by Wren Handman
It was at least an hour after dawn, and they were hardly alone on the streets, but they were by no means in a crowd. The altercation hadn’t even caught anyone’s eye. She opened her mouth to scream but earned a knee in the stomach, which knocked the wind out of her and turned the shriek into more of a squeak. Between the two men they easily hauled her to her feet, even struggling, and before she could catch a breath they were through the doors and into a building’s cool interior.
She hadn’t gotten much of a look at the outside, but from here it was clearly an expensive private residence. The carriage had traveled at least half an hour, so from her house to here…maybe the Vale, the noble district by the pleasure park. Or perhaps the Diplomatic District…Oh, Ashua. Something twigged, and she remembered the gold crest to the right of the door. If she was in the ambassador’s house, no help would be on the way. The Gray Men had no jurisdiction in the home of an ambassador.
The men hauled her up a flight of stairs to the second floor, down a hallway, and tossed her unceremoniously on the floor. She heard the sound of a bar being dropped down over the door. She screamed and battered on it for good measure, but with no assumptions that it would do any good. It just made her feel better.
She took a deep breath, pushing her heavy black hair out of her face, and did a survey of the room. It was a small office, with a large bay window and huge bookcases lining the walls. There was a desk with papers strewn across it, but she ignored that for a moment in favor of the view. She opened the shutters and pushed them wide, sticking her head out for a better look. It was a straight drop to the ground outside—no escape there—but a calmer look told her she was definitely in the Diplomatic District. Not every home in the district belonged to an ambassador. Rather, this was where foreigners tended to live, close to the homes of their ambassadors and traveling merchants. In front of her she saw two buildings in the distinct style of Marabour—sloping roofs designed to survive heavy dumps of snow, unnecessary in Novosk—and to the left was an old Sanitos-style building, with curving white columns.
She went to the desk and tried to read through the papers, but it was all in Sephrian and her written Sephrian was nowhere near as good as her spoken. She had learned it all from Darren, and didn’t have much call to read it. They seemed to be discussing a planned sailing expedition into the thick mists that surrounded the continent, which was fascinating but of no help to her current plight. She eyed the window, wondering if she could throw a few bookcases out and make the pile high enough to climb down onto, but she doubted she could get more than one out before someone came running, and the tallest bookcase was only five feet, nowhere near high enough to use as a ladder. The adrenaline of the fight on the doorstep was wearing off, and her head was spinning again. Would screaming for help do her any good? No one could enter the building to save her, but it might let Darren know where she was.
That was a laugh. Darren wouldn’t be coming, not with an arrow wound to the shoulder, and his newfound friends wouldn’t risk their revolution trying to save some seamstress girl. Would they tell him her fate at all? Or decide it was best he never knew—one less complication in their plan to put him on the throne?
On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt. She braced herself against the windowpane, preparing for an almighty holler, when she saw one of Novosk’s net of street children loitering by the door. She realized in shock that it was the same child who had taken a coin to direct her to the carriage. She waved at him, hoping she could get him to carry a message somewhere, but when he saw her frantic motions he only smiled, touched his cheek, and ran off. She cursed Ashua, cursed Oblivion, cursed Darren and his stupid plans, and finally cursed herself, and sank down onto the floor by the window, struggling to breathe evenly, fighting the threat of tears. They would do her no good. She was on her own now. She had to find her own way out of the morass her life was fast becoming.
She couldn’t have been sitting for more than twenty minutes when the door opened and a large man entered the room. He was huge, but huge in the way where muscled men often turn to fat as they grow older, with the ramrod bearing of the disgustingly rich and titled. Funny how nobles from every land tended to look the same. This one was clearly Sephrian, not just from his pale coloring but also from his clothes. He was wearing the peculiar colored shirts that Sephrian nobles wore to distinguish which silly house they were from, with the overlong cut that hid their frame, and the unnecessary fringes everywhere. Sephrian fashion was just appalling, all wool and gold brocade. Hard and stiff, not flowing like the Miranov style. Behind him her captor lurked—the one with the expensive clothes.
The large man gave her a doubtful look. “Are you sure this is her?” he asked in Sephrian.
“Yes, sir. Definitely, sir. She’s the one.”
“She looks like a—”
“Commoner?” Taya asked in her terrible Sephrian. “I look better when my house is not on fire.”
“Ah, you speak Sephrian. Lovely,” the man said.
Taya scrambled to her feet, willing her exhausted body to scream out her defiance. She crossed her arms and straightened her back, giving him what she hoped was a disdainful look. “Come to examine your spoils of war?” she asked in Sanitas.
“Please. Have a seat. Grayson will bring us some refreshments,” he responded in kind.
Grayson, presumably the name of her attacker from earlier, nodded and left them alone.
She supposed her odds were better now, but she doubted her ability to overpower this man, even if he looked almost fifty.
He brought a chair from the wall and set it in front of the desk, then took his own place on the other side. As she sat down across from him she saw that he looked almost as tired as she did. His eyes were hollow, and his dress, though immaculately clean, was disheveled.
“Tired from a long night of kidnapping and arson?” she asked.
