“Have you news of my father? Has someone set themselves up in the Luqs’ place?”
Again Ker tensed, but again, Jak had done the right thing. That was exactly the question a noble would have asked.
“Figures your father’s son would be asking that.” The other man laughed and gave Jak a knowing look. “There’s been some trouble from ones who wouldn’t put down their arms, but that’s all getting sorted now.”
“It could mean war,” Jak said, in exactly the tone of a man who’d only this minute thought of it.
“It could. But it’s not all that likely, not now. More and more are coming over to our side, once they understand what freedom is.” He narrowed his eyes. “What about you? I’m sure there’d be a place for someone with your connections, now that the we’ve purged the Wings of women.”
His face didn’t change when he said it. That’s what horrified Ker the most. The man said “purged the women” and his face never changed.
But Jak was shaking his head. “I don’t see myself a soldier, Eoro,” he said. “But with the Luqs and her pack of rats gone . . .” Jak smiled in a way that Ker hoped she’d never see again. “There may be some other way for a man of my ‘connections’ to serve the Polity.” He let his voice die away before shaking his head slowly. “Too bad I’m stuck way over here. By the time I get home, my father will have my brother set up and I’ll be out in the cold. I never had the luck.”
“Not to worry.” The other man snapped his fingers and his horse shifted. “The pass is open. We can thank our new friends for that, along with everything else they’ve done.”
“You don’t say? So where are you off to now?”
The other man shook his head. “You know better than that. Good luck, man, and if your father does set you up, don’t forget your old friends!” With a final wave, the man turned away.
They stood in silence watching the man trot his horse to catch up with the rest of his troop.
“Easy now,” Jak said. “Don’t relax too quickly. We don’t know who might be watching us.”
“If the pass is open—” began Tel.
“We still can’t use it,” Jak said. “It’s one thing to get away with our story with a ragtag group like this one, but at the pass they’ll have real guards. With real questions.”
Jerek left home before dawn, creeping down to the stable before anyone else was up. He’d lain awake most of the night, ideas and options chasing themselves ’round and ’round. Once he’d made up his mind, however, it was easier to leave than he’d expected. Though it had taken him most of the morning to reach the market town of Gaena, as the growling of his stomach reminded him, Jerek would be willing to wager he hadn’t yet been missed. With Nessa gone, there’d been no one keeping a close eye on him.
Fogtail snuffled at the back of his neck, breath warm against his skin. The poor old boy wasn’t up to the distance they’d come, but Jerek had been afraid to take his new horse. Not only was it more likely to be missed by the stable staff, but it was far more likely to be noticed once he left his own land. No one would look twice at a thirteen-year-old boy with a pony, but that same boy on the back of a good riding horse would be a different matter.
Looking around, it seemed Jerek was lucky with his timing. Despite the chill, the market was at its height, though the crowds’ attention was not on the stalls and barrows with their cabbages, carrots, and turnips, braids of onions and garlic, nor the chickens and geese hung up by their feet. Rather, everyone—even the vendors—was looking at the far side of the square. Jerek wanted to work his way through the edges of the crowd to the armorers’ stalls, but he knew he’d draw unwelcome attention if he wasn’t curious about what everyone else was looking at.
A small procession was coming through the center of the crowd from the four-story gray stone building that formed the south side of the square. Six Polity soldiers on foot, in Eagle colors, swords out. They surrounded three people in civilian dress, two women in dirty but well-made clothes, one man in homespun. Behind the group came four more men, two of them Shekayrin. One of these was that same Shekayrin who’d come to Brightwing Holding, the other was a stranger. Jerek shifted until Fogtail was in front of him. Walking with the Halians was a fair-skinned man wearing a Cohort Leader’s helmet, his military cloak thrown stylishly over one shoulder.
Behind these three came another soldier, but he wasn’t formally cloaked like the others. His green tunic was crisp and clean, but the only weapon he carried was a large battle ax.
