The Seer - eARC (18 page)

Chapter Eleven

Amarta tentatively put weight on her injured ankle, suppressing a wince. Dirina helped her from the horse to one of the covered wagons.

“We take a chance with you,” said Jolon, the small man they had spoken with at Nesmar Port. He lifted Pas from where he stood next to Dirina and set him inside the wagon.

“You won’t be sorry,” Dirina said with conviction as she helped Amarta limp forward.

“We hope this is so,” replied the woman who had come back for them, Mara, with a sober glance at each of them.

Amarta did, too. Having left Enana and her family in the path of the shadow hunter, she wondered just how safe it was to help them.

With Mara’s help she climbed up into the wagon, finding an open spot among casks and sacks of grain, bails of hay in the corners, and blankets wadded into the spaces between. Through a rip in the wagon’s tarp, in the twilight, she saw another of the small, striped horses walking by. They settled in and then, from all around the wagon, voices began a trilling soot-soot-soot half-song. The wagon jerked forward and began to roll.

“Where are we going?” Amarta asked Dirina as her sister took Pas into her lap.

“Away from here,” Dirina said adamantly.

Away was a good direction. But he would follow, surely.

She could imagine him arriving at the riverside barge dock the next morning. But so many people had walked and rode and wheeled up and away from the dock, across banks and riverrock. Surely he could not track them among all the others’ footprints.

He could have lost their track anywhere between the farmhouse and Nesmar Port. In the forest. At crossroads. Surely it would be impossible for him to determine what direction they had gone, let alone that they had climbed into a wagon.

Just as it was impossible to know the gender of a foal whose mother did not yet even show her pregnancy?

With that troubling thought, Amarta lay back on the blankets.

The wagon stopped suddenly. Amarta sat up, waking, not remembering falling asleep. Outside, it was full dark.

Mara opened the tarp flap at the back, a lamp in her hand. “Come,” she said.

They climbed out. Dirina took Pas off to a nearby tree.

Around the wagons, the small tribespeople in their odd rag and leather clothes were making camp, feeding and watering their carthorses and the smaller ones with stripes. A fire was going, and someone was preparing food.

Mara looked at her. “We will feed you, too, lost girl. To sit here.” She took Amarta’s arm and helped her limp over to a fallen log.

Her mind was on their pursuer. He might even believe that they had gotten on the barge that they had just missed.

Somehow she didn’t think so.

Around her, tribespeople were making camp with a practiced ease that she had never seen before. They had grown up together, she supposed, surprised at the intensity of the ache of envy she felt.

Jolon sat beside her on the log, a lamp in one hand, bread in the other. He handed her the bread, which she nibbled gratefully. “Do you still hurt?”

For a moment she was stunned—how could he know?

He meant the ankle.

“Much better, thank you,” she lied. They could not afford to be thought of as a burden. Even if they were.

“Those you run from. You worry. It is not needful.”

She shook her head, denying the worry, denying the assurance, not sure how much to admit. She looked for Dirina for guidance, but her sister was elsewhere with Pas, helping prepare the food.

And that was good: they must seem useful enough to be worth the risk, and hide the trouble they really were. Amarta saw another tribeswoman kneeling to talk to Pas, smiling, and she felt relief; if Pas were sweet, that might be one more reason not to leave them by the side of the road. Which they probably should.

She realized that Jolon was still watching her. She hoped she hadn’t shown too much of what she’d been thinking. “Where are we going?” she asked.

He smiled. “Somewhere safe.” He considered a moment, then crouched down in front of her, set his lamp on the ground, and motioned her close. Smoothing a bit of dirt flat, he drew an oval with a finger. On the lower side of the shape he made a long, thick, wavy line. “We follow the river road, here.” On the near end of the oval he made a small mark. “This is where we camp now. This”—at the far end of the oval, he pointed—“is where we took you with us, at Nesmar Port. Where are the ones who follow you?”

Hesitantly she pointed to an area to the side of the oval. “He was here, I think.”

“He? You mean he is one man?” At her nod, he gave a short laugh. “One is not enough. No more worry for you. We are Teva.” At her look, he made a thoughtful noise. “You have not heard of us?”

She shook her head.

