from the river now!
Protect your property, there will be looting, soon.
That last was probably the most accurate of them all. Without the full information, fear runs rampant, and civic responsibility goes up in smoke. With more luck than I deserve, I managed to get clear of the walls before it did.
It took considerably longer to make it to the river on foot. I followed it upstream, back towards Ekasya. At the first trader camp I made it to, the gossip was more pragmatic. Inside the main tent, merchants sat over cups of kormak fortified with spiced white spirit as they planned alternative routes for their caravans, and alternatives to the alternatives, just in case. Some, I was unsurprised and yet still horrified to find, were planning to divert their wares directly to Iddo and Zostar’s forces. Armies have bottomless bellies, and delivering food to their marching path was likely to fetch as much coin as braving a marketplace on the brink of anarchy.
I took up a place near one of the traders. Average height, average build, average garb, the only unusual thing about him the missing little finger on his left hand. What was most noticeable about him was his kormak was just kormak, and he listened far more than he spoke. When he did add something to conversation, it was in quiet, reasonable tones, not the bluster of the other traders.
And he was going to the army. That was clear.
When I offered my services as an additional guard, he looked me up and down in a look that was more appraisal than arrogance.
“Remove your hood,” is all he said.
“I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same.”
“You want a job, my word goes.”
“Then we are at an impasse, sir,” I said, my voice still barely above a murmur as ours had both been during the exchange, and left the tent.
I decided it was best to do this alone. But one of his guards soon catches up to me. A tall woman. Lean. A spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks, sandy blonde hair hanging impractically loose to her waist. Though nothing about the curved sword at her hip or the bow slung across her back says impractical.
“Thought I’d made you when you came into camp,” she says. “Not taking off your hood only sealed the deal.” Her accent is thick, and it’s not one I recognize.
“I’m not who you think I am.” I turn my back and begin to walk away. I want to run, to put as much distance as I can between me and this trader’s guard who thinks she has guessed my identity. But moving quickly is only going to attract more attention.
“Aw, stenches.” Her voice drips with mock disappointment. “And here I was telling my boss you were someone like us. You’d fit right in like a bum in a bucket.” Her tone may be playful, but the space between my shoulder blades goes cold, anticipating the pierce of an arrow.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So you’re not someone who’d as soon as stick a knife in this Iddo bloke as fight on his side?”
I stop mid-stride. What I would give for my old twin swords. Instead, my hand goes to the opposite wrist, where at least there’s once again a dagger strapped to the leather cuff.
“Eh, you think I’m stupid enough to come out here, all alone, to fight? Anyone with half an eye open can see you don’t carry yourself like an amateur. But anyone who’s ever seen someone hells-bent on revenge can recognize it in you just as easy.”
“I think I’d best be on my way.”
“By your lonesome?” I hear her spit in the dust. “Gonna stand out like poop in a perfumery. Got much more chance of getting what you want if we travel together.”
I slowly turn.
She grins, her chest rising like she’s just won a hard-earned victory. Then she crosses to me in three long paces and proffers her hand. “Sal’s the name.”
I eye her sidelong. “Sal?”
“Half a name. The part I like. Last person who uttered the long version ended up short on hair.”
“You decapitated them?”
“Stenches, no. You think I’m some kind of barbarian? I cut off their hair and sold it to a wig-maker.” A gold coin appears in her hand. She flips it spinning into the air before it disappears again with a flick of her wrist. “You thought all those old rich folks kept their pretty scented locks when the rest of us go grey and bald because they eat their greens or something?”
Not what I was expecting.
“What’s your quarrel with the army?” I tilt my head back towards the trader’s tent. “Most in there seem unperturbed.”
“Most of them didn’t lose their home and livelihood when the Regent closed the borders.”
Ah, so that’s where her accent is from. The Seson Territories. The borderlands beyond the Empire. Rakel recounted how they’d passed through them on their journey to the Order’s Sanctuary. How Iddo
had ordered a wall to be built at the border, cutting off trade and those who sought refuge from the scarcity and lawlessness beyond.
Sal shrugs. “Not really the time and place for life stories though. You coming with, or what?”
I hesitate. “What are you selling?” I won’t go along with someone who is supplying arms or the like. I have my scruples.
