Francisco scrambled up in an instant, fighting to free his knife.
“Forget it!” Sherwin yelled, heaving Rafen to his feet.
Disentangling herself from enemies, Etana had erected a golden, bubble-like shield around them, and outside the transparent yellow walls, five Ashurites had gathered. Through the kesmal, they looked like they inhabited a land of sunshine. Two held long, curved nhanya blades, and the other three had arrows fitted to crossbows.
His knife now liberated, Francisco looked anxiously at the Ashurites. Rafen’s bruised side ached. He glanced at Etana, thinking fast. They would need a distraction to get out of this…
“Do kesmal,” Etana breathed in Rafen’s ear. “I’ll break the shield myself. As the kesmal disintegrates, it will confuse things. You blind them with flame and smoke, and then we’ll run. All right?”
Rafen inclined his head fractionally. Looking at Etana, he stooped, pretending to retrieve something from the ground. She raised her scepter and flung a gold band at the shield. Simultaneously, Rafen whipped his sword from its sheath. The image of the Phoenix appeared in his mind as he unleashed a roaring torrent of flame and smoke. The exploding of Etana’s shield filled his head with an ear-splitting crack. The hot air around them vibrated, and momentarily, Rafen couldn’t see anything. He ran for all he was worth, Etana once more clinging to him. Francisco came right after them, Sherwin following him too. Other answering footsteps were the Ashurites.
Rafen dared to look and got a face full of smoke. He staggered on while the Ashurites added their kesmal to Etana’s and Rafen’s. Arrows sang through the air. One embedded itself in a nearby cedar.
It took five minutes to escape the chaos. Rafen hoped fervently that they hadn’t run through a few kesmalic walls on their way.
“It’s all right,” Sherwin panted when they slowed to a walk, “we’re all right, we’re here. Aren’ we, Franny?”
“Yes, comrade,” Francisco coughed.
Rafen nodded, his mouth too dry for speaking. He pushed through the leaves of some fiddlewoods and stepped onto dry grass. Etana froze.
They had escaped the Woods, and now stood on the outskirts of the grasslands. Knee-height buffalo grass bent and danced in the wind that was so much stronger here than within the Cursed Woods. In the distance, perhaps forty minutes away, the vague outline of a small settlement was imprinted against the smoky sky. The twittering of painted bruntings was the only thing to disturb the overwhelming silence. Apart from Smitton, there were no houses nearby, no people.
“Smitton,” Etana said softly. “We’re not far away.”
“Except,” Sherwin observed from behind, “tongues are unlikely to be wagging at this time of day.”
“Is this not a mite too open?” Francisco said quietly. “We are standing here for the waking world to see.”
Rafen dropped to a crouch and pulled Etana down beside him. “We’ll have to crawl through the grass. In case someone is about.”
“No rest?” Francisco said, squatting behind him with Sherwin.
“Sorry,” Rafen said. “When we’re at Smitton, we can hide somewhere and rest. And eat.”
At the word “eat”, Sherwin’s stomach rumbled.
“That’s disgusting, Sherwin,” Etana commented.
Rafen looked back at Sherwin and Francisco. “Thank you, by the way,” he said quietly, before beginning to worm through the grass in a way that felt ridiculous.
Francisco and Sherwin looked at each other.
“The Naztwai, you imbeciles,” Etana said, following Rafen.
“Ah,” Sherwin said.
Chapter Five
The Inn
Half an hour later, Rafen was close enough to observe the twelve Tarhian guards outside Smitton milling around on horses or standing near the short town gates. In a better-kept uniform than the others, one leaned against the wooden gates of the sprawling, rectangular settlement and flicked through parchments, doubtless those bearing the names of all who had passed through the gates that day.
Rafen paused in the scratchy grass, and Etana crawled into one of his boots.
“There are guards,” he hissed back, feeling stupid.
Somewhere to his right, prairie dogs squeaked.
“What did you expect?” Etana whispered.
“Are we havin’ a food break?” Sherwin breathed from the back.
“Rafen?” Etana said. “We can’t stay here forever, you know.”
