Sullen and Grandfather were spotted before they’d even cleared the second perimeter of sentries. They would’ve made it farther had it been darker, but the Cobalt Company kept the edges of their camp brightly lit and tightly patrolled. The shadowy creek Sullen slunk through suddenly flashed with firelight, and shouts encircled them. He wheeled about, blinded by the unhooded lanterns directed at his face, and was about to make a run back up the stream when two arrows struck the shallow water on either side of him.
“Move something something you be dead, something!” came a voice from just up the slope, and Sullen gave thanks their search for Uncle Craven had taken so long—when he’d first left the Savannahs he hadn’t spoken a word of Crimson, but now he was conversant enough to get the gist of the order. He planted his spear in the creek bank and raised his empty hands as the same voice called, “Something something wrong you back?”
“Tell them we’re here for ‘Maroto,’ ” sighed Grandfather. “Our only hope is he’s got some pull with these Outlanders and isn’t just taking orders.”
“Devil!” cried another unseen sentry.
“No!” said Sullen in childish Crimson, pointing at Grandfather. “Not devil! Grandfather on back! Grandfather no walk! Not devils! Horned Wolves! Here look Maroto! Maroto family!”
“Something something figures,” said the first sentry. “Something Maroto something something?”
“I speak small Crimson,” said Sullen, wishing for the hundredth time that the Imperials did as much trade with the Immaculate ships as the Flintland clans did—he was near fluent in Immaculate, but that hadn’t come in as handy in the Empire as he’d expected. “Maroto here, we talk Maroto. Take us Maroto. Uh, please?”
“Wait,” said one scout, so wait Sullen did, despite the icy water running into his worn-out boots. Walking the Frozen Savannahs could make your feet cold, but hanging out in this mountain stream was something else entirely. The lantern light didn’t flicker or leave his face, so he closed his eyes and ignored Grandfather’s sour mutterings about how Sullen couldn’t sneak up on a deaf turtle. Oh, if the Faceless Mistress could see him now…
“Told you we shoulda just grabbed that first scout and snapped her neck,” Grandfather grumbled. “Could’ve worn her cloak and snuck right through the lines.”
Sullen didn’t talk back, but really, how would that have worked, with Grandfather jutting up over his shoulders? Maybe if they were sneaking into a camp full of hunchbacks…
“Horned Wolves?” said a new voice in the root language of Flintland that most of the clans used for local trading. “Let’s see some horns, then.”
It felt so good to hear the true tongue that Sullen broke into a wide grin and flashed the secret hand signals of his people. As soon as he did, Grandfather clocked him upside the head, whispering, “That’s a damn Eagle accent if I ever heard one, no kin of ours.”
“All barbarians are kin out here in the Empire, cousins,” said the voice, and, feeling the brightness diminish, Sullen opened his eyes again. The circle of sentries had tightened up close, but the lanterns were now directed low enough on the ground that Sullen could see the woman still wore the plumed headdress of the Crowned Eagle People, as well as a cobalt cloak. “How many more of you are up in the high country?”
“It’s just us,” said Sullen. “Me and Grandfather are Maroto’s kin.”
“Maroto didn’t tell us to keep an eye out for any of his people who might sneak down under cover of night,” said the Crowned Eagle. “So may I ask just what in the holy fornication of the gods you two are doing out here? If you’re friendly why not enter our camp by day?”
Meeting the scouts on the road that morning, openhanded and all, was just what Sullen had wanted to do, but Grandfather wouldn’t hear any of it. Sullen wasn’t about to say that in front of strangers, though. “My Crimson is bad and most Imperials we’ve met don’t speak Immaculate so good. We thought this would be a surer way of finding my uncle. I swear on my knives we mean him no harm. We’re his family.”
“And how can we know that?” asked the Crowned Eagle.
“Our talk is with Maroto, fledgling,” said Grandfather. “Don’t tell me that pup sends a bird to do his business these days? Bring him out, and then we’ll hear what he has to say on the matter.”
“Fa…” Sullen began, but Grandfather was in a testy mood.
“If he’s not wolf enough to face his kin we’ll just turn around now and have no more to do with him. Would give him a second chance, but if this is the welcome he offers, well, they can keep him and we’ll just head home.”
