I could handle a bandit assault, an unruly road, I could lead a caravan, but when faced with this particular woman I stumbled.
I always feel like I’m somewhere lower, somehow beneath her, struggling to catch up.
As she disappeared behind the door to her room I found myself once again wishing things were different.
My room was much as I had left it. The small single bed. The counter with the wash basin and mirror. The window with thick blue curtains that looked out on an alleyway. The small leather knapsack containing all my worldly possessions lying near the foot of the bed.
I stood before the basin, taking a swig from the flask I had tucked into my coat pocket, before discarding the coat and flask in a pile near my pillow. The vermouth inside was warm, but it was better than the swill at the tavern. I was glad I had taken a room on the lower level, grateful I didn’t have to face another flight of stairs.
“What’s the plan, old boy?” I asked my reflection.
He had no answer, so I collapsed on the bed.
I scratched at my chin. My beard had grown thick over the last few weeks and needed a trimming, but I was too annoyed to take the scissors to it right now. My dark brown hair also could’ve used a cut. It lay shaggily around my square face. I knew I looked shabby.
It’s amazing how everything goes out the window when plans are interrupted so suddenly. It’s like losing your balance, and trying to find your feet again. Though, I supposed, it could be worse. Could be a lot worse.
Pushing myself off the bed and pulling my shirt over my head, I added it to the pile in the corner, then began washing the day’s dust from my face, neck, and chest. I watched the clear water in the basin darken and studied my reflection again. Not sure what I was hoping for. Answers? Some epiphany? I got nothing. Epiphanies are for prophets, not a broken caravan master.
I rubbed my shoulders, my fingers tracing over the knot of scar tissue from the old gunshot wound on my left arm. Memories threatened to resurface, so I buried them beneath another swig. The vermouth burned. I sat onto the bed and rubbed at my knee.
On some level I knew I hadn’t really recovered from Lovat. My experiences still haunted me, following me like my shadow. When I closed my eyes, I’d see the faces of friends and monsters alike. Living and dead. I couldn’t shake it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it was partly why I was drinking more, and partly why I didn’t want to risk the Broken Road.
I had lied to Samantha.
Convincing my company would be easy. They were trail-hard and could handle a little superstition, but could I? Could I protect my people? Too many souls had already been lost on my account. I couldn’t handle losing any more. Safe sounded a hell of a lot better than the unknown right now.
It was hard to face the truth of it: somewhere beneath Lovat I had lost my edge. A chunk of me was missing, and it wasn’t just physical. The caravan master that had walked into that city wasn’t the same man who had hobbled out.
Wensem could see it. Maybe Hannah, we had traveled together enough. Samantha might be aware as well, but she had never traveled with me before. I was certain Taft had no idea.
No, I needed something safe, somewhere safe. I’d find it tomorrow. Enough sulking. Time to get out of the city and back onto a road, any road. Any road besides the Broken Road.
“Tomorrow,” I said to myself.
Tomorrow.
Shaler might allow me to duck out of the contract if I threw enough money at her, and if I caught her in a good mood. It had been a simple enough contract: six cargowains, a load of fresh apples, some pears. A few weeks with the current road conditions. But it wasn’t like we were hauling spices that could wait in an alley. Produce goes bad. Her haul had a time limit, and its expiration was quickly approaching.
Maybe she could find a company to risk the Broken Road. Even if she agreed to change our terms, any amount paid for backing out would put us in the red.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Samantha had gone to bed, so I assumed it was either Hannah or Wensem. I was feeling hungry, and could use some food, maybe get a drink before turning in.
I pulled on a fresh shirt and rose, putting most of my weight on my left leg.
“What’s going on—” I began as I opened the door, but my words caught in my throat, my stomach flipped.
Margaret Shaler stood outside the door flanked by her cousins. She scowled like she had come to do battle.
Carter’s bloody cross.
THREE
“WE HAVE A CONTRACT!”