“No…” Rafen said. “We’ll have to go to the western wall of the town, and stay near that till it’s night.”
“And then what?” Francisco said.
Rafen was glad the wind was so strong, otherwise the guards would have heard them muttering in the grass.
“There might be a place to scale the wall,” he said. “It’s not very high.”
While the New Isles wall was three stories high, Smitton’s was scarcely more than one; and in places the wooden planks looked rotten and worn, just waiting for ambush. Above the wall, dilapidated thatched or tiled roofs were visible.
“When will we get to eat?” Sherwin lamented.
Ten minutes later, they were leaning cross-legged against the western wall. No other sentinels stood along this, even though it was double the town’s width. Rafen suspected that like most other things about Smitton, the practice of watching all the walls had slipped. So much the better.
The others remained silent while Rafen and Etana fingered the many-headed grasses around their legs and found some with edible roots. Rafen handed the red-brown Nyall blades to Francisco and Sherwin. Sherwin eyed his briefly. Shrugging, he popped the root in his mouth and sucked it with his eyes closed, savoring the only sustenance of that day.
It was a long, stiff wait. The only traffic across the plain of Smitton was two peasants with a wagon. The Tarhians at the gate stripped them of their food and money before they passed. Hearing the low growl rise in Rafen’s throat, Etana grabbed his collar and hung on.
“We can’t help them this time, Rafen,” she hissed. “We have to wait until we have Alexander and some men before we give ourselves away. Don’t force me to use kesmal on you.”
Fuming, Rafen slumped back against the wall.
“I’m worried about the others,” he said. “Maybe we haven’t done the right thing in taking you with us. If Annette betrays them and the Lashki comes—”
“Mother’s kesmal is excellent. She’ll arm herself when she knows I’m gone, Rafen.”
Rafen gripped Etana’s arm. “I wish the lot of them would leave. Isn’t there anywhere else we can take them?”
“Where they’re staying…” Etana murmured, because she didn’t dare mention the Hideout out loud “…is the only place of refuge like that which the Lashki doesn’t know about. We can’t move them anywhere else without the Lashki finding out and discovering them eventually.”
“What about a lord’s house? A cave?” Rafen abruptly remembered the cave where he had found his phoenix feather. “I know a place.”
“Yes, but has the Lashki ever been there?”
Rafen’s heart jolted. Yes, the Lashki might well have been there, for he had once been Alakil, and Alakil had had a phoenix feather.
“Oh, Rafen,” Etana said, her eyes glistening with tears, “I appreciate your wanting to help, but getting them out unnoticed would be a nightmare. And Father’s already said he doesn’t want to leave. He has a real ancestral, and sentimental, attachment to the place. He feels he is closer to all of our family there, and it’s the traditional place of refuge for Selsons. Besides, the kesmalic protection around the spot is unrivalled.” She whispered in Rafen’s ear, “Even the hole we left through is impossible to enter through. If Tarhians walked all the way down that tunnel, kesmal would eject them. Only if someone has been previously allowed to enter, if they have said the password, or another person has done it for them, can they pass freely through all areas of… of our place.”
Rafen shook his head. “I should have left Annette t
o Nazt,” he muttered, sweat breaking out on his hands.
“No, Rafen. You did the right thing. Besides, my parents aren’t even sure she knows the password.”
“Time will tell,” Rafen said. “The best thing we can do now is be successful in fighting for Siana. If we are, the Lashki will notice and he’ll forget about your father and his family.”
Etana nodded, grasping his hand soothingly.
Eventually night fell with refreshing and concealing shadows. Swift foxes shot through the churning grasses. Rafen moved along the wall, scanning it. If someone gave him a leg up, he could easily climb it. The only trouble was that it would be hard to help the last person over.
“Are we getting in now?” Sherwin hissed to him, another root in his mouth. He had scavenged enough to last him and Francisco the day. Rafen and Etana had both lost their appetites; Rafen could live on little food anyway, and Etana was a girl.
“Yes, now,” Rafen answered. “I think Etana should go first.”
Though Francisco nodded, Sherwin said, “Bad idea. A twist and twirl should have a pot and pan handy, in case of danger.”
