The young warrior returned, having finished her survey. “All dead,” she said.
“Too bad,” Reid said. “I would have liked to have saved at least one for questioning.” He tilted his head toward the girl next to him. “This is Digging Bird of Marisa Pines Camp, a warrior apprentice. Her arrows took three of the enemy today.”
The girl bowed her head, her cheeks coloring.
Digging Bird has a bad case of Reid Demonitis, Raisa thought. “You fought very well,” she said, smiling at the warrior. “I’m sure it won’t be long before you carry the Demonai name and amulet.”
“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Amon said, the words propelled by his relentless honesty. “If not for you, I would be dead, and the princess heir a captive.”
Reid shrugged as if to say, it was nothing.
“Which raises a question,” Amon went on. “How did you happen to be here?”
“We often patrol this area,” Reid said. “Watching for jinxflingers and trespassers. The Guard presence in these parts has been rather thin.”
“Then you weren’t following us?” Amon asked.
Reid’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Digging Bird, then back at Amon. “Well, yes. We were.” Raisa suspected he might have lied had the girl not been there as witness.
“We would have welcomed you to our fire,” Amon went on.
“We were watching over the princess heir,” Reid admitted without apology.
“Well then,” Amon said. “Good you were here.” He did not smile. “We should get back to camp,” he said, looking at Raisa. “Hallie may have missed you by now, and we’d better move on. Lieutenant Gillen may be nearby.”
“You would be welcome to be our guest at Demonai Camp, Briar Rose,” Reid said, using Raisa’s clan name. “We would be glad to offer escort.”
“We just came from there,” Raisa said. “We’re heading for Westgate. I’m leaving the Fells for now, until I can get things — sorted out with the queen.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? To leave the Spirits?” Reid raised an eyebrow.
Raisa felt a prickle of unease, the return of her earlier forebodings. “It’s not that I want to leave,” she said. “It’s just that right now it doesn’t seem wise to stay.”
“We can protect you, Your Highness. No one will touch you at Demonai.” He smiled and touched the longbow that slanted across his back. “No one should force you from your birthright. I urge you to seek the protection of the clans.”
Raisa bit back a harsh response. After all, Nightwalker had just saved her from — Gillen, for a start. But she didn’t like the suggestion that she was running away.
Wasn’t that just what she was doing? Shouldn’t she stay and hold her ground? When she was queen, she wouldn’t be able to run from conflict.
When she said nothing, Reid pressed on, encouraged by her silence. “Given the dangers here, it may seem safer in the flatlands, but that is an illusion. Away from the protection of the camps, you will be vulnerable to flatlander assassins.”
“It is not my own safety I’m worried about,” Raisa snapped. “I do not intend to start a war. We can’t afford it right now. It would tear the country apart.”
“It’s time to teach the jinxflingers a lesson,” Reid said. “We cannot continue to appease them while they trample over—”
“If I meant to appease wizards, I would be married by now,” Raisa interrupted. “I will protect the Gray Wolf line. But I will not choose between my parents. I will allow time for cooler heads and good sense to prevail.”
“It seems to me the Princess Raisa has made her intentions clear,” Amon said. “If there’s nothing else, we need to get back and break camp before nightfall.”
Reid stared at Amon for a long moment. Then turned to Raisa and inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I just wanted you to know that you have options. Naturally, we would be honored to escort you back to your camp.”
He swung around to Digging Bird, who was watching this exchange with intense interest and not a little surprise.
She’s probably never seen anyone say no to Nightwalker before, Raisa thought.
“Round up the loose horses,” Reid ordered Digging Bird. “Find suitable mounts for Princess Raisa and Corporal Byrne.”
Reid Demonai would be happy to see a war, Raisa realized. It’s what he lives for.
CHAPTER FOUR
DELPHI
Mountain towns are all different, Han thought.
Mountain towns are all the same.
Geography drives architecture in a mountain town. In Delphi, the houses and other buildings were jammed together, like they’d slid down the slopes and jumbled into the available space along the river.