Margaret Shaler’s rage broke like a rainstorm, her voice thundering, face twisted and angry. I had dealt with difficult clients before, but nothing like this. Irrational, spiteful, and quick to anger. When she met my crew, she had been very vocal with her dissatisfaction. They were too old, too fat, and too green. They weren’t good enough for a Shaler caravan. She couldn’t stand that our company slept under tarpaulins at laager instead of inside the big plastic prairiewains she was accustomed to. She called my crew barbarians, and refused to leave hers behind. Plus, Taft had taken to calling her Maggie instead of Margaret. I’m sure this amused our chuck, but Shaler had been incensed. She wondered aloud why her father had hired Bell Caravans instead of one of the bigger companies, like Frankle out of Hellgate, or Merck if he so desperately needed a Lovatine company. My initial contract had been with her father—some self-proclaimed pillar of the farming community who operated a farm north of Hellgate.
He had sent a telegram saying that I would be dealing with his son, but some accident on the ranch had kept the kid from coming. That left me with Margaret Shaler—his only daughter.
Maybe she had something to prove: she was bullheaded, angry, and her temper was explosive. She cared little that the way was blocked, and lately she was threatening to cut off the deal. I was considering letting her.
“Look, I realize that,” I began, trying to calm the situation. “But you have to understand the situation. Caravan companies are being turned back every day. Go to the gates! Talk to the caravan masters and listen to ’em. There’s no safe route to Lovat. Not right now. Not until this all blows over.”
Shaler huffed and glowered at me. She was younger than me by a few years, but certainly taller. Probably still firmly in her twenties. She was too thin to be a beauty, too angular. Her prominent teeth peeked out from behind a pair of too-small lips. In her anger, she seemed to waver like a shambler. A strand of straw-blonde hair had fallen in front of her face. It whipped around as she spoke, adding to her intensity.
“I have promises to keep, I have deliveries to make, and I can’t sit here idle. The contract is binding and subject to the authority of the local magistrate.”
“I know. I have signed hundreds of them. Doesn’t change the fact that all trade on the Big Ninety is stopped while this trumped-up dispute goes on. Until it’s resolved, we’re stuck,” I shrugged.
Shaler pushed past me into my room with her two cousins trailing behind. The eldest was just old enough to grow facial hair, the other barely into his teens. I was so wrapped up in the discussion that I couldn’t remember their names. I try to memorize the names of everyone in my company, but the vermouth was teaming up with the heat from this argument to do a number on me.
I turned as Shaler sat on the bed, her back straight, her knees locked together. It was the only space to sit in the small room. Her towheaded cousins stood awkwardly to one side, looking nervous. They were even less comfortable in this situation than I was.
“There’s other trails,” she spat, her lips twisting into a sneer.
“Sure, there’s tons of trails. Eventually we’re going to come to the river and what we’re going to need is a crossing. With Applehome gone, that leaves the Grovedare Span as the only safe east-west span. That just happens to be where thousands of Syringan militiamen are currently having it out with the Lovat constabulary.”
I thought of the contract. How do you plan for military action and terrorist road
seizures occurring at the same time? If at all? No amount of travel padding would allow for something that disruptive.
Shaler mumbled something under her breath about the reliability of Lovatine caravan companies and glowered. Had I known her father’s representative was so headstrong, I would have turned him down. I had assumed it would be the Shaler boy. Margaret’s older brother was a jovial—if a tad dense—sort of merchant. A few of the caravan masters I knew had spoken fondly of him. So I had signed the contract with her old man, promising to meet up with his crew in Syringa and guide them to Lovat. Wensem had been wary about signing a deal without meeting the merchant coming along for the run, but the money was good and I was eager, so I jumped at the chance without talking things over with him.
He hadn’t been pleased.