Rafen’s forehead furrowed. Sherwin was right; one of the males should go before Etana.
“Yer should go,” Sherwin said. “Yer the short one.”
“Yes, you go,” Francisco said.
A minute later, Rafen climbed into Sherwin’s cupped hand, grabbed the edge of the wall, and pulled a leg over. When the rotting wood vibrated, Rafen froze momentarily, terrified someone had heard. From his position – half on the wall, half over it – he could see the many dingy, shabby houses of Smitton, which backed onto each other. In the light of a lamp hanging from a derelict, two-story house, all the narrow, cobbled streets were deserted,
“Are yer goin’ or not?” Sherwin grunted from below.
“Quiet,” Rafen said.
He swung around on the wall so that he could descend the other side. The presence of a low walk, close enough for his toes to reach, cheered him. The villagers likely squatted on this in a siege, shooting through the small slits along the wall. Rafen swung his other leg over and dropped lightly onto the walk. It was not high, and he climbed down easily, murmuring through a slit in the shaky planks, “There’s a walk to put your feet on. It’s really simple. Send Etana across.”
Etana managed much more adeptly than Rafen had thought she would. Now next to him in the shadows of the houses on either side, she clasped his arm and looked around nervously.
Francisco lowered himself onto the walk next.
“Sherwin is going to climb it alone,” he said softly. “He thinks he is tall enough.”
Sherwin was a grown man’s height, even at three months shy of fifteen. This didn’t allay Rafen’s fears. A climb up the wall would be loud. However, nothing else could be done.
He leaned over the wall-walk and put his fingers to the slit again, saying, “Be quiet, okay?”
No response. A distant thudding like hoofbeats sounded. Before Rafen had time to identify what it was, a thunderclap reverberated against the other side of the wall, followed by a splintering shock that sent him flying over backward. Sherwin retched, having winded himself on the wall-walk. He glanced behind himself, his face blank with surprise: a large portion of the wall was now sagging. Where Sherwin had passed through, the wood was in pieces.
Tarhian voices exploded on the air, and footsteps pelted toward them.
Rafen snatched Etana’s hand and stared around wildly for a place to flee to, but the houses on either side hemmed them in. If they ran ahead, they would be on a main street, which was too visible. While they could run along the wall-walk, staying on the wall was unwise. Seeing a window without shutters to his left, Rafen whipped his sword from its sheath and swung the pommel into the misted glass.
The Tarhians became more excited at the crash; they were nearly at the alley the four intruders occupied. Rafen grabbed Etana’s arm and pulled her to the window before clambering through the frame, which was jagged with splintered glass. A searing on his lower leg told him he had cut himself. Etana followed, and Rafen led her down the musty hall as quietly as possible. Sherwin and Francisco landed on the floor with thumps and scampered after them. The Tarhian voices sounded just outside the window.
When the crack of a pistol rent the air, an old plaque cracked and fell from the wall near Rafen.
They reached the end of the hall, and Rafen hit his foot against a wall. Pulling himself and Etana into a crouch, he scrabbled around desperately for a doorframe in the dark. Apart from their own heavy breathing and a Tarhian hauling himself through the window behind, the house was silent. Rafen’s finger slipped into the groove of a doorframe; he moved his hand up and struck it against a handle. The Tarhian held a pistol with both hands, meaning to stop anyone who attacked him. He pointed it at a Sherwin-shaped shadow. Sherwin held his breath, but Francisco squealed, squatting rigidly beside him.
The Tarhian shot. A burst of flame and golden light filled the air, blocking the man’s access; Etana and Rafen had cast shields simultaneously. The bullet ricocheted back off the kesmal, a hairsbreadth from Sherwin’s face, and the Tarhian screamed and fell backward, his eyes glassy.
“Get the door!” Etana screamed in Rafen’s ear.
She seized the handle and threw it open as several other Tarhians clambered through the window. Sherwin, Francisco, Rafen, and Etana flew through the door into the front room. Ancient tomes were displayed in dusty mullioned windows that opened out onto the street.
“How long will the shields hold?” Rafen panted as he raced to the front door.
