Redwing (15 page)

“No, no!” Samik had been more amused than alarmed. “You see these”—he peered at the map to read the Prosperian name—“yes, of course, these Talons,” he said. “Very treacherous to sail past. Tides, shoals, fog, shifting winds—no sailor wants to thread between the Talons and these islands, so you'd have to head way out to sea to miss them altogether. And then,” he continued, “you head back into the badlands.”

“The badlands?” It was clear Armstrong knew next to nothing of the Tarzine lands.

“The southern part of the country is essentially lawless,” Samik explained, sweeping his hand from Baskir south. “You could be taken by pirates before you ever landed.”

Only when he saw the alarm in Armstrong's face did Samik realize he shouldn't have been so cavalier about the dangers. Rampaging warlords were not something Prosperians took for granted. They didn't realize that only the Tarzine pirates' superstitious dread of the “Talons” kept them safe; a potent mix of legend and actual shipwrecks made even sailing past them taboo. Samik wondered how long it would be until some enterprising warlord overcame his crew's reluctance and braved the sea god's curse.

“You don't need to worry,” he rushed to assure his partner. “We go this way—north, a smooth sail into Guara. It's a well-established trade route, perfectly safe. The vineyards are mainly in this area, spreading inland from Maug Nazir. That's the stronghold of the empire.”

THE CARRIAGE SLOWED, then came to a gentle halt. Not their guest house already? Samik cranked up the little blind that kept out the wind and dust to peek out. No, they were in thick woodland. Maybe a problem with the road or the horse, he thought, remembering the breakneck descent with Rowan that had broken their wheel.

He was just about to ask Armstrong if he should jump out and check when he felt something digging into his back. It hurt, and when he arched his back to relieve the pressure it followed him. He was twisting around to see what it was when Armstrong's voice stopped him.

“Just stay where you are, if you please, and hands nice and high against the carriage wall. No, I wouldn't wiggle around—that's my short sword you're feeling. Wouldn't want a nasty accident.”

Samik froze. But even though his body obeyed, at first his mind couldn't make sense of the words. Was it a joke? They had discussed Armstrong's sword before the journey. Samik had been glad to see him strap it on. “You can't be too careful on the roads,” the older man had commented. They had planned to buy one for Samik before boarding ship.

“Armstrong, what is this?” he protested.

“Out of the carriage first, young sir. Nice and slow.” When he did not respond, the sword dug deeper in prodding bites. Samik felt his heart ratchet up as he began to realize that whatever was going on, it was no lighthearted prank. He opened the carriage door, wondering if he could possibly pull the knife in his boot on the way out.

“Slow now, hands up high,” Armstrong cautioned. They made their way out onto the road, the sword tip never losing contact with Samik's kidney. The carriage was pulled neatly to the side, Armstrong's driver Purdy still sitting with reins in hand. He didn't look at Samik, but rather ahead to…

Now he understood. Fear surged through him as he stared at the three men who waited on the road. Unlike him, they hadn't bothered to disguise their country of origin. Armstrong had betrayed him.

“Why?” he demanded. He whirled to face Armstrong, not caring that the sword tore through his coat as he turned. Perhaps, even now, he might talk him out of it, dive back into the carriage and evade his hunters. “We're partners! You said it yourself, we're going to make a lot of money. You can't just…” Samik's voice died away. The bracing gust of anger that had carried him for moment receded as if washed down a drain, along with his last hope.

Armstrong had groped into his pocket with his free hand and was now holding up an obviously weighty purse.

“Don't take it personal, my boy. It's just business. It wasn't a bad idea you had, but you know—” He twisted his wrist, so that the purse swayed to and fro before Samik's eyes. “You can't argue with cash in hand.”

Heavy hands took hold of Samik, and there was no use in struggling. Three heavily muscled and armed thugs against one scrawny wine merchant? Completely pointless.

He was tied, tossed in a wagon and back on the road before it occurred to him: Armstrong hadn't taken his knife.

It didn't make his odds any better. Bound and surrounded, what could he do with a little throwing knife? But somehow, the thought of that hidden knife gave him courage.

NINETEEN

H
ere I am again
, thought Rowan,
alone with my mules on
an overgrown country road
. There'd been a bit of traffic in the first few miles of the narrow road that led to the little town where his uncle lived, but it soon dwindled away altogether. Soon, he knew, the road would rise out of the woodland and take him through open, rolling hills dotted with sheep. Rowan wondered why his uncle—or rather, Ward's father, who had started the business—hadn't set up in a busier trade center.
I guess you can either be close to the sheep or close
to the market
, he thought.
And cheaper to set up out here, I bet.

Ugh, was he really thinking about Ward's weaving business? He didn't remember feeling this lonely and bored back in the early days—before he met Aydin, and then Shay. Truth to tell, he hadn't felt much of anything back then. Now he'd grown used to company. To friends.

He was even looking forward to seeing Ward and Cardinal, now that he was on his way. But he wouldn't stay long. His band was waiting for him, and so was Shay. At least he hoped she was. Rowan liked her a lot—and was well on his way to more than liking her. He hadn't even thought red hair was pretty until he saw hers. Be careful, he told himself, and it was his father's voice he imagined. You have to work together, whether she feels the same or not.

He wasn't craving company at night though. Two nights with a guest in his caravan—not Shay, sadly, but Walker, the drummer—had seen to that. Rowan had volunteered the space on learning that the men in the band were taking turns on the floor in Marten's caravan. “Marten has partitioned off one space for me with a curtain, so I'm fine,” Shay had told him. “But the others are really crowded.”