The Shekayrin and the Cohort Leader mounted the steps of the platform together, and waited for the buzzing of voices to stop. The Cohort Leader stepped forward.
“Citizens,” he called out in a voice meant to carry over battlefields. “May I have your attention for the public announcements. Today is the last Thirdday of Snowmonth, in the ye—”
Jerek had begun to relax, hearing the familiar preamble, but when the Cohort Leader broke off without giving the current year of the Luqs’ reign, he froze. Just as revealing, when he began again, the Cohort Leader made no mention of the Mother, Daughter, or Son.
“There have been seven counts of civil disobedience, for which three fines have been given, and one act of restitution.”
It wasn’t what he was saying so much as how the man said it that struck Jerek. He’d had a great deal of practice measuring tone, guessing feelings and attitude from it, even predicting behavior. The people around him weren’t relaxing. They were waiting to hear about the final three counts of disobedience.
“The remaining three counts are of treason, and public punishment is required.”
Treason? Jerek’s hand tightened and Fogtail shifted. Treasonous behavior wasn’t unheard of, but it usually involved public criticism of the Luqs or her policies, and even then, a Talent would be called in to determine just how serious it was. Without Talents to examine the accused—without a Luqs for that matter—just what did this mean?
At a signal from the Cohort Leader two of the soldiers escorting the prisoners carried a punishment block onto the platform and centered it. Jerek’s heart skipped a beat. His father had never allowed him to attend a public flogging. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
The older man was brought up onto the platform and made to face the spectators. There was a puzzled frown on his face, as if he wasn’t sure where he was.
“For the harboring of witches, Tay Kingfisher is sentenced to death.” The man with the ax stepped forward.
The buzzing in Jerek’s ears was so loud he missed what the Cohort Leader said as the unresisting prisoner was pushed to his knees and bent forward. Almost at the moment the man’s cheek touched the wooden surface of the block, sunlight flashed on the ax as it fell. When it rose again, the metal was dull.
“Don’t look away, boy. Shut your eyes if you have to, but don’t look away.” The gruff whisper had to belong to the hand clamped, viselike, on Jerek’s shoulder. “He’ll see it if you look away, Tattoo Face up there. He’ll see it, and he’ll know you don’t approve. Don’t give them reason to mark you down for a talking to.”
Jerek gritted his teeth and kept facing toward the platform. He didn’t shut his eyes completely, but he did lower his lids until all he really saw was his hands and their white-knuckled grip on Fogtail’s saddle horn. He wished he was still short enough to hide his face in the pony’s mane.
His stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding him how long it had been since the oatmeal cake he’d helped himself to as he was leaving his home. Jerek swallowed bile as his gorge rose. He never wanted to eat again.
The Cohort Leader was speaking again, but Jerek did his best not to hear anything more. Finally, the movement of the crowd signaled that the executions were over. Under cover of that general shuffle, he searched the faces of the people around him, but couldn’t see anyone who matched the voice that had warned him. No one caught his eye or nod
ded at him. Even without looking directly, he could follow the progress of the Shekayrins’ black cloaks as they passed through the crowd and reentered the gray stone building on the southern side of the square.
From where he stood now, Jerek could easily make out the wide double doors, half again the height of a tall man, which made up the entrance. The right-hand door was carved with the usual circle of laurel leaves, to show even those who couldn’t read that this was the Polity building. On the left-hand door, where the griffin symbol of the Talents should have been, there was only deep scoring in the wood, the edges dark and sharp in the bright sun.
Now Jerek did close his eyes, trying not to think of edges and sharpness.
A man carrying a squealing piglet under his arm jostled him, and Jerek realized he’d been standing and staring for too long. No one else seemed to be looking at the doorway and its defaced symbol. Don’t give them reason to mark you down.
“That’s a nice pony. Is he yours? Are you selling him?”