“I don’t know,” Etana said. “Let’s get out, please.”
Though Rafen pulled on the handle, the door was bolted, and he was too short to reach the metal latches above.
Sherwin lunged over with Francisco and unbolted it. Rafen jerked it open, and they fell out onto the cobbles. Sherwin slammed the door behind them. The sound echoed down the street.
“Shh,” Rafen spat. “Why do you do that? Why did you come through the wall like that? You could have gotten us killed.”
Sherwin grimaced apologetically. “I didn’t mean to, china plate. I took a run up so I could get over, but in the end everything was a bit run-down.”
“Your face said it all,” Etana said softly. “Rafen, I think there’s a tavern further down.”
Rafen listened. Sure enough, he heard something that sounded like a tuneless sea shanty in the distance.
“Could be,” he said.
Together the four of them rushed down the street. The banging and crashing in the house behind told them their pursuers were, for the meantime, safely stowed.
*
The tavern was febrile. As they slipped through the open front door, a wave of heat rolled over them. A bell rang somewhere above, and Rafen frantically pulled Etana behind some hanging coats. They had all agreed Francisco and Sherwin would do the talking, because Etana was the heir to the throne and might attract trouble. Praying Francisco’s looks wouldn’t create problems, Rafen had decided to stay with Etana to protect her.
From his vantage point behind the coats, Rafen watched Sherwin and Francisco step into the madness, trying to look like they belonged there. Six tables were clustered together in the small front room, and behind them, a counter bore various tankards. An eighteen-year-old in a shocking green dress that emphasized her womanly attributes was drying a tankard and watching the innkeeper’s guests with the eyes of a woman who has been married since fifteen and is dissatisfied with her lot. The innkeeper himself was nowhere in sight.
Farmers and some rough-looking merchants and sailors filled the tables. No Tarhians were present, and the farmers loudly declared their grievances against them. At the table nearest the counter, a giant Zaldian sat next to a bald-headed man in a tattered, coffee-colored robe. The Zaldian had finished what looked like his seventh tankard, judging by the empty vessels on the table. Like most of his countrymen, ale did not affect him.
Sherwin wandered over to a table where five farmers were seated. “Er, ’ello,” he said.
At his accent, which was similar enough to the peasant brogue to satisfy them, two farmers roared back, “Hello, hello! Lad, sit down.”
Sherwin looked around confusedly for a spare chair. One farmer lumbered over to the left wall and retrieved a stool for him.
“’ave yourself some ale,” he said. “Boy, you deserve it.”
Sherwin sat there pretending to drink while making conversation.
Francisco still stood uncertainly in the narrow sliver of floor between tables.
“Lost, boy?” a dark-faced merchant asked him, dashing the foam from his chin.
“Not when among friends,” Francisco said.
At his Tarhian lilt, the man gave him a black look and leaned over the table to mutter with his fellows. Francisco looked back at the mule-smelling coats hanging near the door. His brother hadn’t thought of this. He hadn’t thought of this.
“Give the boy a seat,” someone said nearby, and before he knew it, the towering Zaldian was propelling him toward a rickety chair opposite the bald man.
“Ah, thank you,” Francisco said, sitting down.
This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Rafen had said specifically to talk to Sianians that knew the land. Rafen had heard Alexander was in the South, but he needed to know exactly where. The Sianians would have tidings of the admiral and his whereabouts, if anyone would.
The bald man scrutinized Francisco over his tankard. He wore gold hoop earrings, and the top of his head was perfectly smooth and shiny, as if hair had never grown there. His eyes were a brooding gray, set beneath tremendously big, black eyebrows. The man’s perfectly twisted moustache was sandy yellow. His nose was pointy, and his lips thin, with a half moon wrinkle to the left of his mouth – a smile mark that reassured Francisco.
“Just visiting?” he drawled. “A student from Tarhia?”
His accent was broad. The “ar” in Tarhia was an “ah” as wide as the sea, and his consonants were lazy.
“I have lived in Tarhia before,” Francisco said, reserved as he struggled to identify the man’s nationality. “But the Sianian air is good.”
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 5
