by Jo Sparkes
“The Sandy towns. The Flats of Beard.” He frowned at her as if none of those words meant anything at all. Marra impulsively added, “the Wavering Continent, on the –”
“Wavering Continent.” He whispered the words, but she felt as if he'd shouted them. What deeds had Snark been doing?
The Man sipped his tea, staring off at worlds unseen. She waited, but he spoke no more. When the others stirred, she hurried to fetch their tea.
“He's awake,” she whispered to Drail, handing him his mug. Drail merely grinned, rolling upright. “Well done,” he told her. And strode off to talk to the man.
Hesitating only an instant, Marra followed.
The Man didn't say much. He asked Drail where they were, but seemed to have already accepted what Marra had told him. Drail offered to help him get home, but the Man didn't seem interested. He continued to stare off into space. The only further reaction from him was when Drail asked if he knew anyone in San Tray.
The Man actually laughed.
Around the fire the others stirred, and Drail turned to join them. He did throw one last question over his shoulder.
“What's your name, man?”
There was hesitation.
“Tryst,” the stranger finally sighed. “I was Tryst.”
Drail grinned. “You still are, friend.”
By the time they reached San Tray, Marra was almost angry. The mystery of the Unconscious Man was something she'd worked to solve, and now felt due an answer. All she had was a name – Tryst. It had a foreign feel, a cloak of mystery all its own, but it certainly wasn't enough.
And Tryst offered no more. He asked questions, pondered answers. And then withdrew. She thought he was 'nobly sullen.' Olver had less kind words.
And she guessed when they reached the town, he'd disappear.
The Flats were flat indeed, so there were no dramatic changes in scenery. Only a handful of trees grew here, usually clumped together above some sort of underground water source. Shimmering mirages danced in the distance, appearing as the sun rose, fading away as it set. But the day they approached San Tray the mirages didn't fade. They turned into a town.
It took most of the day to reach the town. Tantalizing, to see San Tray slowly grow before them, resolving from shimmering light and vague buildings to streets and people. Drail and his team grew more excited with each step.
“Tray's Tavern,” Manten grinned. “The Water and Whale. Best beer on the Flats.”
And Marra saw it – a large, painted cloth hanging from a metal rod over a door. Painted with a frothing mug. Perhaps with so many buildings, the townspeople of San Tray found it necessary to mark which was which.
“Where are the real cities?” Tryst demanded. “Specifically a port on the sea?”
Until now, San Cris had been the only town Marra had ever seen. She knew it was small, but never really knew what that meant until standing on the edge of San Tray. What sort of place had Tryst lived that he could dismiss these bustling streets with such contempt?
Olver cut him a look, but Drail considered the question with his usual good grace. “Port Leet is weeks away. That's the only port on the Flats. Only place to even see the ocean.”
Ocean. Marra's dad had shown her a bowl of water, and bade her lean her nose down to the edge and narrow her eyes until she saw only the sparkling surface. That was like the Ocean, he'd told her. She'd forgotten that.
San Tray's streets were lined with wooden platforms on either side, allowing you to walk above the sand. Here everyone wore shoes of cloth, and the cloth remained clean. The dresses were longer, too, hanging just at the ankle. At home the dresses were mid-calf, perhaps to help keep them out of the sand.
She looked down at her own skirt, frayed at the hem, and wondered how much a new one would cost. She had two copper, after all.
Tryst stared at the town with real horror. It was such a backwards settlement. Surely San Tray's entire citizenry was no larger than the palace staff.
When he'd first woke, he'd been furious. Someone had betrayed him; someone had betrayed the king. He was certain Minister Charis was behind it, and at least one of his own prince-companions had to have been involved. But more importantly, so had some of the Elite Guards.
And those same Guards were responsible for his father's life.
Worse, it was entirely possible his father knew nothing was amiss. Tryst’s epourney was to have lasted a year or more – the King would be disappointed, but not surprised, if he received no letters for months.
