Exile (25 page)

“It’s from the moons,” Shisa whispered. She indicated two orbs dropping in the sky.

“What’s from the moons?”

“The Moonling’s dapples. Haven’t you seen them on Sohalia?”

Draken shook his head. “A woman once told me Sohalia betrays secrets if you’re not careful to keep them.”

Shisa smiled thinly. “You’ve friends among the Gadye.”

“I had one.” Draken sobered, thinking of Galene.

“You are the curiosity, aren’t you?”

Warning breathed across Draken’s bare back. “How so?”

“Consider your company. A Brînian traveling with an Escort.”

“I’m an Escort as well,” Draken corrected her.

“Aye, my lord.”

The moonwrought trinkets at her temples gleamed. She let the raft ride the current for a moment, holding her pole across her body like a weapon, handling the awkward length with practiced ease. The banks slipped away like black oil down a drain.

“You love the river?” Draken asked.

“It’s my home.”

“Do creatures swim below?”

“Many animals swim this river, searching for their prey, trying to survive, as we all do. Existence of one life always costs another,” Shisa said, swirling the water with her pole. She hadn’t looked at him once during their conversation. “Curious Va Khlar would be interested in you. His clan don’t often let themselves be seen, except recently on the river, and in Reschan.”

“What do you know about Va Khlar?”

“Never mistake them as allies, or even enemies. They spend love nor hatred on naught but themselves.” She finally lifted her gaze to his face, two worry lines graven between her brows. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say more.

He reached out and laid his hand on her arm. Her bicep quivered under his fingers. He felt Bruche shift under his skin. He wanted the driver. “You don’t even know me, and yet you sound as if you care for my well-being.”

“The people need someone to trust,” she whispered, “and they seem to think it is you.”

“You’ve heard of me on your river as well, then.”

“The Queen takes a Night Lord and word of it spreads like disease.” Draken realized they were standing very close, heads bent together as they spoke lowly. Shisa’s pole dropped back into the water and the raft slowed. “You’re good with a sword?”

“Better than good,” Draken said, meaning it as a complement for Bruche.

The raft bumped to a halt and Draken looked up to see it rested against a dock.

“May it serve you well, my lord, because you’re going to need it in Reschan.”

Chapter Sixteen

F
lickering torches, meager against the coming dawn, revealed a contingent of guards fronting a tall wooden gate. The walls disappeared into the woods on either side, though a giant tower topped the trees. The guards looked a ragtag lot, faces dirty and suspicious. A lucky few wore mail shirts.

One called a challenge. “Who arrives in the moon-time?”

“Shisa of the droghers, delivering passengers to Reschan,” Shisa called back, flipping her braids over her shoulder.

A guard broke away and trotted down the short slope to the dock. His face was concealed by his cloakhood, but as he ran it fell back to reveal a mask. Silvery-white moonwrought, it sank into the flesh so his skin was flush with the metal. It concealed his left eye and cheek, from his eyebrow to his jaw. An eye was sculpted and painted on the mask—a beautiful, glowing orb which so closely resembled his real one that Draken stared until he recalled it was rude.

The young man leapt past Draken onto the raft, tipping it precariously, and into Shisa’s arms. She was taller than him by half a head, and he younger by five or six Sohalias. His many long braids were just the color of hers.

She kissed him on both cheeks, the metal-clad one and the warm, flesh one, and held him back to look him over. “Why are you on guard?” she demanded. “You’re much too young, Thom.”

He scowled. “Sister, put your worry aside. I’m of age, and we need every man.” His quick gaze traveled across the faces of the little company, who had roused themselves at the guards’ challenge. He dropped his chin when his eye caught on Elena’s pendant. “My lord.”

“Why do you need every man?” Tyrolean asked. “What’s happened?”

“Va Khlar raids, Captain,” Thom said, inclining his head. “Three guards killed and warnings for more. They rarely make paths without bloodshed. Are you hurt? Can I help?”

“On the mend, thanks,” Tyrolean replied. He jerked a thumb toward Draken. “My lord sewed me nearly as well as a Gadye would.”

Thom nodded, but his single eye, piercing in its astuteness despite the youth of its owner, had come to rest on Osias’ face. He inclined his head again and said, his voice low with awe, “My Lord Mance, an honor to greet you.”

