by Barb Hendee
Then she realized that she was the one who’d be navigating again. He was asking if she knew what he didn’t: how to get around in that place.
He couldn’t speak any language but his own. His knowledge of anywhere beyond his own territory was likely questionable. How had he managed to hunt anything on his own, let alone ghosts wherever he’d been called?
But Mari didn’t mind leading, so long as she kept him in sight, close enough to spot the last truth about him when it came. Up ahead, guards before the stone gate arch didn’t stop or question anyone coming and going. That would change after nightfall, like in most cities.
Soladran was a vast, walled city, home to thousands. The soldiers who protected it commanded respect from all citizens within and from the entire nation. From what she knew, it had been the first settlement of the territory later to be called Stravina. That it was on the border of what was now called the Warlands came about by chance and events over the following centuries. The great wall had come later. And now, as well as guarding Soladran, its soldiers patrolled all along that northern border.
Stravina was bordered on the west by the sea, the Vudran Bay. To the east was the impassable Blade Range, beyond a deep forest. The friendly—or at least civil—nations of Belaski and Droevinka sat to the south. Only the northern border offered a threat from the chaotic rule of the warlords who lived in those ever-changing territories known as the Warlands.
Soladran soldiers were vigilant and disciplined, or so Mari had been told by some of her people. She’d tended to avoid soldiers of any kind in the past, but now there was little choice. Tris had come to learn how and why Brianne died for love of one of them, and to hunt whatever had killed her. The irony didn’t escape Mari that she’d likely found—walked with—the one who’d murdered all those she’d loved.
Closer now, the front gate was daunting in its sheer size, with a stone arch overhead taller than the heights of three men.
And it’d grown so cold that Mari could see her own breath as she stepped under those high stones. Four guards in white tabards, padded armor, and fur-trimmed helmets shifted on their feet to both sides of the archway. With their expressions drawn, eyes wide and constantly shifting, they weren’t even looking at the people passing into the city.
So what were they looking for?
“Do you know the location of the barracks?”
Though spoken just above a whisper, the question came too close to her ear.
Mari eyed Tris sidelong, and then realized she didn’t know where she was going. The families she’d traveled with coming here in summer gained permission to park their wagons near large open-air markets—the best place for performances. They kept their distance from soldiers.
“Not exactly,” she answered. “North side, near the border, I think. At least that makes most the sense.”
Of course he wasn’t satisfied with that.
“Ask one of the guards,” he ordered.
They’d barely stepped into the city, and he was already making her bristle. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried that master-to-servant tone with her.
“I’m not your dogsbody to order about,” she said, not looking up at him.
The two of them standing there, blocking the way, forced others entering the city to veer around them. Tris shifted to avoid a passerby.
“Would you like me to find someone I might ask?” he returned, quieter this time. “I doubt the guards would understand me—or I them.”
She sighed. All right, so that was true, but it irritated her even more. Arguing with him was like snatching at a shadow. Stepping around him, she headed toward the nearest soldier and then hesitated.
“Pardon. Where do I find the main barracks?”
The tall soldier with stubble on his face blinked in distraction. He looked her up and down.
“Why?”
She almost backstepped at his challenging tone. “I have business there.”
“Not today, you don’t.” He shook his head. “No civilians near the barracks.”
Her first instinct was to argue, but she thought better of it and turned back to Tris.
“Something’s wrong,” she said quietly. “He just said to stay away, no civilians allowed, at least not now. Something’s happened.”
Tris turned, heading into the city. “Of course it has. That is why we have come.”
Mari followed him. What else could she do?
They cut left through the comers and goers at the first cross street and paralleled the outer wall. The barracks were on the northernmost side, but Soladran was huge. They’d need to pass through the city and do some exploring.
First, they reached an internal gateway she hadn’t expected.
The guards there watched them but didn’t challenge them.
Upon passing through, Mari saw elaborate two- and three-story houses of fine stone. Soladran boasted an unusual layout with the wealthier inhabitants living here on the south side—as far from the border as possible. These streets were wide and well maintained, though nearly as crowded as the central ways. Most people walked with quick purpose, heading elsewhere, perhaps to business or market districts.
Mari didn’t like this. Even the side streets were wide, with little place to hide. She expected to continue on. Instead, the clink of coins pulled her attention.
Tris stopped and was fingering through the contents of a pouch. He looked up once, and she followed his glance to a wooden stable half a block up on the left. Out front of it, young men sat atop wagon benches with harnessed horses at the ready. What were they waiting for?
“Hire a driver to take us to the barracks,” Tris said.
Mari looked back to find him holding out two copper groats. Hiring a local driver would solve several problems at once.
Taking the coins, she asked, “What about the horses?”
“I will sit in back, out of their sight.”
With a doubtful nod, Mari stepped onward, approaching the nearest wagon at the back of the line. She held up the coins in plain sight.
“I need transport for two to the city barracks,” she said.
“The barracks?” the young man echoed.