“How long was I unconscious?” His hair had grown a good month's worth. He really needed his palace groomer.
She looked up at him. By the Great Missea Goose, she was so tiny. All Trumen were small to him, although with Drail and his men it was a welcome change. He was used to being the smallest in the room, and enjoyed being with men, even Trumen, who were his size. But with the girl – he feared a careless move would damage her.
Still, Drail and the others were obviously not concerned. Perhaps she wasn't quite as fragile as he thought.
“I do not know, sir.” As always, she was quick to read his annoyance. “Truly. We found you unconscious, unnatural-like. It’s been two weeks since we found you.”
He grimaced, and scanned the streets for something to point his path. What to do next – how to get home.
“It is said in such sleeps, hair grows one tenth natural speed.”
His gaze flew back to her. Surely she was prodding him, but she looked quite serious. Sympathy lit her eyes, and it made him furious. That a waif of a Trumen would feel sorry for him. That anyone would feel sorry for him. But the anger was drowned in a wave of doubt.
Ten months? Was it possible?
Stars, he'd been fighting for his life just days ago. It had to be just days ago. He remembered it so clearly, could even feel the beating. Subconsciously he held up his arms, remembering a guard swinging a tree branch, striking his forearm. Breaking a bone –
No bruises, he suddenly realized. There were no marks from that fight. And if he really was on the Wavering Continent, the sea voyage alone would be months. Stars, he wasn't even sure how long such a voyage was.
The girl was watching him so carefully. Nervously. And as he noticed the faces around them, the citizens walking the boards, entering the shops, Tryst realized there wasn't a Skullan among them. This girl, and Drail for that matter, were in no conspiracy against him. They were just Trumen happily going about their lives. If he spun around and strode away, they wouldn't try to stop him.
He really was on the Flats. On the Wavering Continent. As far from Missea as it was possible to be.
4.
KRATCHETT STRODE through the streets, eyes scanning the crowd. He didn't know any of the faces he sought – but he would recognize the group. It had been more than two weeks now, and they should be here.
It bothered him that Drail had taken the package. What was his motive? What did he hope to gain? Carting around an unconscious man was a nightmare in the desert, and by all accounts Drail's sole interest was comet.
Lump had mentioned 'compassion', and compassion was alien to Kratchett. Still, in his experience other men's compassion faded fast when that subconsciously expected reward did not appear.
He reached a corner – and spied Lump approaching from another street. Seeing him, Lump shook his head. Kratchett took a last scan around, and then entered the Whale and Water.
The Whale and Water – he'd actually laughed the first time he heard the name. Trumen loved double names for taverns, and never mind that this place was as far from the sea as it was possible to be. He doubted the barkeep had ever seen the ocean, much less a whale.
He spotted the San Cris fool at a corner table, and made his way through the empty chairs. The man was too busy drinking to even be aware of his approach.
“Enjoying yourself, Snark?” Snark spilled his beer.
“They ain't here, I tell ya. Are you sure this be the place they're heading?”
Kra
tchett sat, watching Snark wipe his fingers in the foamy suds on the table, then stick them in his mouth. “If you are certain it was Drail who took him, San Tray is his destination. There's a big game here tomorrow.”
“Well, I ain't seen 'em.”
“And what did the local Herb Woman say?”
“She's little better than a barmaid, far as I can see. ‘Mint tea cures all' is her motto. She ain't seen nothing.”
Kratchett sighed.
Lump slid silently into the last seat, setting two mugs on the table. “Barkeep ain't seen the skirt nor the comet leather. He'll tell me if he does.” He hefted his ale, eying Kratchett over the rim. “And if our package is not sleeping anymore? He could be a week along the road to Port Leet, for all we know.”
Kratchett grinned, taking a long drink. In a way, it would almost be worth it if the princeling was awake. That would certainly dim Rain's star. Still grinning, he plucked a handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapping it to reveal a tiny glass vial. “The sleep was – infallible.”
Lump raised an eyebrow. “Seems to me we're spending that coin afore we've pocketed it.”