Jerek almost dropped Fogtail’s rein. He flushed, but the other boy didn’t seem to notice. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, he was about the same age, Jerek thought, though a little taller, and a little skinnier. His clothes fit him well enough and looked like Jerek’s own: plain, but of good, serviceable cloth. He was smiling, crooked teeth white against the remains of a summer tan, and Jerek’s trembling subsided.
“Yes. I mean no. He’s mine, but he’s not for sale.” Jerek blinked. It was hard to focus. His eyes still saw how the sun glinted on the ax as it fell. It had all seemed so clear. His father’s guilt, the twisted wrongness of the new order. He glanced at the defaced emblem and swallowed. Standing alone and cold, it took an effort to remember that he’d thought he’d be better off here.
The taller boy was stroking Fogtail’s neck. The pony ignored him. “I wish I had my own pony. Are you all right?” he added under his breath. Jerek looked at him sharply, but the boy’s face showed only his admiration for the pony.
Jerek examined him more closely. The boy was wearing a cloth cap and a scarf wrapped twice around his neck, but he had no coat, just the tunic over his shirt. On his feet were shoes, not boots, and his hands were covered by woolen mittens, not leather gloves. And maybe the rest of the boy’s clothes weren’t quite as good as Jerek’s after all. Jerek coughed. “I’m looking for a friend.”
The boy grinned. “I’m Talian.” He thrust out his free hand and Jerek took it.
“Jerek.” He was careful not to give his full name.
Two blond eyebrows quirked upward over Talian’s slightly bent nose. “Is your friend a town man? I’ve lived here my whole life. I might know him myself. Or they’d likely know in there.” His eyes narrowed, Talian pointed his chin at the town hall.
Jerek shivered, and hoped the other boy would put it down to the cold. “It’s a man named Bedeni Soria. Used to be a guard for the Firoxis.” Best not to mention Nessa’s name. Not yet.
“Old soldier like? Is it a private message? What I mean is . . .” This time he just moved his eyes toward the building. “What I mean is, you know what grown-ups can be like.”
Jerek tried to return the other boy’s knowing look. If there was one thing he knew, it was what grown-ups could be like. He lowered his eyes, and finally shrugged up one shoulder. Old soldier, Talian had said. That could be Soria. “You could say it was a private message. Sure.”
“If it’s the old guy I’m thinking of, I don’t know him myself, but I think maybe my auntie does. Leastways, she knows most of the old soldiers in town, and I’m sure she’d be able to help you.”
“Isn’t your aunt a grown-up?”
Talian’s lip curled and Jerek flushed. “Not that kind.” He tucked his mittened hands into his armpits, shrugged, and looked away. “’Course, if you don’t want my help . . .”
Jerek bit at the inside of his lip. He glanced back into the square. Someone there would know. If not the armorer, then someone else. But how many people would he have to ask before he found one who could help him? How long before people started to wonder who he was, and why he was here looking for an old retired soldier? What had seemed like a great idea when he was riding into town seemed dangerous now.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to trust someone. If he didn’t, he might as well go home.
“Is your aunt’s place far?”
Jak led them off the road as soon as the terrain allowed and made them pass by two perfect campsites. No one complained. They all wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and any more patrols. Just as Ker was beginning to think they’d be walking until dawn, Jak settled on a small clearing surrounded by tall pine trees, swept almost bare of needles by the wind.
“Don’t bother,” he said as Ker began to gather up rocks for a fire ring. “It’s too open here for a fire.”
Ker raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t argue. Any fire they made in this place would be visible for some distance, which also meant that anyone coming after them would be just as visible. Right now, cold food and colder beds were a small price to pay for better security.
Lots were drawn for the first watch, and Fed and Wynn disappeared into the dark. By now Ker had stopped making even a token effort to be included, so she settled cross-legged next to Tel, holding a piece of travel cake she didn’t really want. Strange, she thought, how they all sat in a circle, even though there wasn’t a fire to sit around.