His expression darkened with worry, and he almost shook his head of brown hair, cropped as short as could be without being shaved off. Then his eyes fixed on the coins.
Two copper groats seemed quite a lot for a ride.
“All right,” the driver agreed. “I’ll get you within sight of it, but that’s all.”
He reached down, rather than step off the wagon, and took the coins. Then he offered his hand to pull her up. She had no intention of getting up there with him.
“We’ll both sit in back.” She tilted her head toward Tris, still standing ten or more paces behind the wagon.
The driver nodded and turned away to unlash the reins. Mari slipped around behind the wagon, and Tris came to her just as she hopped up and settled against the wagon’s left side. He took the right side. With a snap of the reins, the wagon pulled out.
Tris hunched down a bit as they passed the other wagons and teams still waiting.
He still looked worn. Whatever he’d done in banishing Brianne had cost him.
Soon enough, the houses passing by became smaller, and most were constructed of wooden planks or with tile or slate roofs. Farther on, they passed between small shops, tall but narrow inns, and noisy little eateries. She spotted only one place that might be a tavern, though there were two men standing post outside it, maybe private guards. And then the wagon reached a large open-air market.
Mari could smell roasting sausages and freshly baked bread.
The driver slowed his horses to inch through thicker crowds along this way. On the market’s far side, the shops became shabby. A tavern occupied nearly every block. And the wagon continued on.
Mari knew the city was large, but she ha
dn’t realized quite how large. Thankfully, they didn’t have to walk it. Soon they passed smaller dwellings with thatched roofs; this went on far longer than any other portion of the passage. Finally, the wagon slowed along the city’s wall once more, and then it stopped. Mari craned her head to look about.
“There it is,” their driver said, pointing beyond the horses, “but I won’t go any closer.”
Mari jumped off the back of the wagon and rounded its side to see a tall, timber barracks, at least the length of two city blocks. Its lower half was made of mortared dark stone. The back was almost right up against the wall to the far side of the huge northern gate.
And the gate was open.
Tris joined her, and she looked up at the driver.
“Thank you,” she said, though he’d already begun turning his team and wagon back the way they’d come. Without waiting for Tris, Mari walked slowly toward the gate’s near side and spotted soldiers just outside it, half of them with bows at the ready, though none with arrows drawn.
They were all looking into the distance, either by one or in sets of two and three.
Open and cleared land sloped to a wide, ice-fringed stream at least fifteen paces across and running east to west. On the water’s far side, the ground rose to a field of browned wild grass, partially matted. And in the distance was a tree line of huge firs and pines marking the edge of the foothills farther on.
The reaches of the Warlands were still and silent below a dull gray sky.
Mari started slightly when she noticed Tris standing near behind on her left. She followed his attention back to the distant tree line with white-capped mountains far beyond it.
“The stream is the border,” she said barely above a whisper.
When he didn’t respond, she looked the other way to the barracks. A number of soldiers milled about outside it. One looked over, spotted her, and immediately came at a swift stride.
He was short and wide, about thirty years old, and wearing a worn cloak over his white tabard.
“No civilians allowed here,” he said in Belaskian.
His voice had an edge. Dark shadows of sleeplessness showed beneath both of his hazel eyes.
“I need to speak with a guardsman named Bródy,” she countered. “It’s about his . . . mistress.”
Tris remained silent at her side, looking toward the barracks.
“His mistress?” the guard echoed, and then snorted. “Which one?”
His pert tone got to her, and she fought down a counterretort. “Could you send for him, please? There has been a death.”
The soldier frowned.
“Sergeant!” a sharp voice interrupted.
Pulled by that voice, Mari saw a very tall man striding toward them. He was dressed as the other border guards in a crestless white tabard over padded armor. But he wore a fur-lined cape, steel-scaled gloves and vambraces, as well as plain polished armor on his shoulders and shins. A thin prong of gold sprouted a finger’s length above the nose guard of his fur-trimmed helmet.
He looked about thirty years old with long, sandy blond hair that hung out his helmet and fell across the shoulders of his cloak. He turned on the other soldier, who backstepped and stiffened to attention.
“Orlov, what are these people doing here?” the officer demanded of the wide sergeant. “I told you to keep this area clear!”
“I just spotted them, Captain,” Sergeant Orlov replied, not daring to look the captain in the eyes. “I was about to send them off.”
The tall captain turned toward Mari. His gaze shifted right and left, likely on Tris, and he hesitated.
“Captain Stàsiuo,” the man said as introduction, and spoke directly to Tris. “At present, civilians are not allowed in this vicinity, as we have . . . a situation. Please turn back into the city.”
Polite as it was, it was not a request.
Tris stared at the captain for a moment, and without looking away, he said, “Tell him we have come from Jesenik, where a girl who recently visited these barracks was just buried by her family. I need to speak to whoever is in command.”
About to translate, Mari hesitated at the slight shake of the captain’s head.
