Talwyn didn’t say a word, but she let her hand graze over Whitney’s arm on her way by. Whitney unconsciously watched her pass as they moved forward. Then he felt something solid connect with his back. He stumbled forward several steps.
“Eyes off, you little piss,” Conmonoc said. “You got lucky. It won’t happen again.”
“Do you really want to lose another scuffle, right here, in front of the Glass army?” Whitney asked, gesturing to the line of soldiers posted along the bridge. “Thought so.”
Conmonoc stopped and ground his teeth in frustration. It took him a few seconds to come up with anything to say in return. “Out of my way!” he grunted, shoving Gentry and spilling the peanuts before stomping off.
Aquira was so fixated on the nuts, she didn’t snap at him but Whitney knew she would have. One of them flew over the side of the bridge. She dove off after it and into the bottomless gorge before swooping around on the other side and startling a guard.
Whitney chuckled. “Just don’t get her fat, kid.”
Gentry’s eyes went wide. “No more, okay?” he said, sticking his finger into Aquira’s face when she returned. She nibbled at his finger. “No.” He stowed the bag, once again taking Whitney’s words at face-value. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Fierstown!”
“Just, Whit—“ he sighed. “Don’t let her go hungry either.”
Gentry offered a firm nod.
As Whitney crossed the bridge, he took in the structure as if for the first time. Perhaps it was his time spent in Elsewhere which made him begin to appreciate the land of the living, or maybe it was what Talwyn had said, remarking on the beauty of the Gorge, but the bridge was a serious feat of engineering.
Spanning across the massive Jarein Gorge, white, sparkling almost, the bridge rose up several stories on both sides with slots carved out in various shapes: galler birds, swords and shields, and of course Eyes of Iam. In its center, a large arch crossed overhead. Gleaming white statues crested its peak, each one representing a kingdom Liam had conquered. When he caught the others at the east end of the bridge, he realized the sky was turning a sickly shade of green. He knew they wouldn’t have long to get to Fettingborough before the light rain they’d experienced all day turned into a deluge. And they were still at least a couple hours away.
“We should pick up the pace,” Whitney said to Modera. “This storm could be as bad as the last one.” She and her husband had stopped as soon as they’d reached Pantego soil again so they could be helped back into their caravan.
“That was excellent work back there, Mr. Fierstown,” Modera said. “But we’ll get there when we get there.”
“But—”
“And Whitney.” Modera stuck her arm out of the carriage and waved him over. She grabbed his hand when he got close, and when she removed it, Whitney found the five extra autlas he’d spared them in his palm.
“Your debts from Grambling are forgiven,” Modera said. “Keep it up, we may convince you to stay with us after Panping.” She drew her curtain closed before he could answer.
A few actors who’d overheard scowled at him but said nothing.
Except for Conmonoc. The big, ugly brute just couldn’t help himself as he shouldered Whitney and said, “Shog-eater.”
“What is his problem with you?” Gentry asked.
“Well, when you’re born as ugly as he is, it’s difficult to deal with the ravishingly handsome.”
Gentry laughed.
“What’s funny?” Whitney asked, straight-faced. Then he gave the smallest hint of a smile until he found Talwyn watching him. He straightened his collar and tried not to look back.
A crack of lightning in the distance put some pep into the troupe’s step as they rounded a wrinkled rock-face. Whitney matched their speed. He took a long stride and when he brought his foot down, it didn’t immediately connect with the ground. He felt the wetness of the mud as high up as his thigh. Gentry stifled a laugh and helped Whitney out.
“You know,” Whitney said, “I thought this whole traveling performer thing would be a lot more grandiose.” He shook off his leg.
Gentry leaned over to help him.
Around the bend, the Eastern Wildlands greeted them, with barely a tree to be found on the horizon. Whitney rarely spent time in the region. It was tough to sneak about without trees.
“First, Fettingborough. Then, the Wildlands.”
XV
THE DAUGHTER
A hard thunk reverberated in Mahraveh’s ears as her spear spun out of her hand, and she brought her other arm up to block her face from the imminent attack. The attack never came.
