Sunbolt (The Sunbolt Chronicles) (5 page)

My task, at least, should be easy. The Ghost has provided me with a small change purse filled with enough coin to rent a carriage for the night, as well as the name of a merchant who I can claim sent me. There are two establishments that rent carriages, both attached to inns. I feel a twinge of unease when I learn that both carriages have already been rented from the first. But what’s the likelihood that all the available carriages will have been taken?

It turns out the second inn does indeed have one available.

“How do I know you’ll bring it back?” the proprietor demands, eyeing me with suspicion and disdain.

“This is an island,” I say, trying to reason with him. “Where could I possibly take your carriage that the sultan’s soldiers couldn’t find it?”

“Forget the carriage. You could book passage and take the horses with you, make yourself a pretty penny. You want a carriage for your master, tell him to send me a man who looks like he serves a merchant. Not a boy in rags.”

“But—”

“Now get out, or I’ll call the sultan’s soldiers on you myself.”

I stalk outside, furious with myself, wishing I’d argued with the Ghost. Rafiki should have come for the carriage—although I have to admit that the Ghost was right: he does stand a higher chance of being recognized. Still, better that than not managing to get a carriage at all. Or we could have hired an errand boy to pick it up for us. I know a few young men who would do an odd job like this, no questions asked. I let out my breath with a sigh, knowing that wasn’t a valid option either. If they ended up being questioned, they’d have no concern turning us over. No, I was the best choice for this job. And now I’ve failed.
 

I stand for a long moment, surveying the street. It’s roughly cobbled, once a major thoroughfare but now falling into disrepair. The street lies quiet, only a few people passing by on their way home to dinner. I watch them absently: a tall, elderly gentleman with a kind face and a slight limp; two children skipping along, hand in hand; a young man hurrying by, his gaze distant.
 

I shake myself. I’m only prolonging the inevitable. I’d better get moving. The more time we have to change our plans, the better. If only I’d been better suited to the job the Ghost had given me—I nearly trip over my own feet. Better suited? I’m a
thief
. If the man won’t rent me a carriage, I’ll just have to ‘borrow’ one for the night.
 

Kenta would howl with laughter if he knew how long it took me to figure that out.
 

With renewed purpose, I start down the street, never looking back. If Master Khalid, the proprietor, is watching me, I want him to feel confident that I’ve given up. At the next corner, I turn and walk on. I circle around by the smaller alleys to the back road that services his stable. It’s narrow and edged with refuse, dirtier than the paths between the backs of the stalls at the fish market. But then the fishmongers take pride in their market, working together to keep it clean. It’s clear neither Master Khalid nor his neighbors take ownership for the alley that serves the back of their buildings.
 

The inn stands just two buildings down from where the alley comes to an abrupt end at a wall. There’s only one way out. I’ll just have to hope no one is coming in when I need to get out.
 

There aren’t too many good niches to observe the inn from. I settle for scaling a boundary wall across the alley and hiding among the branches of a small, sickly mango tree. I pat the tree trunk in apology before picking the only edible mango in sight: a pock-marked, yellow fruit hardly larger than my palm. Despite its appearance, it smells delectable. I use my knife to carve off slices to eat, licking the juice that dribbles down my fingers as I ostensibly observe the inn.

The length of the stables doubles as the boundary wall of the alley. A derelict metal gate, hinges hanging loose, has been left propped against the wall, leaving the entrance to the yard wide open. I tilt my head, but from my vantage point I can’t spot where the carriage waits. I’d guess it’s inside the yard, probably parked alongside the small stable.
 

I watch the kitchen door and windows as I finish my mango, gauging the movement within. They haven’t yet lit a lamp, so I can’t tell from here if anyone’s looking out. It must be close to dinnertime, which means the kitchens will be busy. It’s not a good time to try to sneak past them. The plan, then, is to sneak as little as possible.
 

Climbing down from my perch, I cross the alley and peek around the corner of the stables. The doors must face the inn yard; not unexpected but certainly not what I would have liked. A glance skyward tells me that I don’t have time to waste on wishful thinking.
 