“We’ll see what’s what when Maroto returns,” said the Crowned Eagle. “But until then you two aren’t going anywhere. I’ve got a dozen of my best checking the countryside as we speak, so if you forgot to mention any other of your kinfolk who might be hiding up there, now’s the time to make it right.”
“Call us liars again and I’ll bend your beak all the way back to your cloaca, see if I—”
“Just us.” Sullen spoke quick and loud, talking over Grandfather. “You go north up the ridge to the first saddle, our gear’s stowed under the glacier lip there, behind some rocks. Be obliged if your people could fetch it for us.”
“That’s just great,” said Grandfather, probably pissed at Sullen. Again. “Take us to whoever’s in charge while Maroto’s away, then.”
The woman laughed. “I’ll be in charge of you till he returns, and we’ll leave it at that. I am Chevaleresse Sasamaso, acting captain of the general’s bodyguard.”
“I’m Sullen,” said Sullen. “And my grandfather’s Ruthless.”
“There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure,” said Chevaleresse Sasamaso. “I’m going to come take your weapons now, all right?”
Sullen worried that Grandfather was going to make a stink about it, but the old man stayed quiet as the Crowned Eagle took Sullen’s spear and knife bandolier. Had the woman tried to disarm Grandfather of his toothpick there might have been trouble, but she pretended not to notice the sheath poking out of his harness. Finally, she stepped back and invited Sullen out of the creek. The night air of the mountain felt colder on his damp ankles than the water had.
“A chevaleresse’s what they call a warrior out here, right?” asked Sullen as she led them into the camp proper, a few of the sentries accompanying them but most hooding their lanterns and returning to patrol. “But you’re a Crowned Eagle.”
“A chevaleresse is more than just a fighter,” said their friendly captor. “It is a title with much honor among both the Raniputri Dominions and the Imperial provinces, one they rarely bestow on foreigners. It signifies nobility of spirit as well as martial prowess.”
“Is my uncle a chevaleresse?”
“Maroto? No, he’s no knight, though it’s said they offered him the privilege many times over, had he wanted it. Turned it down every time.”
“Why would he?” Sullen tried not to gape as they were led through the thronged camp, regal-looking folk in spotless metal armor sitting around fires with bare-chested soldiers so grubby and disheveled they looked like beggars.
“They have rules, don’t you?” said Grandfather. “Calling yourself knight means no more fighting dirty, no lying or cheating, eh?”
“To name but a few of the codes of conduct,” said Chevaleresse Sasamaso with a smirk.
“There’s your answer,” said Grandfather, settling back in his harness. “He’d have no part of that, not our Craven.”
“Craven?” Chevaleresse Sasamaso looked delighted. “I knew Maroto wasn’t a Horned Wolf name. Craven. Well!”
“These are the spies?” A new woman strode toward them through a break in the tents. She addressed them in Immaculate rather than Crimson, thank the Old Watchers. The guards flanking her were impressive enough, with their crablike plates of armor and steel helmets shaped like dog skulls, but as the prisoners stopped to meet the woman by the shifting light of a bonfire and Sullen caught better sight of her, he felt his throa
t close and his hands sweat.
It wasn’t that he was knocked off guard by her scant attire, though her sparse patches of chainmail did catch his eye—despite enjoying warmer climes than Flintland, most Outlanders swaddled themselves in more sweltering layers than a newborn with pneumonia. It wasn’t a stirring at her beauty, though she was decidedly fleet. No, it was the rich blue of the long hair framing her face, the severe slash of her bangs casting her dark eyes in shade that not even the bonfire could banish. She was exactly as the stories of Cold Zosia had described her, a ferocious swordswoman with cobalt hair who led devils as well as armies.
This was who Sullen had to stop, before she used her witchcraft to destroy an empire. Zosia. As if punctuating his realization, a small owlbat flapped overhead, its wings shining ebon in the firelight.
“We look like spies to you?” said Grandfather, conversant enough in Immaculate despite all his shit talking of their shipwrights, rice spirits, and general style. “We’re here for Maroto.”