“I don’t understand why I have to fight with this,” Mahraveh said when she’d opened her eyes and saw her father standing before her with that smirk on his face she’d come to despise. The one that said, “I know better than you, sand mouse.”
“Stop laughing at me!” she shouted. “Give me my bow and I’ll show you what I can do.”
“A bow might be fine for killing lizards and snakes, but it will do you no good in a real fight.”
Mahraveh’s brow furrowed deeper. “Why not a sword, like you?”
“You are small. Every opponent you fight will have a greater reach. This is called evening the playing field.”
“More even if I shoot them dead from a distance,” Mahi argued.
“Fine,” Muskigo said. “Go get your bow.” He pointed to the right, behind a tree where Mahraveh’s short bow rested along with a few arrows. There were always arrows there.
She stared back at him, unsure what angle he was playing.
“Go.”
Even as his daughter, Mahraveh knew when Muskigo gave a command, you listened the first time. She scampered over and grabbed her bow, then returned to him. Before she’d made it back, Muskigo clapped his hands. Two of her father’s men were on top of her without her even registering movement.
“Please, show me how your bow will help you?” Muskigo said.
Mahraveh grunted as the men dug their fingers into her arms. She fought and struggled, but the bow fell from her grip. Her boot met one of the warrior’s shins, and he winced but didn’t let go.
Muskigo approached her and she waited for her punishment, closing her eyes.
“Open your eyes, sand mouse,” he said.
Through her eyelashes, she regarded him and saw a different sort of smile.
“You do not know what gift you have here in Saujibar. Anywhere else in the Black Sands and you’d be punished for even asking to touch a weapon. Here, you’ve mastered your bow, and now I’ve presented you with this.” He held out the spear she’d dropped. “Its blade is fine and sharp—balanced without rival—yet you complain that I train you in its use.”
“I am sorry, father.” Mahraveh’s head hung to her chest. She felt a finger against her chin, lifting her head. She opened her eyes and Muskigo’s stared back at her.
“Take it,” he said, referring to the outstretched spear. “You never know when you will find yourself in need of the protection it provides.” He nodded to his men and they let her go. She considered lashing out at them, mostly from embarrassment, but instead, she grabbed the weapon from her father’s hand.
“Now, let’s try this again.”
Shavi didn’t stick around longer than to see Mahraveh spring from her bed.
What is going on?
Beyond the black mud walls of her home, she could hear familiar sounds. Metal against metal. Angry cries as well as anguished ones. There was a battle going on in Saujibar.
She hadn’t even yet taken off her boots from the trek with Jumaat from Latiapur.
Jumaat! she thought. He wasn’t a fighter, not really. No one left in Saujibar were fighters. She heard screams in Saitjuese, and her first instinct was blaming Babrak. He saw his opening and now could complete his revenge against her father for being the better man.
“For Oxgate!” came a shout outside from a Glassman. And then, “Bridleton!” and “Troborough!”
Mahraveh didn’t know what any of those words meant, but the voices belonged to Glassman. She darted across the room and hefted a long object wrapped in a simple silk scarf. She laid it on her bed and carefully unwrapped it, revealing a long, wooden shaft topped with a sharp triangular blade. Lifting it, she turned it over in her hands a few times to find its balance. She grabbed its scabbard hanging from a hook on the wall, then laced it over her shoulder.
Despite the coming of spring and the hot days, a chill wafted in through the open window, remnants of the south’s coldest winter Mahi could remember. She ran to it and peered outside. She couldn’t see any of the Glassmen from her room. As she ran through the open curtain, she grabbed her short bow and a few arrows.
The benefit of adobe homes was they didn’t burn easily. Even the blackwoods were stubborn and took more than a little effort to catch. So she knew the raid wouldn’t be as easy as throwing a few torches and waiting for the Shesaitju to burn alive or flee into waiting blades.