“We are Teva,” he repeated, sitting back on his heels, a playful smile on his face. “We are so fierce that Arunkel kings and queens bribe us to be on their side. Some say it is our clever nature. Some say it is our laughter. Some say it is shaota.”

“Shaota?”

“The horse you called pregnant. And her brothers.” He gestured to the striped horses.

Amarta looked over at the small creatures, nibbling at grass. “You don’t halter or tether them. Won’t they wander away?”

“No, they . . .” He seemed to consider a moment, then stopped himself. “Yes, sometimes, it is true. But rarely. It is not like . . .” He moved a hand in the air, searching for words. “They are not slaves, like the carthorses. They belong to themselves.”

“To themselves?” She had never before heard of such a thing. “Then why do they not leave?”

He frowned a little, his gaze on the horses. He made a guttural chuffing sound, and one of the horses turned her head to regard him for a moment before she turned back to her grazing. He suppressed a chuckle.

“They like us,” he said with a shrug. “We are Teva. Who does not like Teva?”

The wagons continued south. Some days later, Dirina asked for and gained from the Teva thread and needle to repair the various tears in the seams on both sides of the wagon’s tarp. Amarta watched her fiddle, thinking it more likely, given the rattling and swaying of the wagon, that she’d stab herself than mend anything.

But Dirina was right to try. The more useful they were, the better.

As she began to work on the tarp, Amarta curled around Pas on the blankets, awaking as the wagon suddenly jolted to a stop.

Dirina hissed, sucking on a finger.

Far distantly they could make out voices and shouts and something that might be screams. Dirina held her hands out for Pas. He crawled over to her. After a long moment, Jolon put his head in at the back of the wagon.

“We come now to a town. There is no way around it. You stay inside and be silent, yes? No matter what, yes?”

“Yes,” Dirina said.

His eyes flickered quickly between them. “One last time I ask you. Tell me true. You do not run from Arunkel soldiers?”

“No,” Dirina said firmly, and Amarta also shook her head, agreeing.

“Good,” he said, but he seemed worried, and he looked at them a moment longer. To Pas: “You stay quiet, yes?”

Pas nodded.

Then Jolon left. The trilling soot-soot-soot song, and then the wagons jerked forward.

What were they going into? What was about to happen?

A pointing finger, followed by a shout. Hands grabbed for her, yanking her from the wagon. Sleeves of red and black. Dirina shouted. Pas screamed.

Amarta scrambled over the straw and crates to the largest of the rips in the tarp and clamped it shut with her hand, looking out the tiny opening that remained.

“Ama,” Dirina whispered.

Amarta held a finger to her lips for silence.

As the wagon rolled forward, the voices and shouts grew louder. Amarta smelled smoke, heard distant wailing. She made a gesture to Dirina to get down. Her sister wrapped her arms around Pas and burrowed into the blankets.

A shout to halt. The wagons stopped. Horse snorts, footfalls. Amarta peeked through the pinhole opening.

Two large horses. Then three. Men atop them, wearing red and black.

“Identify yourselves,” said a male voice.

“We are Jolon and Mara al Otevan,” answered Jolon, who was mounted on his shaota.

“You have picked a poor time to visit Arteni, Jolon and Mara of the Teva. What is your business here?”

At the sound of the voice, Amarta felt a shock of familiarity. Where had she heard it before? Memory of the past, or glimpse of the future? She could not tell.

“No business here, ser. We only pass through.”

Amarta tried to see the face of the large man atop the dark horse, but could not. His back was to her.

“Where are you going?”

“The markets of Munasee,” answered Jolon. “To trade and sell. If there is anything remaining, perhaps on to Perripur.”

“Captain,” said a new voice, and Amarta managed to move a little to see a soldier on foot. “The town council and families have barricaded themselves in the basement of the mayor’s mansion.”

“Did you explain that it is the king’s will that they put themselves in our custody?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Say it again. Slowly and loudly, so there is no confusion.”

“Then break down the door and drag them out?” The soldier’s voice had an eager edge to it.

A pause. “No. Burn it.”

“Ser?”

“Give them a count of ten to come out and then burn the mansion.”

“So that they come out, Captain?”

“No, so that they die. No one comes out.”