“Tired from a vigil over my son,” he corrected. His Sanitas accent was perfect, though there was an odd clipped cadence that marked him as not a native speaker. “Your friend hit him with a knife. The healers aren’t sure he’ll survive.”
She knew she shouldn’t feel guilty. That fire could easily have killed them all, and had destroyed everything she owned. But she couldn’t help a pang of remorse; this man seemed to genuinely grieve for his son. What a complex mess I’ve found myself in. “He isn’t my friend,” she said instead. “I’ve no part of this—you might as well let me go.”
“That’s funny.” He opened a drawer, took out a piece of paper and laid it on the table between them. It was the deed to her house, plus a contract of marriage. “According to this, Taya Ushchekin and Darren Mannima are engaged to be married. And you own property together.”
“Owned,” she corrected.
He nodded graciously. “Owned,” he agreed. “And you are Taya Ushchekin, so…it seems you are very much a part of this.”
“I was important when Darren was a sailorboy,” she acknowledged. “You think anyone will want me near him now? I’m old news, and no one is coming for me.”
“I don’t need them to come. I just need you as a distraction, and for that, you will serve. He may have delusions of kinghood in his brain, but he was your sailorboy only a few short months ago—he won’t have forgotten you that quickly.”
“So, what? You tell him you have me and hope he makes a desperate lunge to save me? You mount me on a catapult in the battlefield and threaten to toss me over his troops?”
“With respect, little lark, I have no intention of showering you with my plans. Ah, here is Grayson with the food. Please, eat. While I cannot pretend you are not a prisoner here, there’s no need for any…unpleasantness. As long as things continue to progress smoothly.”
Though the words were gentle, the tone of his voice carried the threat clearly. She found herself shivering. She felt more fear in this moment than she had while bound and tossed over the pommel of a horse as her house burned with Darren wounded inside, and she couldn’t say why.
Grayson gave them each a bowl of steaming hot porridge with a side of fresh fruit. The porridge was done in the Sephrian way, blander than she liked and sweetened with sugar instead of honey, but it was warm and filling and she ate every bite in awkward silence. The fruit was peach and orange, diced and drizzled with yogurt, far more expensive than anything she had in her own larder. This time of year she’d be eating nothing but canned, but these seemed to be fresh, likely brought in by ship from the far south.
As she ate, the food felt like a sending from Ashua, but when she was finished it sat in her stomach like lead. She stood up and paced the room, sipping milk with Grayson’s eyes boring into the small of her back. For his part the noble lord seemed to ignore her, doing paperwork and eating his own breakfast more slowly than she had. Her mind was reeling. There had to be some argument she could level to convince him to let her go, or some means of escape she had not yet plotted. And why this fear? Was it just her own natural instincts in response to the feelings of total helplessness? Last night everything happened so quickly, and for every blow sent her way she had a parry ready. Perhaps the adrenaline had simply been enough to keep this fear away. But now there was nothing to distract her from the reality of her situation, and she hated it. She hated being helpless, hated being a pawn. She had hated being under someone else’s control so much that she had lied to the government and concocted a fake marriage just to get away from her smothering parents and their marriage plans! And now here she was. Being used as nothing but a piece in a plan. A helpless, useless girl. It made her want to scream.
She walked back to the window, dizzy and claustrophobic in the little room. She leaned her head out, taking careful breaths. The street child was back. He pointed at her, she saw, and then ducked back into an alley. Something was happening. She tried not to seem too interested, pretending she was only catching her breath.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
“You won’t tell me your plan, fine. Don’t I at least have the right to know the name of my kidnapper?” She spoke with her back to him, hoping he would take her strange position as bravado covering fear, which in a way it was. But she wanted to see what was happening on the street.
A small man took a step out of the alley and she felt her spirits soar. Oh blessed Ashua, thank you, thank you, thank you. I knew you wouldn’t turn away from me! It was Ryan. He caught her eye, nodded, and disappeared back into the alley. They were coming.
“How remiss of me,” the man said. “My name is Lord Colin Mendaci.”
“Are you really the ambassador?”
“The ambassador was recalled on urgent business. He’ll be gone for a month, and I am here to take his place.”
Ryan reappeared and took two steps away down the street. Then David appeared, one step behind, and grabbed his arm. They seemed to be arguing—so Ryan wasn’t mute after all. David gestured at her and Ryan made a cutting motion with his arm. The message was clear: David wanted to try to rescue her, but Ryan felt it was too dangerous. They were leaving.
She had to do something. Fast.
She took her cup of milk and deliberately dropped it out of the window. It smashed on the cobblestones below. David and Ryan both looked her way. As she pointed deliberately at herself and then at it, she gasped, “Oh, no! I’m so sorry.”
She turned back to face the room. Lord Mendaci had barely glanced her way, but Grayson looked suspicious. She sat down on the windowsill, one hand braced on either side, trying to look contrite but, from Grayson’s expression, failing.
“If you’re testing to see if you can survive a fall out of the window, hopefully that experiment proved you can’t. How many pieces did it break into?” Lord Mendaci asked without looking up from his figures. But Grayson was taking a step toward her—she had no time to wait, no time to see if they had understood, if they were coming.