Her room was upstairs, and her window faced away from the town and the oasis, but her father’s room overlooked the whole place. She crossed the hall and came to the only room with a solid door. She expected it to be locked, knowing her father rarely permitted anyone into his quarters, but it wasn’t. She flung it open and immediately, the voices of the Glassmen grew louder, coming through the window.
She sneaked in the darkness and sidled up to the opening, then glanced out. Below, men in silvery armor and swords lined up the villagers near the fire pit. Amongst them, she now saw Shavi. Mahraveh swore.
She continued scanning the line. To her small relief, there was no sign of Jumaat. But there were at least a dozen Glassmen, and even more moving from structure to structure, ransacking, searching for more Shesaitju.
She noted their armor, recalling her father’s teachings on its strength, but also that a well-placed Shesaitju arrow, barbed as they were, could pierce through. She couldn’t take a chance of one bouncing off harmlessly and giving away her position. Only one of them wore a helmet, but large fins protruded from each of their pauldrons to block sideways attacks.
The one wearing the bright white helmet began speaking. “Listen close, gray men.”
At that, several children began to sob. Some of the older folks did too. A sour feeling stirred in Mahraveh’s stomach.
“Your behavior over the next few minutes could be the difference between life and us burning you alive as you did to so many of our friends and family.”
“Burn them all, Sir Nikserof!” shouted one of the other soldiers.
The one in the white helm, called Nikserof, raised his gauntleted hand, and silence followed.
“We are not animals, Sir Porthcombe. We, unlike they, have a merciful God. Although we can’t simply ignore the transgressions of their afhem, we are smart enough to know the difference between him and his ilk. These are common folk, old men, women, and children. Except… this one.” He stopped at a particularly young man with only one leg and pulled him to his foot by the scruff of his neck.
Mahraveh could feel red-hot anger rising from within her. Before she knew it, she was nocking an arrow against the string of her bow.
Calm down, she told herself.
“What are you doing here while real men are off at war?” Nikserof asked him.
The man’s mouth stayed shut like stone.
“Show mercy, he only has one leg!” Gah’ra, one of the Shesaitju called out. He was immediately met with a backhand for his efforts, and the rest of the town sucked in air.
Nikserof dropped the young man back to the ground and sauntered over to the old Shesaitju who’d just been downed. Nikserof glared at him. “Mercy? Do you know how many of my men died in Winde Port at the hands of your master?” He plunged his sword down into the man’s chest. Gah’ra groaned as he grasped at it, and the sound of his bones crunching was covered by Mahraveh’s people’s sobs.
My people. The thought sparked something within her. If her father wasn’t here, and Farhan was dead, who was left to rule them? To serve them?
Mahraveh stepped fully into the opening and brought her bow up.
“We didn’t start this war!” Nikserof yelled. “Your master did. Now I don’t know how you people live down here, but if you give me the answer I need, you may yet continue in this humid wasteland. Does Afhem Mosquito have any family, and are they here?”
“Muskigo,” Mahraveh growled under her breath as she steadied herself and drew back. Perhaps she couldn’t kill Nikserof, with his helmet and armor, but one of his men, the one called Porthcombe, the one who’d called for every last one of her people to be burned alive stood with his back turned to her. The base of his skull was uncovered and open to attack.
When she looked back to Nikserof, he had his sword to the neck of one of the children—Branethra’s daughter—while Branethra cried and shouted from somewhere down the line. “Which is the afhem’s house, little gray-skin?” Nikserof asked.
Porthcombe stepped forward when the little girl refused to speak. He drove his sword through Branethra’s left shoulder, and the woman screamed out.
“Hey!” came a cry from behind Mahraveh at the same time.
She spun to see one of the armored Glassmen, already in the house, charging her. She stepped aside, hoping he’d barrel through the open window, but he saw the move coming and ground to a halt. Mahraveh drew her spear, causing the man to take a step back.
“In the name of King Pi, lower your weapon and your judgment will be swift,” he said.
“Of what do I have to be judged? By you nonetheless, pink-skin?”