“Kinfolk of his, they say,” said Chevaleresse Sasamaso. “For what it’s worth, I believe them.” Switching over to Crimson, she added, “Something something foolish enough something something.”
“I’ll take Maroto over the rest of the old guard,” said the blue-haired woman, again in Immaculate. Then, bafflingly, she bowed. “Welcome to my camp, kin of Maroto. I am General Ji-hyeon Bong, Commander of the Cobalt Company.”
“I’m Sullen,” said Sullen, though at present he felt anything but. No, he was happier than he’d been in a very long time that he wouldn’t have to throw down on this woman. Especially since he was positive the owlbat wheeling overhead was a devil that was looking out for her. Not sure how he knew it was bound to her, but he did. “And my Grandfather’s called Ruthless. We’re Horned Wolves. Or we were, aren’t no more. Might be again someday, I guess. Depending.” Sullen was many things, but he had never before found himself a babbler, so he cleared his throat and finished with, “Anyway, we come down from the Frozen Savannahs.”
“The tundra of Flintland?” asked this Ji-hyeon.
“Did he stutter?” said Grandfather. “It’s called the Frozen Savannahs, girl, and you’ll show it the respect it’s due by calling it such.”
Sullen blushed, but to his relief Ji-hyeon smiled at the admonishment. “My apologies, Master Ruthless, I meant no disrespect. Quite the contrary, that’s a long way to travel with no steed but your grandson.”
Sullen’s blush heated up, and he weakly explained, “Wolves don’t ride.”
“I would like to accept your apology,” said Grandfather. “But so long as we’re your prisoner I don’t think I will.”
“Old wolf, you ought—” began Chevaleresse Sasamaso as one of Ji-hyeon’s guards took a step toward them, but Sullen got to it first. There would be hells to pay later, especially since he said it in Immaculate, but the words were out before he could stop them.
“By the heathen god and the true ancestors, Fa, just say thank you! They caught us sneaking in here like lions trying to carry off a baby, and you expect ’em not to be wary? What would you do if you nabbed a Jackal man coming through our window some night? Offer him a cup of snowmead?”
Grandfather went rigid on Sullen’s back, but did not speak. Again Ji-hyeon smiled, and as the wind stirred up the fire he saw her eyes better, and found they were not so dark as he’d first thought. While those shining gems stayed on Sullen, she addressed Grandfather. “Ruthless of the Horned Wolf Tribe, if I have your word that you and your grandson will cause no evil, you are welcome to stay as guests instead of prisoners.”
“Given,” sniffed Grandfather, relaxing a bit in his harness. “And I warmly accept your gracious apology, General.”
“Excellent,” said Ji-hyeon. “Chevaleresse, see that a private tent is erected for them. When Maroto returns from his expedition I’ll see that he is sent to you at once, whereupon you will have to make the decision to move on or swear allegiance to our cause. Much as I might like to provide for you indefinitely, with winter fast approaching I can only afford to supply those who are in my employ. Welcome to my camp, gentlemen.”
General Ji-hyeon gave a clipped nod and walked past them; likely she had not actually been looking for them but on her way somewhere else when they had crossed her path. There was no parting smile for Sullen, not that he expected one… but he missed its absence enough to risk acting the fool, and pivoted around.
“Hold up now,” he said, feeling pretty confident for a change. That confidence evaporated as the general turned back and he saw how annoyed she looked. “I, uh, was going to say we ought to burn one together. You and me.”
Her expression didn’t make it seem likely, and Grandfather snorted on Sullen’s back, but he plunged ahead, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt right then. “I can tell you’re a busy woman, so there’s no need rushing it. In your own time, then, in your own time.”
“I don’t smoke tubāq,” said Ji-hyeon, and Sullen could tell she’d be gone in an instant if he didn’t say something witty. Wit, though, was no kin of his, so he just spoke the truth, as he always did. For all the good the truth had ever done him.
“Me, neither, nasty stuff. Fa rolls the beedies in it sometimes, but I’ve got no stomach for it straight. I’m not some sheep, to be living off poison weeds. I was talkin’ about saam, yeah?” There it was! All cautious-like, just peeking out the corner of the general’s lips like a wary fox testing the air outside her den, the faintest hint of a smile.