“You’re assuming I’ll hit the ground,” she said, and let herself fall.
Grayson screamed and made a run for her, but he didn’t even come close; the air hit her as she fell, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She had never felt more free, and if David didn’t catch her in his arms, Ashua would.
She hit him hard enough to knock them both to the ground. Ashua, but it hurt! Her foot slammed hard against the pavement and her elbow was scraped raw, but her head hit David’s chest and Ryan caught his head seconds before it connected with the ground. Grayson was shouting but all three of them were already on their feet, and she was laughing with the thrill of it as they took off running.
Her leg almost gave out with the first step but she gritted her teeth and made it through the pain, and the trio had disappeared around the corner before any from the house even made it to the ground floor. They were away.
Chapter Seven
“SO, WHERE TO?” she asked.
They had run for five or six blocks, through back alleys and then onto the busiest streets they could find, and Ryan had finally allowed them to slow to a walk. It was early morning now, and the streets were choked with people on their way to and from their business. Ryan had stolen a dress for her from a clothesline, and David had made her quickly clean her face and change into it before they moved out again, so she stood out less in the crowd. They were in the Scholar’s District, where every corner had a street crier and the grounds were aimless as well as directed—a perfect place to lose anyone who might still have been on their tail.
“We have to take a circuitous route,” David explained. “It’ll be at least an hour.” He linked his arm through hers and took up a strolling pace, playing at being a couple out for a promenade.
Ryan disappeared into the crowd ahead of her, and though she lost sight of him after half a minute, she still had the feeling that he was there, keeping an eye out.
She was struck at the curiosity of these two men who had attached themselves to this cause. She wondered what their stories were. David was so clearly an educated man, maybe even a nobleman, and yet here he was, a rebel to the throne? Obviously this was no band of dangerous knife-wielding savages, but she still couldn’t quite shake the image of a ragtag band of idealists with more dreams than plans. Darren’s story about meeting Jeremy had seemed to fit into the idea that this was a revolution of young men past their depth. And David somewhat fit the bill. He couldn’t have been over thirty, and his attempts to pass himself off as a common sailor had been nothing short of pathetic. But his restrained solemnity during moments of crisis proved he knew how to do more than play at war.
And then there was Ryan. Ryan was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, sheathed in hard metal. His eyes spoke of cold places, and she had yet to see him smile. Smile, Ashua’s sake, she had yet to even hear him speak. She wondered if he was mute, and found herself glancing unconsciously over her shoulder. She didn’t expect to see anything, but there he was, his piercing eyes on hers as if he had felt her thinking about him. His eyes were light brown, almost hazel, with glints of green in their depths—an innocuous sort of color, one that might be found on any man in the marketplace, but despite the color his eyes were cold. They were eyes that said “I will do anything,” and she believed them.
She turned away guiltily, as if she had been caught in some questionable act, and caught David smiling at her. She wondered if he, too, could read her thoughts. Perhaps she was so tired that they could simply read them on her face.
“The weather has turned quite fair, don’t you think?” she said, for no reason other than to have something to say.
“Yes, it has. We’re lucky. Spring is showing its face early this year.”
“Last year at this time there was still snow on the ground,” Taya agreed. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation, but the silence had been gnawing on her, and what else was there to talk about? In a crowd where anyone could overhear she couldn’t very well discuss anything that mattered, anything that she might want to ask. So…the weather.
“I forgot it snows here! Strange to th
ink that our countries are so close, and yet in Sephria we never get snow. Well, except for the mountains, of course.” As David spoke he glanced toward Ryan, but he had disappeared into the crowd again.
“If that seems strange, imagine what it would have been like to have lived before the Great Collapse! To have a country so large that there was snow year round in some parts, and in others never a flake.” Three hundred years ago, Sephria, Miranov, Sanitos, and Marabour had all been one great nation, an empire that spanned the whole continent of Midvalen. Signs of it were everywhere—the clothing they wore was still very similar, and trade relations were good between all but Marabour, who had closed her doors to her more civilized neighbors. And Sanitos, which had once been the mother of all four great nations, had turned to religious zealotry and now produced nothing but philosophers and silk. Some people claimed there were other nations, beyond the veil of mist that encircled the continent, but most agreed Midvalen was the world.
“I would have liked to have seen such a time, when each piece of the whole could work together for the greater good. It would have been a magical thing to be a part of.”
“If it had been so wonderful, I doubt there would have been civil war,” Taya countered with a smile, and David laughed ruefully.
“You have me there, ma’am. I think you must be right.”
“You know that I’m younger than you are, David. Calling me ma’am just makes me feel silly.”
“Taya it is,” he replied with a smile, and inclined his head gently.
Such a gentleman. She wondered if he would be offended if she asked him where he got his manners. She thought he might not, but wasn’t sure enough to risk offending him. She would have few enough allies in this strange journey—better to keep on good terms with her newfound companions. She knew Darren would be out of the picture for some time yet, recovering from his wounds, and she imagined the road would be very lonely. If she was even going…Who knew what their plans for her might be.