Osias touched his fingers to his forehead and gave his customary bow. “Peace be upon you.”

Draken distracted himself from Thom’s mask by turning away to pull on his armor and collect his belongings. Damp heat, scented by river muck and unwashed bodies, hung low over the Erros, but a cooler breeze ruffled the curls around Setia’s face. She looked up at Draken.

“I don’t like this place,” she whispered. “The Gadye frighten me.”

And I don’t like the looks of those guards
, Bruche added.

“They’re all right, Setia,” Tyrolean said as she helped him on with his sword harness. “They’re healers, not warriors.”

“Even so,” Setia whispered, “they always know secrets.”

Draken curled his lip as they stepped off the raft and strode up the dock. The fresh water smells gave way to rubbish, dirty animal, and worse.

Osias hurried to catch up to Draken. “Speaking of, friend, hold your secrets close. Strange magic wards this place.” He glanced up at the guard tower, nearly concealed by tall trees, and paused to inquire of the gate guards, “Has a Mance passed this way recently?”

“Not what we’ve seen,” one answered, bobbing his head with gruff respect.

“Who is captain here?” Tyrolean asked the guards at the gate. Two more were Gadye and the rest of indistinguishable race, though one had outlined eyes.

They shifted on their feet before one stepped forward. His tone was grudging. “I suppose it would be me, my lord.”

“Your guard reports serious Va Khlar activity. I am First Captain Tyrolean of the Queen’s Guard. How might I aid you?” Tyrolean asked.

The man lifted his chin, eyes white and skittish as they took in their party. “We’ve no need of more Escort blades just now, First Captain. The Baron holds Reschan fair.”

“To your own, then,” Tyrolean said, slapping his chest in haughty salute and turning on his heel before they could salute him back.

“The Baron isn’t loyal to Elena?” Draken asked Tyrolean as they strode away.

“Urian was loyal to her father because he awarded the Peerage,” Tyrolean said. “I’m not so sure of his feelings toward our Queen.”

The reek of filth overwhelmed Draken once they were inside the gates. They passed by the watchtower under the surly glares of four more guards who were as filthy as their compatriots at the gate. Pale, unwashed faces appeared in unshuttered windows and open doorways. The first dregs of daylight revealed a hard mud street. Litter and sludge cluttered the corners where the road met the derelict buildings. Corralled next to an inn, a group of bony, uncurried horses snuffled uselessly at the mottled bare ground.

Shisa stopped in front of the inn and gestured. “Cleanest couches in town, which says little. Alert a gate guard when you want to leave. They’ll know where Thom is, who will know where I am.” She waited while Tyrolean paid her.

“Half now,” he said. “Half when we reach Brîn.”

She rolled the coins around on her palm and gave him a crisp nod before starting away, Thom at her heels.

“Wait,” Draken said, catching her arm. “Keep safe. We won’t be here but a day or so.”

Her grin was ragged. “It’s you who should keep safe with that fair bauble round your neck. Even the Baron doesn’t spend much love on Queensmen.” She lifted her eyes to Tyrolean. “Best keep the greens out of sight. Things’ll go smoother if you do.”

Draken released her, still feeling reluctant. She and Thom trotted off together without a backward glance.

So much for that one,
Bruche said.

Tyrolean grinned. “Fancy the river-woman, do you, Draken? A man of varied tastes; I can appreciate that.”

Osias laid his hand on Draken’s sore shoulder and rubbed gently, sending an unwanted quiver of appreciation down his back. “Shisa’s right. Escorts won’t be well accepted here if the gate guard was any indication.”

“I wonder if we should do something about it?” Tyrolean said.

“We’re not on a diplomatic mission, nor here to discipline them,” Draken said. “We’re only here to find Aarinnaie.”

“And warn them of the banes, if we get a chance,” Osias added.

Tyrolean said no more on the matter, but he muttered under his breath at the sight of a group of Greens staggering in the opposite direction, clearly drunk. Their cloaks were ragged and stained and their armor incomplete.

Though it was early in the day and no one had any thoughts of sleep, they took rooms to have a place to leave their belongings. Without their asking, the innkeep, a man thin with perpetual exhaustion, assured them their quarters were secure enough by jabbing his thumb toward a heavy man with a sword posted by the door up to the rooms.

