They had lost them.
“So, tree,” Archer said as they collected themselves to start traveling again, “we're about to go pose a heist on possibly the most terrifying race in all of Aro. Maybe even the most terrifying race in the whole world. Not to make you worried or anything, but we could die. I'd just like to know that you're fully committed to the whole 'collect the pieces of the Heather Stone' thing.” He tilted his head toward Wick in an inquiring way. “Well?”
“I've been thinking the same thing,” Wick said.
Archer brightened.
“About the manghar. I agree, we could die if this goes wrong.”
Archer's face fell into a familiar disgusted expression. Clearly, they were not on the same page here.
Still, Wick forged ahead. “I think we should try a different approach this time. I think we should just approach the manghar and explain what you think is going on, then ask them politely if we could borrow their piece of the Heather Stone. Maybe I can come up with collateral that they can keep until we bring the stone back–”
“Hold up,” Archer interrupted. He crossed his arms and gazed at Wick with a quizzical quirk to his mouth. “I was under the impression that you'd been to manghar territory before.”
Wick was taken aback. “I have.”
“Then I would have thought you'd know that they don't just have nice little conversations with people.”
“I'm a messenger. I know all the important people in Aro,” Wick insisted. “I've met with the Crowned Head before. I've helped him make decisions before. If I handle the situation well enough, this could work out.”
“And if it goes wrong, then what? I think we'll just lose time doing that when all they'll do is tell us no and have us thrown out. Need I repeat, I've already been thrown out of one place on this whole thing. It's no new experience or anything,” he admitted, “but I think I injured something falling from that high when we were thrown out of seraph territory. I don't really want to do it again this soon.”
“Then what would you do? Just race in there and steal from what you just admitted was the most terrifying race in Aro?” Wick demanded.
“Yes,” Archer said decidedly. “Because that's what's worked so far. I don't know why you're still being so difficult when–”
“When I don't know for certain there truly is a problem?”
Anger flared in Archer's eyes. “Don't interrupt me. When it's this obvious that the problem is real, I don't know how you're missing it!” He inhaled deeply and made a noise sort of like a laugh. “I don't know how you don't see it.”
Wick had a sinking feeling that he was missing something. “Don't see what?”
“All the warning signs. You didn't see any of it?” Archer waited, watching Wick's face, and slowly shook his head. “I thought you knew history. I don't know much of it, but when I was little, I was very interested in hearing about the last time the Scorch attacked, and I remember all the weird signs that showed up before it became obvious what was coming. The birds left. The grass died. The rain turned black. Everything got cold.” He gestured at the landscape around them. “It's been all around us all the way here. And you're telling me you didn't see any of it?”
“Well. . .” Now that Archer had brought it to mind, Wick realized he had seen it. Or he had seen something. It had been too cold the last few days, and Archer had stopped several times to stare at dead plants that had no reason to be withering the way they were. He had one of those plants in his bag at this very moment.
“In any other circumstances, none of those things would even make sense.” Archer's tone was earnest. “The birds don't just up and decide one day that they're too scared to make any noise. It doesn't just happen. You've got to see that.”
But could it still be possible that all of it was just a series of coincidences? Natural things that had conveniently happened at the right time? Things that only seemed to be connected because Archer was pointing it out to him?
“I do see it,” Wick lied, composing himself. “That's why I'm still here right now, not working with the centaurs to get you arrested.”
Archer shook his head and started walking again, smiling. “Some days I think you're more pig-headed than me. Not that you could catch me anyway,” he called over his shoulder, “even if you did want to arrest me.”
“We'd have to see about that,” Wick replied, still smiling inwardly as he hiked his bag further up on his shoulder and started walking after Archer.
Another problem arose when they reached the border to manghar territory. When the border came within sight, Archer suddenly started and jumped behind a pine tree, desperately beckoning for Wick to do the same.
Now that they were both trying very hard to fit behind the trunk of one tree, Wick hissed, “What's going on?”
Still pressed against the tree trunk, Archer jerked a thumb around the tree, toward the manghar border. Wick carefully leaned to the side to peer out.
The three men who had been following them stood clustered around one of the border guards, talking and flapping their hands.
Wick pulled back as one of them looked around.
“You're sure you didn't see them?” the man with the long black ponytail asked. The ponytail man had looked more awake now than he had in the tavern. He tapped his fingers against the side of his walking staff impatiently.
It was astounding that the human men could summon the courage to speak so boldly to any manghar. The manghar were six feet tall at the shortest and burly, with the broad, bristling faces of bats and huge, membranous wings. There wasn't one of them that hadn't drawn blood from a relative or close friend just for sport, and they took great pleasure in terrifying everyone who stepped across their borders.
“They were ahead of us,” the man with the beard said. “They must have slipped by you.”
“Nothing can slip through our borders,” the manghar guard said. “They wouldn't have made it through without being seen.”
“Not true,” Archer whispered. He was grinning, even as he pressed himself against the tree to avoid being seen. “I've been in and out of their territory before without ever being spotted at the border. That's why I've been banned from entering.”