“But . . .” Another voice. “They have children there, too, ser.”

“Good. I want the townspeople watching to clearly understand what comes of disobeying the king’s orders.”

“Yes, ser.”

Sounds of footsteps departing.

Another voice: “Shall we inspect the Teva wagons, Captain?”

“What do you say?” This from Mara, who was standing just outside Amarta’s field of vision. “You cannot, we are—” She stopped suddenly. From a slight movement, Amarta guessed Jolon had put a hand on her shoulder. Jolon slipped off his horse to his feet and turned to the captain, hands wide and open.

“We offer no challenge, Captain. We only want the road. We are Teva, friends to your king and empire some three hundred years.”

“I know this,” the captain said. After a moment he tilted his head toward the wagon in which the three of them hid. “What exactly do you transport, Teva?”

“Shall we take a quick look, Captain?” Again, the eager tone.

Apparently the captain’s hesitation was taken as approval; one of his men dismounted and left Amarta’s sight, walking in the direction of their wagon. She pulled back, looking alarm at Dirina.

Jolon laughed—a loud, hearty laugh, full of such sincerity that it drew Amarta back to the pinhole to look. Through the opening she saw that she was not alone in this; everyone had stopped to look at him. She very much hoped that included the man who had been walking toward them.

“Let me show you, Captain,” Jolon said, still sounding amused.

A long moment later the back flap pulled open. Dirina flattened and cringed, Pas tucked under her, while Amarta kept her hand clamped tight around the ripped opening.

Jolon looked around inside the wagon as if they were not there at all. He dug under the hay and blankets, bringing out a cloth-wrapped package. Then he dropped the flaps and left.

Back in front of the captain, all eyes were on Jolon as he unwrapped the item, then held it up.

It was a hand-high statuette of a shaota horse, painted in chestnut and clay colors, the tones and stripes matching the animals, who looked on curiously. After a moment, the captain reached down and took the offered item.

“Teva children,” Jolon explained, “they paint these. The figures are well-loved in Munasee and Perripur among the high houses.”

“And anyone can have one,” the captain said. “Unlike the horses themselves.”

Jolon ducked his head in agreement. “They sell so fast we cannot make enough. Also these flutes.” With this he held up a small, round item that hung around his neck. “I will play. It makes the shaota laugh. Watch?”

Not far off, a shout turned into a shriek, then a keen howl, which stopped abruptly, sending chills through Amarta. She admired the way Jolon reacted not at all, simply waiting until the voice was done before he put the palm-sized oval to his lips and blew. It was a loud, high note, followed by a rapidly descending cascade of sounds. Behind him one of the shaota opened its mouth and made a similar throaty sound.

Jolon had been right: it almost sounded like laughter.

At this a few of the soldiers standing around also laughed.

“Captain?” came a new voice.

“What?”

“This man is the grain silo keeper. He says he can give you a list of names of the guilty.”

“I can!” A strained voice. “I want immunity, ser Captain. A full list—everyone who spoke in favor of breaking with the crown’s grain contract. Every name. I swear it on the harvest—all the harvests—for all of time, and—”

“Yes, yes,” the captain said, waving the man to silence.

He looked at Jolon thoughtfully a moment. “Be on your way, Teva. Nalas, take a demi-squad and escort them through town. Make sure they get through without incident.” He held the shaota casting down to Jolon from his horse.

“No, no,” Jolon said, hands up to refuse. “A gift, Captain. For you. Or your king. As you see fit.” With that, Jolon gave a small bow.

Only after the voices and smell of smoke were long gone did Amarta dare release the ripped seam she had been holding closed all this time, and only then did Dirina let Pas out from under her.

On they went, horses and wagons, continuing south. A day later, forest gave way to wide lakes and bogs, then a day more and it was farms and fields again, quiet pastures of goats and geese. Then the land turned rocky and spare, with scrub and thick, squat trees that hung low, offering up furry red berries. As the days passed, Dirina and Amarta managed to repair all the rips in the wagon tarp.

Now the ground was a pale, milky-colored rock, dusted with sand, the grasses meager, the small plants few. At last they stopped.

Jolon pulled back the opening. “We are arrived. Gather your things and come.”