Gathering my confidence, I stroll into the yard, following the wall of the stable and turning at the corner. The carriage waits in the yard just before the stable, directly opposite the kitchen. It appears to be nothing more than a box with a door mounted atop a set of wheels. Who would want to rent
that?
I’m beginning to think Master Khalid is quite the penny-pinching, close-minded lizard-brain.
 

Breathing a prayer, I saunter up to the stable doors and let myself in, leaving the door cracked behind me. I pause in the semi-darkness, listening for sounds of alarm, but none come. If anyone noticed me, they must have thought I belonged.
 

On my left, a horse whuffles. I blink a few times, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the dark. The interior smells overwhelmingly of manure and damp. The humidity has gotten into the walls, and apparently Master Khalid hasn’t taken it upon himself to care. I let my breath out slowly, unclenching my hands. Not my concern. I just need to select a couple horses, harness them, and get out.
 

The Ghost has no idea how fortunate he is that I’ve worked odd jobs for four years now. For a short time, dressed in boys’ clothes, I’d gotten work at a rich man’s house helping in the stables. That lasted until they realized I was a girl, but it was long enough for me to learn everything I needed to know about harnessing a horse to a carriage. And even a little about how to recognize carriage horses.
 

There are three horses left in the stables, though there are stalls for six. Upon inspection, one of them seems much finer than the other two. He stands a couple hands taller at the shoulder, his coat gleaming in the shadows. Probably a riding horse, I decide. I bring out the other two, leaving one tied to a ring just within the door. They stand of a height, and their builds are similar. I have no doubt they’re the horses I need. Now comes the hard part.
 

“Work with me on this, okay?” I whisper to the chestnut gelding. He swivels an ear towards me. “Quick and quiet, that’s what I need.”

There’s no telling what he thinks of me.
 

I push the door open gently and lead the horse out to the carriage, acting as if I’m only doing my job. The whole time I’m harnessing him, I expect to hear shouts erupt from behind my back. But there’s nothing. As I walk back to the stable, I discreetly glance over my shoulder. There’s movement inside the kitchen, but that’s all I can tell. Either they’re so used to the horses being taken out that they haven’t even bothered to look, or they’re smart enough to know they’ve got time to catch me if they’re quiet about it. I sincerely hope they’re not that smart.

The second gelding, a bay, appears as disinterested in me as he is in pulling the carriage. Once I get him outside, he stands there, unwilling to move an inch, while I yank at the straps and try to get him to move over just a little.
 

“Come on, mud-brain,” I say, almost done with the buckle. “Just shift a little.”
 

He huffs and holds his ground.
 

“Hey! Hey, you!”
 

I don’t look up. Instead, I smack the gelding’s side with my palm and, when he steps sideways, jerk the strap with all my strength. The gelding twists his head around to snap his teeth at me, but he’s buckled in now.

“You—with the horses! What are you doing?”

I look up with a smile. A man steps out of the kitchen door, crossing the dirt yard with long strides. Two more men spill out of the door behind him, followed by three young girls. The whole kitchen crew, it would seem.
 

“Just getting them harnessed,” I call, throwing the reins up to the driver’s bench.
 

The man hesitates, taken aback. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Hamidi,” which is not at all what he meant. I clamber up to the driver’s bench. “Master Khalid knows I’m taking the carriage out.”
 

He stands in the middle of the yard, frowning slightly. The rest of the workers stand about at his back. “He normally has—”

“You!” Master Khalid roars from the window above the kitchen. “Stop that boy! Stop him! Thief!”

I shout to the horses, snapping the reins. The chestnut gelding leaps forward, dragging the bay after him. I keep a tight hold on the reins, letting the gelding do the work to turn the carriage while the bay dithers. The man from the kitchen sprints towards the carriage. He’s moving a lot faster than the horses.
 

The carriage lurches forward as I shout again, the bay clearly uninterested in breaking into a trot let alone a gallop. If only I had a whip, a stick, anything to prod him with! The man leaps for the driver’s bench, his hands closing on the edge as he tries to pull himself up.