“If he was awake, they would have been here by now.”
“If they truly be coming here.” Lump sipped daintily, a habit that fascinated Kratchett. “How long do we wait afore we say they ain't coming?”
Lump must have had a mustache at one time, Kratchett thought. That would explain why he took such care in his drinking. “If they're not at the game, we move on.”
Looking down into his mug, Kratchett watched the others from his peripheral vision. “And if they are at the game, and you two hadn't found them before, there will be – compensation.”
Lump's mug slowly lowered to the table. Snark, on the other hand, was still trying to fish the last few drops from a stingy glass.
Kratchett stood up. “Snark – you're the only one who knows what the girl looks like. They'll be needing supplies after traveling, and she's the logical one to fetch them. I suggest you find her.”
Meeting Kratchett's eyes, Snark swallowed his protest.
Tryst entered the tavern to find it near empty. The barkeep smiled at him hopefully, the smile fading as Tryst strode up with a purposeful look.
“I need to get to Missea,” Tryst told him.
The barkeep reached beneath the counter, pulling out a mug to set before Tryst. Empty as it was, the dust on it glittered.
“What will it be?” he asked. “Beside Gold Harbor.”
Tryst shook his head. “How do I get there?”
The Trumen blinked, as if Tryst were asking the sum of one and one. And then he pointed east. “That way.”
“I need men for escort. A capable guide. And horses.”
The barkeep lowered his head, putting the mug back beneath his bar. When he looked up, Tryst was appalled to see he was laughing.
“And you have coin to pay for all of that, now do you?”
Instinctively Tryst glanced at his side. He had always had a man there, someone to pluck out payment or solve a problem. Or even to simply hold his steed. A companion who would have arranged their trip, knowing exactly how best to get them to Missea. Stars, he'd never been alone outside the palace. He wasn't sure he'd been alone below the chamber floors.
It dawned on him how fortunate it was that he'd turned down the offered drink. Tryst lacked so much as the copper to pay for it.
Just as Drail had said, the shop had a sign over the door. Five curling lines placed to illustrate a flower.
Marra entered, staring around at the second herb shop she'd ever seen. Although it looked grander on the outside, it was small on the inside, with less than ten large jars behind the counter.
The woman standing there frowned at her. Mistress Britta had taught Marra never to frown at anyone who walked through the shop door.
“How much for Myrrcleft?” she blurted out. Trying to let the woman know she had good business for her.
“Myrrcleft?”
“For energy,” Marra said. A shadow moved behind the thin curtain to the back room, catching her eye because it went still when she spoke.
“Sorrel's better,” the woman turned to reach down a jar. Marra doubted that, but held her tongue. The crumbled leaf the woman produced was long past its prime. “Four coppers.”
Marra frowned at her. Drail's instructions had been to pay whatever the price, because things cost more in San Tray. But surely not for a useless weed.
“No thanks. Do you know where I can find Myrrcleft?”
The woman glared, but lapsed into sullen silence as a man stepped out from the curtain. “What be you needing energy for, girl?”
“A potion.” He kept coming towards her, as if his conversation was merely to hold her in place. His hand reached out.
Falling back a step, Marra noticed his feet. They were shod not in the cloth shoes she'd seen here, nor in the desert sandals of San Cris, but in full boots. She couldn’t see if these had a fox etched on the inner ankle.
She whirled and raced out the door.
“If you be knowing herbs, I might can use you – “
She sped down the wooden slats, darted around a corner, and then hid herself in a busy street.
Someone walked into their camp as they began the warm-up drill.
Drail beamed, brushing past a startled Marra. “Old Merle!”
“At what point did the 'Old' become part of my name?” Old Merle shook his head even as he clasped Drail's hand.
“Sir!” Manten stood, giving a tiny bow of respect. “Drail said you might join us.”
“Thought it'd be a wasted journey,” Merle nodded at the others. “So you're fighting after all?”
“After all? Did you think we couldn't get here in time?”