“Hope.”
“Sorry?”
“Come see for yourself.”
She leads me through the camp to a set of half a dozen camels with their legs folded neatly beneath them in the sand, dozing. Their handler is sitting with his back against the lead animal. He’s short, stout, bald and couldn’t be more than a turn or two older than me. He’s also asleep. No wonder they need more guards.
“Who’ve you brought to visit, Sal-Sal?” he asks without opening his eyes.
Not so asleep after all.
“Bil, this is…”
I hold out my hand. “Ash.”
“That short for something?”
“Yes. But the last person who used the long version lost an arm.”
Sal leans back, head tilted to the sky with laughter. When she recovers, she gestures to the barrels. “Good barley ale. Better than drinking water on the trail – you never know if it’s going to turn your guts liquid. And the rest? Bil, show him the other wares.”
Bil reaches into the pack he’d been lounging against. He produces a prayer braid, and a leather envelope, opening it to reveal a full set of sacred oils in small vials.
“You’re religious?”
“Nope. But people who think they’re going to die will pay handsomely for their last prayers.”
I scowl. “That’s disgraceful.”
“Is it? We sell high to the rich, and use the profit to subsidize cheaper prices for the poor. No point in trying to get blood from a stone, you see. And if the result is that we bring hope or comfort to the sorry last days of those who either want to fight for Iddo or have been forced to, is there really anything so wrong with that?”
It took three days to track down the army.
At first the only sign was a dust cloud stretching across the horizon. My lips pressed into a thin line at the sight.
“What’s got bees in your britches?” Sal asks. “Can’t be more than a day or so away now.”
I thought it might take longer, that we’d have to travel back upriver to Ekasya some ways before finding them, given the bulk of the force would be infantry on foot. Instead, I only say, “It’s bigger than I had imagined.”
“Think the youngest ever Commander of the Imperial Rangers got to where he was just because of his daddy? I mean, that’s part of it, sure. But he wasn’t going to be taking any chance about this. Bet he didn’t move until he knew he had the numbers.”
That does sound exactly like Iddo. Strategy first, always strategy. The thought weighs on my heart, forcing me to admit that all this time I’ve been harbouring a last hope. A hope that this was Zostar’s doing far more than Iddo’s. Somewhere, somehow, I’d still carried the belief that if I could get to the elder Kaidon son, if I could talk to him face to face, he might still be swayed to the side of mercy. He’d see the horror of what Zostar is doing to Del, Mish and the others. He’d put a stop to it.
Was that always a fool’s faith?
It didn’t have to be this way, housecat.
The last time I saw him, in the dungeons, he was already set on the way he was going to handle the Empire. He never would have listened to the likes of me. Now, if he’s caught wind of what’s happened since, he’d be even less likely to. There’s only one person I’ve ever known capable of changing Iddo’s mind. And after the disaster in Aphorai City, I can only hope he is putting as much distance as possible between himself and the army below.
I shake my head, muttering a curse. “How did they even find so many willing to go to war?”
Sal tosses her coin in the air.
It’s the only answer I need.
As we near the army, the dust thickens. The sounds of the force on the move – the pounding of several thousands of marching feet, the barked orders and morale-boosting songs, the rumble and squeak of hundreds of wagons carrying weapons and supplies – combine into a dull, continuous roar.
Sal and the other guards seem to know what they’re doing as they angle towards the train trailing the infantry column, drawing level with several other wagons. There’s a mix of merchants with accents hailing from all over the Empire. Plenty of nondescript leathers like Sal and our band wear but there’s also no small number of Trelian hats, plumed and wide-brimmed. I even spot the antique style clothes of several Edurshain – no doubt antivenom is a valuable commodity for an army on foot.
The last sends my mind to Mish and the others. I need to stay focused on why I’m here – I have to work out a way to find them.
As night falls, Sal and I join several other wagoneers around their campfire, seeking information. Both she and Bil have made friends among the traders and smiths, cooks and camp followers. For the believers, there’s Bil’s prayer braids. For the rest, there’s Sal’s barley ale. As the evening goes on, she even passes around an enameled clay jar of spiced spirit.
I lean closer. “Gifts, Sal? You’re getting soft.”