“You want me to smoke drugs with you, is that what you’re asking me?” Fast as he’d seen it, that smile was gone. “You want me to take time out of war-waging to get high with you, barbarian?”
Chevaleresse Sasamaso covered her mouth with a mailed hand, and Grandfather rocked on Sullen’s back with silent laughter. This was a disaster.
“Saam isn’t a drug, it’s a medicine,” said Sullen lamely.
“And what malady does it treat?”
“Bad moods?” he said. He’d never really thought about the practical applications before, but knew mudworkers and poison oracles used it. Admitting that he had in fact just been asking if she wanted to get high with him seemed a bit low, though.
“Master Ruthless, I have a request to make regarding your grandson,” said Ji-hyeon, and while that almost-there smile was back, she was giving Grandfather her full attention now. Sullen had really stepped in it this time.
“He’s a good lad, General, just not used to conversing with warlords,” said Grandfather. “So long as you don’t aim to flog him for his impudence, though, I could see my way into letting him take a little discipline for his cheek.”
“Good,” said Ji-hyeon. “With your permission I would like to take kaldi with him sometime in the next few days. In private. I hope you understand?”
“Oh, I understand,” said Grandfather, which was good, because Sullen certainly didn’t. “I’ll give you leave to talk to the boy, but nothing more than that. He’s still a virgin, and I aim to keep him that way—big, smart lad as he is, he’ll catch quite the groomprice if I can arrange a marriage somewheres along the line without him—”
“Great fucking devils, Fa, shut the fuck up!” Sullen wished the old man had straight up murdered him, instead of talking this shit. “I don’t… She doesn’t… devildamn it!”
“I assure you his chastity will be preserved,” said Ji-hyeon, giving them a final bow. Her smile was out in force now, but Sullen was no longer so delighted to see it. Fucking Grandfather, man…
CHAPTER
5
This is bullshit,” panted Duchess Din, plopping her mohair-swaddled bottom down on a boulder near the one Maroto and Purna occupied. The pass they had reached was less than a dozen feet wide, the rugged peaks on either side wasting no time in jabbing straight up to poke heaven in the eyes. With the whistling wind delivering a slurry of early snow and rock dust, it was hardly an ideal picnic spot. On either side of the narrow saddle, rough talus slopes sharply dr
opped a thousand feet before leveling off a bit, and if anything, the side they were to descend looked even steeper than the way they’d come up.
“Testify, sister!” said Purna, raising a fist and lowering her head. “If I’d known this was the work we’d be doing I would have just had the Cobalts execute me as a traitor. If I wanted to play marmot I never would have left Ugrakar.”
“Puhhhhhh,” gasped Diggelby as Hassan helped him up the last jagged rise, even his mean little dog wheezing as it scrambled up the rocks ahead of them.
Yet Maroto was pleased, which he hadn’t been in… weeks, maybe a whole month. Old Black knew, he probably hadn’t cracked a smile since he’d found out the blue-haired girl everyone thought was Zosia was just Kang-ho’s brat, with Fennec her faithful puppeteer. Now, though, he felt genuinely happy. The reason was propped up against another boulder, as though the three scouts were huddled into a windbreak, and not, you know, dead. Maroto wasn’t such a baddie as to rejoice at seeing random corpses—hells, if he were that sort of man he’d rarely stop smiling, living the life he’d lived. No, his bliss—and bliss was really the only word for it—was that he recognized one of the scouts Choi had dispatched just before dawn, when he and the others were still way down at the misty bottom of the pass. It was Lukash the Nearly Noseless Scout, that lying fucker who had repaid Maroto’s mercy by bringing a whole platoon of Imperial toughs down on them outside Myura, just before they’d finally found the Cobalt Company. Maroto only wished he had been here to watch Choi do the deed. Maybe advise her to be a bit slower about it. His oft-regretted vow prevented him from torturing agents of the Crimson Empire, sure, but that was no reason why he couldn’t offer his professional oversight to such activities. Same reason he could guide a scouting party to spy on the Imperials but not lead an open charge against ’em—a man has to keep his word to his enemies, if no one else, but that’s no reason not to get creative with interpretations.
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