“Crimes against the Crown, including treason!” He thrust his sword. Mahraveh easily parried the attack, knocking it aside with a downward swipe.
“Is it a fight you desire then?” the Shieldsman asked.
“There doesn’t appear,” she started, blocking another attack, “to be a choice.” She was backed against the wall. The Shieldsman underestimated her, reaching out with his gauntlet to apprehend her. She punched forward with the butt of her spear and connected with the man’s nose. Blood poured down his face and erupted into his eyes. She had him temporarily blinded, and this was her only chance.
He shouted, and as he did, another soldier appeared in the doorway—one of the ones from downstairs. That meant there’d be more. She didn’t hesitate, couldn’t waste the opportunity and brought the sharp end of the spear around. It sliced the attacking Shieldsman’s neck. He gurgled as he collapsed to the black floor, a puddle of blood pooling beneath him.
“You bitch!” the other Shieldsman growled as he entered the room.
Picking up her fallen arrows and bow, she slung it over her shoulder and climbed out the window before the man could grab her. He leaned out, screaming at her and at the men below.
She tossed herself over the flat roof, using the short wall for cover. Mahraveh knew these men weren’t stupid and it wouldn’t be long until she was surrounded. She popped up, aimed for the top of a soldier’s head, and let an arrow fly. His skull shattered from the barbs, and he dropped. She didn’t even wait for him to hit the ground before she fired another arrow. It pinged off another Shieldsman’s armor.
She tossed the bow aside, out of arrows.
She heard shouting from below her, likely the Shieldsman following her up to the roof. If she didn’t act fast, she would be stuck up there with Glassmen on every side of the manor. She ran to the opposite edge, the same side her bedroom window was on. The men weren’t down there yet. She’d climbed up from her window enough times in her life, and there was a blackwood palm she knew she could scale down. But what about Shavi? Jumaat? Could she just leave them to die at the hands of the pink-fleshed devils?
As she began her descent, she heard the clattering of armor as the Shieldsman in pursuit pulled himself over the lip of the roof. “They’re all going to die now, and you’re going to watch!” he shouted, breathing heavily. Climbing down, Mahi wished she’d saved an arrow for that ma
n’s throat.
“I am Muskigo’s mother!” Shavi shouted from the front of the house after Mahi hit the sand. “Take me and leave them be.”
The breath caught in Mahraveh’s lungs. It wasn’t true, though she may as well have been. A younger Shavi had been presented to him as a gift when he won the Ayerabi Afhemate. He never laid a hand on her or made her one of his wives. He merely allowed her to chose to serve his family.
Mahraveh rolled and looked up. The Shieldsman on the roof stared back toward the oasis where the news had likely caused a commotion. Mahraveh scrambled to her feet and ran that way when the unmistakable sound of horse hooves pounding against sand met her ears. Two men on horseback raced around the corner toward her, the steeds barely slowed by the black sands.
“Stop running, and we will show you mercy!” one yelled.
Mahraveh was no fool. She knew her only choice would be to outrun them or fight and she couldn’t outrun a horse without Honey. Stopping, she turned and faced the men.
“Good choice,” the soldier said. “Now make this easy and follow us back to town. You are, what, the afhem’s wife?”
Mahraveh said nothing.
The man tilted his head and said, “Daughter?”
“No,” she whispered. “I am the snake.”
One of the Shieldsmen chuckled. They both hopped down from their horses. “Funny, girl. But whatever you are, the Wearer wants to see you.”
“I will show you no mercy, you know that, right?” Mahraveh asked.
Both men laughed in response. The other Shieldsman lifted his sword and said, “Our swords are bigger than yours, little gray girl.”
With a quick flick of her wrist, Mahraveh’s spear spun within her hand, and she brought it down, jabbing it into the sand.
“Cute move,” the Glassman said. “And a smart one, too. You’d have lost no matter what.”
Mahi’s heart pounded against her chest as the two men closed in on her, now so close she could see the sweat dripping from their brows. She took in a deep breath and fell into the black fist pose.
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