The year before I had taken a job with an importer named Wilem, Black & Bright. It seemed like an easy enough job, but by the end of it, I found myself enveloped in a vast conspiracy involving a bizarre cult led by a creature named Peter Black. The decision had led to the ritual slayings of some of my close friends, almost leading to the deaths of Wensem and his newborn son. Deep down a tunnel beneath Lovat, Black had been killed. That much, I remembered. Beyond that, things were foggy. A murky mess of gunfights, tentacles, and torrents of water, and then I was waking up, choking on the street. I still can’t make sense of it. The doctors tell me it’s shock.
Nearly a year later, the deaths still haunt me.
“What about the river road?” Shaler asked, bringing me back to the trouble at hand. “The Low Road, I believe you roaders call it.”
She spat “roader” like it was a curse.
“South?” I blinked. She knew her trails. On some level I was impressed, but I was too busy trying to save our hides to linger too long on what a rancher’s daughter knew about the roader life.
“Yes, south. You call yourself a caravan master?” She snorted what could have been a laugh and crossed her arms. “I have wainloads of apples and pears, and they’re especially perishable in this heat. They’re due in Lovat in a week. ” She emphasized the last word and threw her hands in the air. “I’m already losing contracts with the city’s importers. The longer we stay in this abhorrent scratch of a city, the more danger it puts my cargo in. Last I checked the contract, it lists you as the party responsible for the safety of the cargo. Black and white.”
She jabbed a finger at me.
“If I had known—”
She cut me off. “Spare me the excuses. I am done arguing. We’ll take the Low Road. Tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll still make Lovat before the cargo rots. Any losses will come out of your final payment.”
All this for some fruit? She was willing to risk the lives of her family's employees and my company for fruit?
I shook my head. “We can’t. The Low Road is blocked as well.”
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked at me. Seeming to study my words, wondering if I was lying.
“The road is blocked,” I said evenly.
“They didn’t say anything about that on the monochromes.”
I nodded. “I know, this is recent. My scout just came back this morning. The Low Road is a good thought, Miss Shaler.” Take note, this is what’s called bootlicking. Usually it works. Usually.
I continued. “It was my first thought as well. The crossing is secure, the route is safe, and while it’s longer, it’s better maintained than the Big Ninety and it has no passes to climb, so it’s almost as fast.”
“So what’s blocking it?” one of the cousins asked. He turned his eyes to his boots when Shaler glared at him.
I explained the situation with the Purity Movement in Destiny.
The two cousins looked at one another, worried looks crossing their faces. It was good to see that there were Shalers capable of emotions other than rage.
Again Shaler threw her hands into the air in exasperation. “I’m done. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I go to the magistrate tomorrow.”
She made a move for the door, but I stepped in front of her. Things were getting out of hand.
“Whoa, whoa. Let’s calm down,” I began, my cool slipping. The last thing I needed was to deal with the Syringan magistrate. “I’ve tried to be nice, and I have tried to be accommodating, but you should really read the rest of your damn contract! I am not just responsible for your haul. I am also responsible for the lives of the people within the caravan, both my crew and your company. It’s my job to make sure everyone arrives unharmed to their destination. It’s why I can’t risk the Big Ninety right now, or the Low Road, or the damned Broken Road. We won’t travel it! Not under my mastering. I’m sorry you might lose your shipment, and we’ll cover the cost as a token of goodwill, but that’s far better than losing your people, wouldn’t you agree?”
She stared at me in silence for a long moment, and I had difficulty reading her expression. Outside the boarding house, the wind picked back up. Raspy promises of more choking dust.
When she finally spoke, it was with a cold emotionless tone and narrow eyes. “What’s the Broken Road?”
Carter’s cross!
I thought over the words that had just passed through my lips.
I wanted to kick myself.
I had been so worked up that I had inadvertently done exactly what I was worried one of my crew would do: I spilled the beans on the Broken Road. By the Firsts, how could I be so stupid?
“It’s nothing. Just road slang.” I tried to act indifferent, running my hands through my hair and doing my best not to scream at myself.
She didn’t go for it.
“You’re lying,” she said, her voice flat.