“You don’t need to have her tell me anything,” the captain answered in Old Stravinan. “And currently, I’m in command. What does your presence have to do with this dead girl?”
He didn’t speak Stravinan as well as Mari, but well enough, and she looked to Tris.
Both men assessed each other before Tris answered.
“If we remain out here,” he replied quietly, “I will have my companion translate everything for the sake of absolute clarity. Unless you wish your men to know every detail, we should speak in private.”
—
Not long after, Mari followed Tris and the captain into what seemed the barracks’ common room. A huge stone hearth in the back wall was piled with burning logs, which filled the place with welcome warmth after a cold, long walk. Stools and tables were scattered haphazardly about, but only three other city guards sat at a table playing cards. All three looked over at the newcomers entering. Two of them eyed Mari the longest.
“Back to your posts!” Captain Stàsiuo ordered.
One man hesitated but then followed the other two in a rush out of the hall.
The captain turned to Tris. “What exactly do you seek here?”
“Truth,” Tris answered, and then he lied. “We work for the family of the deceased.”
The captain looked Tris up and down. Crossing his arms, he didn’t appear impressed.
“Are you that rumored ghost-hunter, the one some called the Dead’s Man?”
“Where did you hear that?” Mari interrupted.
He barely glanced at her. “It’s a city. Any rumor ends up—spreads—quickly here.”
“The girl’s name was Brianne,” Tris answered, ignoring all else. “She was involved with one of your men—Guardsman Bródy—and came to see him. While here, something ‘horrible and white’ touched her. She rushed home but died shortly after returning, appearing to have starved to death.”
Mari watched the captain’s reaction.
Stàsiuo glanced away. With a tired sigh, he sagged a little and ran a hand over his face.
“Brianne?” he asked. “With red-gold hair?”
Tris nodded once as Mari answered, “Yes.”
Stàsiuo closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” And when his eyes opened, they’d hardened again. “But if she’s dead, why have you come here?”
“I am after the something white,” Tris said quietly.
The captain turned away and started for the door. “You can inform the girl’s family that we’re doing what’s possible to resolve the situation, and please send my condolences. But we don’t need a . . . ghost-hunter. You’ll both leave immediately.”
Mari looked back and up, surprised and confused. A pained expression crossed Tris’s pale features. He didn’t answer back for two breaths, as if struggling with something.
Captain Stàsiuo reached the door.
“Captain,” Tris called out, “I am Tris of the house Vishal, son of Baron Gerold Vishal.”
The captain froze in the doorway. He was slow in turning about.
Mari was stunned as well.
As little as she knew of nobles and politics, even she’d heard of the Vishals. They owned—ruled—a good portion of southern Stravina, including the Wicker Woods.
Those woods were within sight of the Vishal manor.
She stared at him as her insides heated up.
Stravina was a monarchy, somewhat more so than Belaski or Droevinka. In theory, ruled by a king and a queen, but as in most monarchies, much of the power was in the hands of local nobles and their local forces.
The captain’s mouth was flat and tight as he repeated, “Son of Baron Vishal?”
“Yes,” Tris confirmed, just as cold and soft. “Now, what is happening here?”
Mari still couldn’t believe she’d slept so close to him without knowing. All those nights on the road, and he’d let her think he was just a traveler, like her. Of course, he wouldn’t have told her—so why let it slip now, just to whip up this officer?
Much else now made sense—his aloof manner, his inability to speak any language but Stravinan, and a too-formal form at that, and his manner in often expecting to be served. He was what she expected from one of them.
But again, if he’d been hiding his status, why let it slip now, when she’d hear it?
Stàsiuo lingered in the doorway and then appeared to recognize defeat. In a deep, silent breath, he stepped back into the common room, paused for a semiformal nod to Tris, and gestured to the closest table.
“Baronet Vishal, would you have a seat?”
Mari waited.
At first, Tris hesitated, looking away from the captain with a brief twitch in his left eye, as if uncomfortable. Then he sat down. Mari rounded to the table’s far side. She settled slow and silent, still watching him.
The captain sat last in a position between them. “I assumed—was promoted to—command four days ago. But this . . . mess started half a moon back. We’ve lost three guardsmen and another lieutenant since then.”
Only at this did Mari look away from Tris to the captain. “Lost?”
“They’re dead,” he corrected, “like Brianne, seemingly starved. We found the first, a guardsman, in his bunk one morning with no clue to what happened. We found another one three days later, the same way. Both looked . . . worse than any Warlands peasants fleeing for the border stream before a warlord’s militia ran them down. And in both cases, they’d died in a single night.”
“And then?” Tris prompted.
“My colonel worried it was a plague, though it didn’t look like any sickness I’d ever seen. He quarantined the whole barracks, but the physicians couldn’t figure it out. Lieutenant Curran went next . . . but that time was different.”
“How?” Tris prompted.
Stàsiuo glanced at him briefly. “I heard Curran screaming in the stable and ran for him. He was already down when I found him, unmarked, no wounds.”