Houses built onto a hillside are deceiving: short one-stories at the back, and tall four-stories at the front. They reminded Han of brightly painted fancy girls that had seen better days. They backed into the mountainside and spread their long skirts down to the valley floor, their dirty petticoats in the gutters. The streets were narrow and tangled and cobbled with stone—a material plentiful and cheap in the mountains.
Forced into the rocky Kanwa canyon, the streets veered drunkenly around the smallest obstacles—sometimes losing their way entirely.
It was fully dark when they finally descended into the town. A choking pall of smoke thickened the air, requiring extra effort to breathe.
“It stinks worse than Southbridge,” Han said, wrinkling his nose. A different, unfamiliar stink, at least.
“They burn coal for heat and cooking here,” Dancer explained. “The smoke gets trapped in the valley. It’s worse in winter—the fires burn night and day.”
There was money in town. Intermingled with stores and businesses and more modest dwellings were street-front palaces and rich-looking row houses. Some of the houses occupied entire city blocks, faced with kilned brick and carved stone.
“Mine owners,” Dancer explained. “But even the miners make good money. The war in Arden has stoked the market for iron and coal, and prices are high. Lightfoot says the Delphians don’t mind the stinking air. They say they’re breathing money. It’s allowed them to keep their own army and stay independent of both Arden and the Fells.”
As they neared the center of town, the streets clogged up with people, reminding Han of Fellsmarch on market day.
It was a diverse crowd—black-skinned men and women from Bruinswallow, clad in the loose, striped clothing of the southerners. Southern Islanders with their dark skin, elaborate jewelry, and tangles of black hair. Leggy Northern Islanders with fair hair and blue eyes, some haloed with auras. Multiple languages collided in the streets, and exotic music poured from inns and taverns.
There was more evidence of wartime prosperity—elegant shops with all manner of trade goods; jewelry stores with glittering displays, take-away food stores with exotic offerings and intriguing, spicy smells. Han’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered.
“Let’s find something to eat,” he said, resisting the temptation to nick a twist of salt bread from a street vendor. Hunger always seemed to bring out his old habits, but he knew better than to do slide-hand in unfamiliar territory, with no escape route laid out.
You don’t need to steal to eat, he reminded himself, touching the money pouch tucked inside his leggings as if it were a talisman.
Farther south, the city seemed darker than Fellsmarch. Everything was layered with a veneer of soot that soaked up light.
“Don’t they have lamplighters here?” Han asked, as their tired ponies plodded through a splash of light spilling from a narrow storefront church skirted on three sides with tall steps. A black-robed cleric with a golden rising sun emblazoned on his robes swept leaves and dirt out of the doorway, sending debris raining down on their heads.
Dancer shook his head. “No lamps, nor lamplighters,” he said. He fingered his amulet, conjuring a blossom of light on the tips of his fingers while Han looked on enviously. Han touched his own flashpiece, and power siz
zled down his arm, exploding in flames that rocketed halfway across the street, startling passersby.
Embarrassed, Han tucked his offending hand under his other arm.
“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black-robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.
Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.
The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.
“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.
“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”
“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”
Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.
In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch—a wanton totally without scruples.
Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.
“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.
Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”
This was new to Han—the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.
It was only the Demon King—Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor—who was thought to be unequivocally evil.
“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two-story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.
Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small—where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.
He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.
The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms—the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.
Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.
Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.
Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.
Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.
Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.
The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.
Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide-hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.
“What’s the news of the war in the south?” Han asked the plush, apple-cheeked server. He touched her arm. “Who’s winning?”
She leaned close to Han. “There was a big battle outside the capital last month, sir. Prince Geoff’s armies won, so he holds Ardenscourt. He’s declared himself king.”
“What about the other brothers? Have they given up?” Han asked, wondering if the war would soon be over, and what that would mean for his future.
The girlie shrugged. “All I know is what I hear in the taproom. I believe Prince Gerard and Prince Godfrey are also still alive, and as far as I know, they’ve not given up.”