I rubbed the back of my neck nervously as I looked up at her. The words poured out of me in sputtering bursts. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a… a lie. Sorry. Look, I mentioned it as an example because it’s not safe. Certainly it’s less safe than both the Big Ninety and the Low Road combined. Hell, it’s probably not even passable—it hasn’t been maintained for years. At best it’s a bandit trail, used by smugglers and thieves. At worst, well… depends who you talk to. That’s it. It shouldn’t even be considered on the best of days with plenty of time.”
“Where is it?”
Why wasn't she listening to my warnings?
“North,” I said. “Starts up near Meyer's Falls. There’s a crossing there.” I paused. “If you can call it that.” My stomach was in free fall.
“Bandit trail, you say?” She paused, rubbing an eyebrow.
I nodded, hoping the mention of bandits would dissuade her. Most merchants had a healthy fear of robbers. Can’t really blame them. Thieves in masks stealing your livelihood—that’s unnerving.
Truth be told, you stick to the major routes, you could easily go your whole life without seeing one. The cities do a fine enough job keeping them off the main thoroughfares through patrols. The real danger on a trail is the weather and the wild animals, and those stretches where the trail doesn’t have the funding of a city or a road town to maintain it. Cargowains get bogged down in mud, wheels and axles snap. You could lose an ox or a mule to a hidden pothole.
“Then we’ll take it.”
“No, no, no,” I shook my head. “Look, I’m serious when I say it’s not safe. Bandits are common and the road itself is fraught with trouble. Not to mention that it runs parallel to the Victory wall for a spell. It’s dangerous country. Lawless.”
She studied my face, her expression hard.
“I have my security. You have that maero and his crew for your own. We’ll be perfectly safe. You have a contract to fulfill, Bell. If there’s a route we can take to get my shipment to Lovat, then we’re going to damn well take it. You’ll do your job.” She paused, paced, and then spun on me. “Isn’t that why my father hired you? Isn’t Bell Caravans supposed to be one of Lovat’s finest?”
Damn, I thought. Why couldn’t I keep my trap shut? A knot had grown in my throat, and I really wanted a swig from my flask.
“My crew won’t
work the Broken Road,” I countered.
“Then you’ll find a crew that will,” Shaler snapped back.
I set my jaw.
It’s now or never, I thought to myself. Time to stand your ground and be the leader you were before Lovat.
I took a deep breath. “No.”
“What did you say?” Shaler took one step towards me, and stared down. I could smell her dinner on her breath. Something heavy with garlic.
Stepping back, I looked up at her, my voice calm. “I said no. It’s too dangerous. My first job is the safety of the caravan. I won’t do it.”
“Fine,” Shaler said, looking over her shoulder and motioning with her chin for her cousins to follow. “Magistrate it is. Wake him up. I’ll settle it tonight.”
Syringa’s magistrate had a rough reputation. He was a hard anti-caravan man in a caravan town. A curious dichotomy, but if there was anyone who fit that unusual shape in the universe it was him. He had been elected after a few roughnecks from one of the larger companies had wreaked havoc on some local establishments. Trashing bars, roughing up merchants. The city, in turmoil, had voted him in. He was known for being a ball-breaker and a tough old bird, who more often than not came down on the side of the merchants rather than the caravan companies who fed his city. Roaders hated him. It wouldn’t bode well for me. On paper she had the right of it. Delays due to unforeseen consequences weren’t a part of the contract. If there was a route we could take and I wasn’t taking it, I’d be delaying the caravan’s progress. A breach of contract.
Under any other circumstances, at any other time during any other year, she wouldn’t even have mentioned the contract. They were usually just formalities, done to keep merchants happy and make sure the company got paid. It was rare that they were enforced. A handshake, a smile, that was all it normally took. This sort of thing happened to other companies, not to me. In all my years on the road, this was the first time I had a client using a contract as a weapon.
Staring at Shaler, I tried to go over the fine print as best as I could remember it. Damages. Something about refunds. All written in legal Strutten I could barely comprehend.
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