Once they found the rooms—where Tyrolean complained the couches were barely large enough for a child and Draken retorted he doubted they would find much opportunity to sleep anyway—they removed all traces of fealty to the crown save the pendant. Tyrolean insisted a real disguise for Draken was to go bare-chested, showing evidence of strength and battle scars as Brînians did. Truth, it was already so hot and humid Draken was glad for the air on his skin. He didn’t dare leave the pendant in the room, so he turned it to display the coiled snake of his “homeland.” After dressing, they found a table in the crowded common room. Two harried servers, no older than twelve Sohalias, rushed between tables, trying in vain to fill bowls in a timely manner.

“Rough lot,” Tyrolean said, glancing around at the crowd.

Most looked to be traders, with packs of goods at their feet and mistrustful, narrowed eyes. The loud conversations revolved around market business.

“I believe we’ve drawn attention of those two Gadye in the corner,” Osias mentioned.

Draken scanned the room. He saw the men Osias meant, but he let his gaze wander on as if he hadn’t noticed them. They spoke with their fingers.

Tyrolean had let his hair loose, shaggy around his face, and set his elbows on the table, protecting his bowl. His shoulders slouched as badly as the rest of the patrons. Clad in a plain homespun tunic with his unconventional swords strapped to his back, no one would have guessed him to be First Captain in the Queen’s army.

He poured some gruel into his mouth and didn’t bother to hide his grimace at the poor, watery taste. “Aye, they’re fair interested in us, all right.” He reached for his flagon and took a long drink, eyeing Draken over the rim. “You don’t think you’ll be finding Aarinnaie here?”

Draken shrugged. “Truth? I don’t know. If Va Khlar really has taken her hostage, then Reschan would be a fair place to keep her.”

“Keep to their own here, they do,” Tyrolean agreed.

“Aarinnaie is clever,” Setia said. “They won’t be able to fool her for long if it’s what they’re about.”

They finished their meal and rose to leave. As they passed through the doorway, Draken thought to look back for the men in the corner, but they were gone.

The market butted up to a huge stone barricade. As they stopped at a booth for fruit to supplement the poor meal they’d had, Draken asked the stall tender what was behind the wall.

“Baron’s Keep. Always locked up in his comfort, away from the common.”

“Doesn’t he ever come out?”

The tender considered, scrunching his creased face. “The last time I saw him was two Sohalias past, back before the wife died.”

“Will he come out for this one?”

The stall tender gave a quick negative jerk of his chin. “Don’t know. Got no use for his green guards anyway. Let that lot loose and all sorts of nastiness follows. Bad as Royal Escorts,” he added before turning his attention to his next customer, a pretty Brînian woman who gave Draken an admiring smile. A grubby boy clung to her skirts.

Tyrolean led the way through the narrow aisles created by the market stalls. Most weren’t proper stalls at all, but wares laid on the dirt, or, for the more prosperous vendors, clever folding tables. Draken studied the wares with interest: great baskets of tri-colored fruit; bright, squealing birds; luminescent lizards; a large booth of skinned and gutted animals; gleaming armor and other leather-wares; a small stall of what first appeared to be nuts but upon closer inspection turned out to be shelled creatures meant for boiling and eating. Gems and stones and storage items and tools and blades and moondials; delicious-smelling stews and foul medicines; animal traps and weaponry. Piles of draping fabrics from fine silk-like weaves to the rough stuff of Tyrolean’s tunic awaited a day of brisk trade. The tenders crouched on their heels as bargaining slowly grew to a deafening din.

The people were of all races: Akrasian women draped in fine silks, bare-chested Brînian mercenaries who sized Draken up with hard stares, white-cowled priestesses, masked Gadye offering herbs and tonics. One stall tender must have been a fullblood Moonling; she was a tiny thing with a mop of bark-colored curls, smooth, dappled skin, and black eyes which narrowed when they lit on Setia’s face.

“We’re attracting attention,” Tyrolean said. “Too much of the wrong sort, I think.”

“I suggest we separate,” Draken said. “Cover more ground. Tyrolean, you come with me, and Setia and Osias stay together.”

“But we must use caution. Va Khlar is a delicate topic,” Tyrolean said.

“Right. But if Aarinnaie,” Draken lowered his voice around the name, “has been seen, we’re sure to find someone who will speak of it for the right price.”

“Second moonrise at the inn, then,” Osias said.