“There aren’t any princesses?” Han asked.
She squinted at him. “Aye, there’s one princess. Lisette. But princesses in Arden are just for show. And marrying off.”
Han glanced at Dancer, who shrugged. How would you even tell if a king’s blooded heirs were really his? Flatlanders were peculiar, for sure.
Han watched as the server walked away, wondering when she’d be off work.
He continued his study of the other patrons. It didn’t take long to figure out who was armed and who wasn’t, what weapons they carried, and who toted a heavy purse. A while longer, and he knew who was skilled at cards, who at nicks and bones, and who was cheating at both.
This was courtesy of Han’s brief stint as a card hustler. That kind of thievery was harder to prove, if you were any good at it. The bluejackets weren’t so likely to toss you in gaol for picking pockets at cards.
But he’d learned it was easy to get cornered in a taproom full of sore losers. Also that angry gamblers aren’t above smashing your head in, whether they know how you’re cheating or not. Especially when you’re only thirteen, and haven’t got your growth.
Dancer was edgy and restless all through the meal, flinching at sudden noises—the clatter of pots and pans on the hearth or two drunks shouting at each other. Despite his knowledge of Delphi and Delphian ways, he didn’t care for cities in general and crowds in particular. As soon as he finished eating, he stood. “I’m going up,” he said.
“I booked a bath,” Han said generously. “You go first.”
Dancer eyed him suspiciously. “Stay out of trouble, will you?” he said.
“Yes, Dancer Cennestre.” Yes, Mother. Han grinned at Dancer’s back when he turned away. Han motioned to the server and ordered cider. He meant to keep his wits sharp and his hand off his amulet.
Han idly surveyed the next table, where a foursome played royals and commons, a Fellsian card game Han knew well. The man facing Han was cheating—a needle point for sure. An overplush man in Ardenine flatlander garb, his round face was cratered from some ancient bout with the pox. Though it was cool in the common room, he mopped at his sweating face with a large handkerchief. Coppers and girlies and notes of promise were stacked in front of him, evidence of his success.
It didn’t take long for Han to figure out his system. The sharp was a busy man for someone so large, always flailing his hands around in a distracting way. He used the distraction to second deal, bottom de
al, and palm cards. He won nearly every hand he dealt, and a good number of those he didn’t—losing just often enough to kill suspicion.
Han wasn’t impressed. The sharp was just your standard hand mucker with a rowdy, aggressive style of play. The smart players came and went, soon perceiving that they were at a disadvantage. But one player stayed throughout, stubbornly trying to win back her losses.
She sat with her back to Han, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Han guessed she was a girlie close to naming age, a Southern Islander from her dark skin and curls. Under her overlarge coat, she wore the brilliant colors Southern Islanders favored, but her clothes were ill-fitting, as though they had been borrowed, begged, or stolen.
Something about her seemed familiar—the way she tilted her head and danced in her chair, jiggling her leg as if she couldn’t quite sit still. Han craned his neck, but couldn’t get a good look at her face under the hat.
Han drank his cider and tried to ignore the drama playing out in front of him, but his eyes kept straying back to the girl and her increasingly desperate wagers. She ran out of money and continued with scrips for payment.
She should know better, Han thought. Anyone who wins that much is cheating.
Finally, the flatlander drained his mug of ale and slammed it down on the table. “Well, I’m cashing in,” he said loudly. “Mace Boudreaux knows enough to quit while Lady Luck’s still smiling.”
Two of the players scowled, collected their depleted stakes, and left.
The island girl did not rise. She sat frozen for a moment, then leaned forward. “Nuh-uh. Let’s keep playing. You got to give me a chance to win it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical, carrying the familiar cadence of the Southern Islands.
Han’s skin prickled in recognition.
“Sorry, girlie, I’m done,” Mace Boudreaux said. “Guess luck’s running against you. Time to pay up.” He raked in the money in front of him and secreted it in several hidey places on his person. Then pushed the payment notes across the table to the girlie.
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