“I thought you were going to back out, like two other teams. No one wants to play the Sandflats team now. Not since they killed a man.”
Olver and Kayle ceased their warm-ups. “What happened?” Kayle asked.
“Twas a head shot. Deliberate and vicious, but to my mind nothing I haven't seen before. It hit young Krittol square in the noggin. He dropped instantly, and never rose again.”
“Krittol,” Manten said.
Kayle sat, shaking his head. “No one's ever died before.”
“Sure they have,” Old Merle plopped down on a bedroll, eyeing the teapot. “Been a few years, is all. But it's bound to happen from time to time. Especially in the fever to get to Port Leet.”
Marra fetched a mug, pouring him tea. The brew had grown strong, as she'd not removed the leaves, and there was no honey. Drail was ready with the apology. But Old Merle sipped and merely nodded appreciatively.
“I don't understand,” Olver held out his mug, and Marra ran to fill it.
“Port Leet,” Old Merle grinned. “The Summer Solstice game. It's in three weeks.”
“That's where we're headed. It's a big honor to play in it,” Drail said slowly. “But it's an honor to play at Port Leet at all. There's games every week.”
“Story is, there's a Skullan team going to play Summer Solstice. Teams were shying off – no one thought it was possible to win. Then the rumor came: a Trumen team had beaten Skullan. If it can be done anywhere, they say, it can be done in Port Leet. Suddenly everyone wants their shot at it.”
“As do we,” Drail grinned, pounding Manten on the back. “To prove it was no fluke.”
“No guarantees they'll let you play, son. Teams with a lot more wins than you demanding that honor. Hell, they won't believe you did it the first time.”
A glass vial appeared before him. Marra held it aloft, seemingly nervous. Taking it, Drail smiled reassuringly, and stuffed the Birr Elixir in his leather.
“Are we still playing today?” Kayle asked. Manten and Drail exchanged a look, and burst out laughing; Olver slapped him on the shoulder.
“We play,” Drail said, and stood up. And stretched. The others rose eagerly, Manten catching Kayle's eye.
“It's what we do.”
Marra hesitated, and Drail knew she was wondering about Tryst. Their guest had left early, without saying anything, and hadn't returned.
“If he wants to find us, he will. The whole of San Tray will soon know where we are.”
Marra stood in the front row, firmly clasping the rail so no one could move her. If teams were reluctant to play, spectators were that much more eager to watch. Her stomach was pressed against the wood bar as people squeezed closer to see.
San Tray's field was surrounded by wooden stands. She could see the whole field better than from her post seat in San Cris. Below her fluttered the red cloth of the Hand of Victory, tied to its post. The only familiar thing in a different comet field.
Suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm snaked around her belly. “There you are,” Snark said as he stepped before her, and she worried briefly who held her. “She's a runaway indentured,” Snark announced to the crowd.
Frantically she bit the hand that silenced her. “I AM NOT!” she shrieked.
Snark froze in surprise, before stepping forward and smacking her hard. “Liar,” he yelled for all to hear. “Bring her.”
She suddenly realized Drail and the others would have no idea this was happening, no idea where she was until after the game. Perhaps long after.
And how much effort would they put in to find her? Especially if they lost? Marra began to struggle in earnest.
The spectators pulled back, making a hole around them, but no one interceded. No one would, she realized. She fought desperately, but the man behind held her firm.
A wild kick struck Snark's nose as he grabbed for her feet. Blood actually flowed. He wiped it, saw the red on his fingers. And grabbed her throat.
“You'll pay for that,” he told her softly. She knew she would, ten times over. Even now the pulse pounded in her head as the grasp choked her. She couldn't breathe or see past her welling tears.
So she didn't know who shoved Snark aside, or punched the man holding her. Marra fell to her knees, which was a good thing as the man sailed over her head into the dirt arena.
Rubbing the moisture from her eyes, Marra barely had time to recognize the man in the dirt as the one from the herb shop before Snark landed on top of him.