“You've been banned?” Wick hissed, and Archer nodded gleefully.
Wick silently cursed Archer's name. Their small chance of just being let in now dwindled to zero. It seemed getting the piece was going to be a lot more complicated than he had thought. He tried to come up with a new plan.
The men had just finished animatedly explaining something to the guard, and the guard didn't seem to be having any of it.
“Would you at least tell your leader that they're here?” the man with the black ponytail asked. “This could be important.”
Wick peeked around the tree and saw the border guard cross his arms across his leather chest plate, spear still in his hand. “Your request will be considered.”
Archer peeked around the other side of the tree, then jerked back, clutching his unfillable bag closer to him. “That's what I was afraid of,” he whispered, jutting his head back toward where the guard stood arguing with the three human men. “He would be on duty at this part of the border just when we arrived. That guard has a grudge against me.”
“What did you do?” Wick whispered.
“Nothing! Nothing.” Archer shook his head. “He needs to be a little less sensitive, that's all. You would think one would get over being made a public spectacle of after four years, but no. He still tries to rip my throat out every time I see him.” Archer peeked around the tree again. “Let's go the other way.”
Leaving Wick still shaking his head, Archer darted off to the right of the guard, further down the border to where the trees were thicker. Wick watched for an opening and then raced after him.
Only another thirty yards down the border was another guard.
“Do you know this one as well?” Wick whispered.
“No.”
/>
“Good.” Wick stepped out from behind the tree and approached the guard, leaving Archer's protests and quiet choking noises behind him. “Good evening,” he called to the guard, trying his hardest to make it look like he hadn't been hiding behind a tree just a moment ago.
The guard nodded but didn't make any kind of expression that felt very welcoming.
“I'm here to see the Crowned Head,” Wick said. “I need to request something from him.”
“Is he expecting you?” the guard asked, shifting his weapon in his hand. Wick stared at the sharp point and tried not to squirm.
“He's not, but what I have to ask is very urgent.” Wick felt around inside his bag and produced his seal of trust from the centaurs. He could only hope that he wasn't betraying the trust just by using it as he held it up for the guard to see. “May I enter?”
The guard nodded and waved him past. Relief flooded Wick's mind as he stepped over the border onto manghar land. He had made it through. The manghar were, indeed, the most terrifying race in all of Aro, and he never felt an enormous amount of confidence while he was around them. He had dealt with them before, handled their politics just as he had handled many others, but dealing with the manghar face to face always put him on edge.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the three men pointing after him with outrage scribbled all over their faces. The guard who had been speaking with them turned them away with a wave of his hand. Once the three had trudged away, the sentry ventured over to the guard Wick had spoken to and muttered something into his ear. Together they cast dark expressions after Wick, but they did not come after him.
Wick could have relaxed, but he knew the real reason they didn't come after him. They let him go because if he made even one mistake, any other person in the territory would be more than willing to throw him back out again. That is if he wasn't executed first.
He stopped briefly, pretending to admire a tree as he glanced over at the border out of the corner of his eye. While the two manghar guards were still discussing something in low voices, Archer slipped through the gap that the guard had left by leaving his post.
They were through.
Now the easy part was over.
Archer and Wick didn't meet up again until a good few hundred yards into manghar territory. Once they had gone through enough groups of trees to know they were well out of the guards' sight, Archer came jogging up behind Wick.
“What's the plan when we get there, since your last plan worked so incredibly well, and you seem to be domineering the playing field this time, too?” Archer asked as they walked.
“We're going in head-on,” Wick said without pausing to think.
“Excellent.” Archer rubbed his hands together. “I've always wanted to rob these guys right to their faces. This is the kind of thing where I always thought the Door in the Wall would be handy.”
“The what?”
“The Door in the Wall,” Archer repeated. “You know, one of those things that the human sorcerers made when human sorcerers still existed? The door that lets you walk through any barrier? It disappeared ages ago?”
Wick shook his head. “I don't know what you're talking about. Never mind. We're not doing that.” He collected himself and continued. “The manghar are the most dangerous people we've dealt with yet, and if it's all the same to you, I don't want to die. So we're going to ask to see the Crowned Head, and when we're allowed to see him, we're going to explain to him what's going on. Then we're going to ask to borrow the piece until the danger is past.”
“That is the most boring plan I've ever heard. And right after the plan you had to rob that Prentiss guy? This might be the most boring plan ever.”
“Practicality is boring now,” Wick said, unimpressed.
“Practicality is the most boring thing I can think of, yes,” Archer responded. “Which is why I never go for the practical option. I don't want to die boring.”
“Well I don't want to die at all,” Wick said, suddenly remembering Eland's letter anew. “Especially not here. Do you know how manghar executions go?”
Archer opened his mouth, then closed it again and put on a wise expression. “Probably, but it doesn't come to mind right now. Why don't you tell me?”