Jak cleared his throat and waited until he had their attention. “If the pass is open, the Faro needs to know. Right now she’s assuming she only has to deal with the Halians already on this side of the Serpents Teeth.”
Nate Primo blew air out of pursed lips. “Your friend seemed very certain.”
Jak swung his eyes to the older man. “If we find the pass open, who would you send to report to the Faro?”
“I’d better go myself. I’ve the best chance.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Jak’s tone was respectful. “But I’m not so certain I can manage without you.”
Ker wasn’t sure what surprised her more, that the statement was true, or that Jak had actually said it aloud.
The officer took in a deep breath. “The decision’s yours, of course. But consider, Tel Cursar and Fed Durk are two experienced soldiers, and Wynn Martan’s one of the best archers I’ve seen. The Talent herself’s military, if it comes to that.”
Jak nodded, his gaze now turned inward. “We’ll look at the pass in the morning. Then, if it’s necessary, you’ll go.”
• • •
Tel Cursar wriggled back from the ridge of rock, gritting his teeth as a sharp stone scraped his left elbow. His hands, stomach, and the front of his thighs were numb with cold. He stayed low until he reached the others sheltered in the rocks.
“There’s a clear path, maybe three spans wide. The ground actually looks dry.” Tel wondered if he could convey the strangeness of what he’d seen. “There’s snow, but it just stops at the road—sharp, like bread cut with a knife.” He stifled the gesture he’d been about to make with his hand.
Jak nodded. “Confirmed, then. Nate, are you ready to go?”
“Anytime.” Nate was squatting next to Ker now, a few flakes of new snow dusting down onto his dark hair and beard.
“Go swift, go cautious.”
The man’s teeth showed white against his beard. “I will. Jak? I’d like to give the Talent my plaque.”
Ker’s green eyes went round as saucers, and Tel supposed his own face must look much the same. The other soldiers, even Jak Gulder, lifted a hand to touch where their own plaques hung under layers of shirt and tunic. Soldiers received their plaques on their first day of training. It marked their names, their Wings and Cohorts, and a soldier never removed his or her plaque during their service—which for many meant during their lifetimes.
“I figure you’ll know where I am,” Nate said to Ker. �
�You’ll know when I get through with my message.”
Or when he doesn’t, Tel thought. From the look on everyone’s face—even Nate’s—they were all thinking that.
“Kerida?” Jak looked at Ker with one eyebrow raised.
There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, and a faraway look in her eyes. Another stray flake landed on her lashes, melted as she finally blinked. Ker’s fingers were also resting where her own plaque would have been. Tel pressed his lips together. It hadn’t occurred to him before this moment, but death wasn’t the only way to lose your plaque.
“Nate Primo, it would be an honor.” She took the small square of stamped tin, polished by years of contact with Nate’s skin. She slipped the cord over her head, tucking the plaque into the front of her shirt.
“Closest Nate’s plaque’s come to a woman in weeks,” Fed Durk murmured. Everyone laughed, grateful for the joke, but Tel noticed the blush that spread lightly over Ker’s face, even though she laughed with the rest.
• • •
The forest changed again as the land started to climb. The closer they got to the mine entrance the more Ker wished she’d had a chance to speak to Tel about the Feelers. If only there was some way to alert them—but short of the griffin finding them on the march, Ker couldn’t think of anything.
They were only a mile or two from where Ker estimated the mine entrance to be when Fed Durk ran up from where he’d been watching the rear.
“Soldiers coming through the woods behind us,” he said to Jak. “Maybe a Barrack.”
Ker put her hand to her knife and wished there was time to unpack a sword. They’d have the high ground, but that wasn’t enough to balance their odds.
“They see you?”
Fed shook his head.
“Dogs?” Jak said.
“No, but there’s one of those Halian priests with them.”
Ker coughed but couldn’t loosen the cords of her throat.
Halls of Law Page 26