“Sorry,” I say, and stamp on his fingers with all my might.
 

He drops down with a shout as the carriage swings out, making the turn onto the road with barely a hand span to spare. Snapping the reins again, I shout at the horses, and spot a whip lying by my feet. I’ve never been so grateful to see one before. I stoop to grab it, nearly losing my balance as the carriage rattles and jerks over the ruts. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of the kitchen staff giving chase, but the alley is too narrow to allow them to run up alongside the carriage. What I need is to get far enough ahead of them that they won’t be able to catch up once the carriage leaves the back road.

I brace myself in the seat and crack the whip—or try to. I’ve never used one before. Cursing, I swing it again, and manage to flick the lazy bay’s hindquarters with the tip. He jumps forward, breaking into a gallop and the carriage sways one way and then the other as the horses panic, too confused to match their strides.
 

We burst from the back road. I haul on the reins, realizing belatedly that we have to turn or we’ll run into the opposite building. The horses’ hooves skid on the cobbles, and the back of the carriage bounces off the corner of the wall. I grab the driver’s bench, nearly losing the reins as the carriage skips sideways across the stones.
 

And then the bay’s hoof catches in a hole where a cobble should have been.
 

He screams, twisting and falling, and the carriage swings around again, slamming against the building opposite as the chestnut staggers to keep his balance. I drop the reins altogether, hanging onto the bench as the carriage tilts crazily, a wheel smashed. The carriage shudders on another pace before grinding to a halt.

I clamber down on shaky legs and circle the horses. If there’s anything I can do to help—but my hopes stutter to a stop with a sickening lurch: the bay’s leg is broken. He pants, his eyes wide and ringed with white, as he tries again and again to stand. The reins are tangled, and the angle of the shaft won’t let him get his balance well enough to stand. Beside him, the chestnut has just managed to keep his feet. He tosses his head, stamping and snorting, the muscles of his neck straining.
 

“Stop him!”
 

The shout pierces the quiet that has wrapped around me. I bolt, darting through the gathering crowd. One man tries to grab my arm as I pass him, but I twist and kick and he releases me with a cry. But now more people are taking up the chase, and I don’t blame them. It’s one thing to make off with a frybread, and a whole other to destroy a carriage and break a horse’s legs.
 

Fear lends me speed for the second time today. I race down another alley, turn and sprint through the open door of a building. I run up the stairs, ignoring the surprised faces of two women chatting before a door, and burst onto the rooftop. Below, I can hear shouts and cries, as well as the thud of feet on the stairs. Someone saw me enter.
 

I take two deep breaths, surveying the surrounding rooftops, and then I begin to run. It’s one jump up to the short wall at the edge of the roof and then—
leap
. I come down on the next building, staggering forward, already searching for the next rooftop. Run, run,
leap.

I’ve done this before, but never in a part of town I don’t know, and never actually running from someone. The third rooftop lines an alley. I take the alley with a flying leap, grateful the next building is somewhat shorter, and come down with enough force to jar my bones in their sockets.
 

I pause to look back. I’ve left my pursuers behind. All except one, a young man who comes to a stop at the edge I just leapt from, gauging the distance. He’s not going to jump.
 

A quick glance to the alley below tells me that the people on the ground haven’t managed to catch up with me yet.
 

“Listen,” I say, meeting the man’s eyes. His gaze narrows. He opens his mouth but I cut him off before he can speak. “I’m sorry about what happened, okay? This is for the horse. Get someone to set its leg properly.”
 

“You’re sorry?” he says, taken aback.

“Catch.” I toss the money pouch the Ghost had given me across the space between us. The man just manages to catch it. He looks down at it, heavy in his palm, then back up at me.
 

“It’s for the horse,” I repeat.
 

Then I turn and run. I put two more roofs between myself and the chase, then swing down to a balcony, using the wooden lattice as a makeshift ladder. I drop the last few feet to the ground, brush off my clothes, and begin walking.