“More like a down payment on information. If barley ale started them talking, spirit will have them singing like songbirds.” She rises to her feet. “I’ll go get another jar. Keep your ears open, eh?”
I nod. I’m just as interested in what they have to say as Sal is in a business opportunity.
When the first jar of spirit is empty, Sal still hasn’t returned. Bill and I exchange a look.
“I’ll go check on her,” I say.
I weave back through the wagons and tents, to where we’d struck camp.
“Sal, did you hear? Tonight Zostar is giving some sort of demonstration.”
I pull the tent flap aside and step through. It’s pitch black, and I almost trip over something heavy on the floor. I pause, waiting for my eyes to adjust, and mutter a curse at Bil for letting the candles go out again.
“Sal?”
Something collides with the back of my skull and I crumple forward, pain lancing through my head.
The last of the light goes out.
CHAPTER 32
LUZ
The war machine of Los Province is well-oiled.
Preparations to depart for the Wastes take place with calm efficiency. It’s in the midst of them that the trio of would-be shadow slayers arrives at the manse granted to Prince Nisai after his deal with the Losian Eraz. It takes more than a few minutes of fast talking to unruffle the gate guards’ feathers – some of them had thought the note the newcomers bore from the Emperor-elect was a forgery, and no small wonder by their bedraggled appearance. Finally, with diplomatic relations smoothed, I signal for the gate to be closed on the bougainvillea-crowned walls of the inner courtyard.
We take up seating in the shadow of the palm-thatched roof. The manse seneschal looks as if she wants to rescue the cushions from the rattan furniture before the travel-stained arrivals flop down on them.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction.
She diverts her attention to organizing refreshments.
“You’ve been industrious,” I say by way of greeting. They all seem relatively unscathed from their journey, except for a patch of faded green-yellow blooming across the girl’s cheek. The bruise must have been a sight to see when it was fresh.
“Who did you get into a scuffle with?”
“The ocean,” she replies flatly.
I decide not to press the matter. Travelling here from the coast of Aphorai Province, rather than via the river, forces one to traverse some particularly rugged coastal terrain. That they were able to make such good time is thanks to Asmudtag’s grace. “So, what do you have for us?”
The girl sets her bag on the table and flips it open. With a flourish that could only be described as sarcastic, she produces an objec
t that’s about the length of a kitchen knife – a jagged sherd of blue-black glasslike rock that seems a broken part of a larger whole.
I raise an eyebrow. Some who follow the Primordial would refer to it as Asmudtagian glass. There’s something in that, a frustrating tease of a clue. If only I could comprehend exactly what sort of puzzle it hails from.
The girl removes another piece of the glossy stone. And another. Laying them out side by side along the mosaic outdoor dining table. The objects clearly originated from the same source, but they’re irregularly shaped. If they did come from a larger whole, it’s impossible to guess at first glance what that was. The one possible deduction to be made is that the planes are too precise to be natural. They were deliberately worked, and, at one time, polished.
“This is your weapon?” Kip scoffs. “I could do as much damage with my bare hands.
I’m certain she could.
“What, pray tell, is it?” I ask.
“We were hoping you could shed some light on that,” Copperlocks admits. “I attempted a comparative analysis on the road but didn’t have any particular insights.”
“There was a lot more from where this came from but I couldn’t make sniffer from sitter before I was forced to retreat,” Rakel agrees.
Copperlocks holds up one of the sherds. “This was the only reason we knew we had even found the right place.”
I take the piece she proffers. “Old Imperial? No, it’s…”
“Pre-Imperial. Some of the etymology still lines up, though. So, if you were to make a deduction from the letters here—”
“Shadows.”
“Indeed.”
The Emperor-elect gingerly picks a sherd up and examines it from various angles. “Perhaps, when new, they make decent blades?” he offers. “Axes? Arrow heads?”
Rakel shrugs. “Do you think your mother will have a better idea? Or the Losian imperial wife? Or Yaita? Has she woken up yet?”
“She is here and in a stable condition,” I assure her. “Though she still sleeps much of the day. And we won’t tarry long. Zostar has diverted from his route to Aphorai City and marches for Lostras, no doubt having got wind of the new capital.”
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