“All right. They make you wait until sunrise, and then they put a noose around your neck. But you aren't hung. You're taken by the collar and flown up above the highest branch of the highest tree in their territory. Which, since the Crowned Head loves to grow his trees and never cuts them down, is very, very high up. Then, when they've flown as high as the highest branch of the highest tree, they keep flying, but they let go of your collar, and then, yes, you're hung by the neck until dead. And then whether you're dead or not by the time they fly back down, your body is dropped into a pit of sharpened branches next to the Crowned Head's dungeon as a warning to all future criminals who might think to cross the manghar. Now, does that sound like a nice death to you?” Wick demanded.
“Death doesn't sound nice to me at all,” Archer said matter-of-factly. “If it's all the same to you, I would much rather live forever.”
“Well, that unpleasant death is the more likely option if we rob the manghar to their faces like you're suggesting.” Wick raised his head and walked a little faster. “We're using my plan first because it gives us the best chance of not dying.”
“Not dying sounds better,” Archer said, then, as though it was his plan all along, he said, “I think we should try just asking for the piece first. We could just borrow it and then bring it back.”
“Yes, I think we should do that too,” Wick said in a tired voice.
When they arrived at the edge of the city, they found it crawling with manghar. Their huge forms were everywhere: in the air, on the ground, lighting on the branches of the trees and on the sills of windows to stare down the visitors. A few fell into step behind them as soon as they had walked past.
It was obvious from Archer's tight gait that he, too, was aware of the tail they were gaining. Out of the corner of his eye, Wick could see him casting his eyes about to study the city for means of escape should they need it.
The design of the city was elegant but strange. The manghar didn't bother with stairs any more than the seraphs did. In fact, they were worse. If they had been planning to rob the manghar rather than ask for the piece, it would have been impossible. Every ledge was hundreds of feet off the ground. The structures were all sharp corners and sloping roofs, and every house had some open wall or chasm in the floor that would make it impossible to walk around in. Everything in the manghar kingdom was built to make the wingless feel insufficient.
Wick could feel dozens of eyes on his back as they approached the palace. From his few visits before, he knew why the manghar were watching them with such interest.
The only set of stairs in the entirety of the manghar kingdom was the broad, cold, stone staircase that swept up to the throne room of the Crowned Head.
And it had one hundred and twenty-three stairs.
Wick and Archer trod up the dozens and dozens of stairs, one step at a time, slowly climbing higher and higher. Half of the manghar trailing behind them flew to the top ahead of them and disappeared into the palace. The other half waited at the bottom, watching them climb.
“I never got why anyone would want such a ridiculous staircase,” Archer muttered at some point, still plodding up step after step. “It's like he doesn't want anyone to visit him.”
“The stairs are so that his forces can gather in the throne room before his enemies reach the top,” Wick said, still plodding. After a moment more of climbing, he admitted, “And they're partly meant to make those who can't fly feel uncomfortable.”
Archer's brow furrowed. “Well, that's just rude.”
They kept climbing. Wick could feel the gazes of the manghar people on the back of his neck, but he tried to ignore it and just focus on climbing. It was bad enough that there were so many steps, but each stair ste
p was just deep enough that one had to either take two small steps on each or one huge step across it, and either option was awkward and exhausting. There was no way to win.
An age later, they finally reached the top, took a moment to catch their breath and shake out their legs, and then they followed two bat guards through the twisting hallways and into the throne room of the Crowned Head of the manghar.
The Crowned Head, the king of the manghar, sat across from them on a tall and ornately carved throne. Everything in the vast throne room glittered with jewels. The manghar were famous for their gemstone mines, and the stones were their primary source of trade as well as their pride. Everyone bought their stones– rich seraphs, human men wishing to give their bride a token, the occasional satyr seeking to make a beautiful object. Rubies and topaz alike were set into the surface of the Crowned Head's throne, and just above his head, just below the pointed peak of the seat's back, was a familiar jade-green, translucent stone.
It was just as Wick remembered. The manghar had set their piece of the Heather Stone into the Crowned Head's throne.
Wick offered a brief bow as he entered and shot Archer a warning glance so that he did the same.
“You may rise,” the Crowned Head said.
Wick straightened. His heart pounded inside his chest. It didn't matter how many times he came to visit the manghar kingdom; he was never fully comfortable around the Crowned Head.
After all, he couldn't have been any more massive.
The Crowned Head, even while seated, was taller than the pair of guards who stood beside him. If he had been standing, he would have towered a good two heads taller than Wick, and Wick was not one of the shorter leshy. The manghar king's fur was the deep charcoal grey of burned trees, and thicker at the shoulders, thick enough to make him look broader than he was. Taloned fingers tapped at the arm of his throne.
If the stories were true, he had killed the last Crowned Head with a fireplace poker as he slept.
“The tree messenger. I remember you.” He didn't use Wick's name, but then, Wick doubted the Crowned Head even remembered his name. “You've been very helpful in the past.” He leaned forward slightly. “What did you come to me for?”
Robbing Centaurs and Other Bad Ideas Page 11