So Walker had joined him, and it hadn't taken long to discover why the others had chosen him for the honor. The man snored like a ripsaw all night long, an astonishingly loud, buzzing drone punctuated by snorts, coughs and great sucking gasps that sounded like he was choking. The next morning, Shay's eyes had twinkled with mischief as she asked Rowan how he slept, and he had smiled right back and replied “Fine. You?” But he was pretty sure his bleary face betrayed his bluff.

Not this way.

“Demon's breath!” Rowan hauled on the reins, almost angry at his own spooked reaction. Had he really heard that? He peered down the shadowed arch of the road. He couldn't see much—not far ahead, a sharp bend to the right cut off his view.

“Ettie?” He spoke out loud, not caring how it sounded. “Ettie, if that's you, please tell me again so I'm sure.”

He waited, hearing the creak and stamp as the mules shifted their weight, the far-off shriek of a jay, the rustle of the wind through the high branches. Slowly, the prickly feeling at the back of his neck subsided.

Turn back.

Rowan sighed. He didn't dare ignore her, not after last time. But what was he supposed to do? There was only one road to Ward and Cardinal's that he knew, and this was it.

“All right, Ettie, not this way,” he agreed. “But why? Can you tell me why?”

The answer came fast but weak, like the softest whispered breath.

Samik.

IT BECAME SUFFOCATINGLY HOT in the wagon. Samik was hidden under a thick layer of horse blankets topped with an oilcloth tarp, which trapped the heat and kept out any breath of air. The thin layer of straw beneath him poked and scratched maddeningly without doing anything to soften the jolts and lurches of the wagon. He could feel bruises blooming on his shoulder, hip and cheekbone, and counted himself lucky to have no broken bones.

And yet he did not want this dark, sweltering, bone-jarring journey to end, for what came next would certainly be worse. A warlord's revenge was always terrible.

Don't think about it.
But he couldn't stop himself. Fear clutched his bowels, and the struggle not to add to the misery of the wagon by fouling himself was a welcome distraction.
Wait and do it on them.
Brave words that he would never, he knew, dare to carry out.

He would never see his family or his home again. Another thing not to think about—but then again, sad was better than terrified. He pictured Merik, sitting up in bed eating soup, and hoped that by now he was demanding seconds at the dinner table. He prayed his family remained safe from Jago's rage. And then it was Rowan in his head—Rowan with his burdened air and gruff kindness, Rowan who became as free and light as the bird his family was named for when he had a button box on his knee. That kiss had probably shocked him out of his straight-laced boots.
If he only knew
, thought Samik,
how often I've wanted to do
that
. No harm in stealing a quick one at their last goodbye.

A sharp turn threw Samik against the sidewall of the wagon, and he felt the ground beneath them change to something soft and resistant.
Wherever we're going, we're almost there
, he thought, and the fear flooded back in a paralyzing wave.

TURNING AROUND IS NOT SUCH a simple matter on a narrow road with a big caravan. Rowan had to get down and walk the mules backward a good five hundred paces to the little logging track he'd noticed on the way in. It was tiny and deeply rutted, and he was afraid they'd get stuck, but the mules somehow managed to back the caravan in. The tight, tricky turn back onto the road was no easy feat either, but at last he climbed back onto the seat and took up the reins.

Then he just sat there uncertainly. Alarm, confusion, even embarrassment (how would he ever explain this to Ward and Cardinal?) all roiled around inside him, making it hard to think what to do next.

GO!

It was sharp and clear, as urgent as the night he woke up in the fire, and it startled Rowan into action. He snapped the reins, shouted to the mules and urged them into a trot. He didn't know where he was going; he had to trust that Ettie would guide him. He only hoped that when he found Aydin—Samik, he corrected himself, his real name was Samik—he would know what to do.

AS SOON AS THE BLANKETS were pulled off him, Samik knew they were on the coast. That ocean smell on the wind, the sound of the surf—there was no mistaking it. But it took a minute before the sun stopped stabbing into his eyes and he could actually see.

He barely noticed the stony beach, the small, sheltered cove, the sheen of late afternoon light on the water. It was the ship that filled his vision. Even resting at anchor with its ocher sails neatly furled, the racy lines proclaimed it a Tarzine ship.

Dread and longing. He wanted to be on a ship just like that, heading home. Joking with the crew in his own language, eating and drinking something that was actually good, his parents waiting to meet them at the docks. His mother and Aunt Kir crying at the sight of him.

But this ship—this ship meant his happy vision would never come true. This ship meant death.

TWENTY

I
t was hours past dark, the woods on either side a black wall and the road an indistinct gray ribbon unfurling ahead of him, and still Ettie urged Rowan on. He was really listening to her now, and the harder he listened, the clearer she became. It was as if she perched, invisible and weightless, on his shoulder, guiding his path. Sometimes it seemed like her words were forming in his head, and often it seemed he could feel what she felt—her urgency, her determination.

Her alarm was contagious, and he was sure now that Samik was in real trouble. He had pushed the mules to trot for much of the way, with only short breaks at their usual ambling walk. But they were tired now and needed watering, and despite Ettie's protests, Rowan eased them to a halt.

“They need a rest, Ettie,” Rowan said, no longer feeling strange about talking to the air. “They aren't used to this pace, and we need them to hold out the whole way.” He didn't know how long “the whole way” was—they must be nearly back to the King's Highway. He went into the caravan and emptied both water jugs into the bucket. He might regret that, he supposed. He remembered a little creek that ran near the road somewhere along here, but in the dark it would be hard to find and treacherous to get to. No time for that.

The mules drank eagerly, but Rowan held back about half the water. He had a vague memory of his father saying it wasn't good for them to eat or drink too much before exercise, and didn't want to take the chance of giving them bloat or whatever it was. He gave them a small portion of hay each, a handful of oats, and another little drink to wash it down.

He was tired himself, his butt sore from the hard wooden seat, his back stiff from long hours on the road. He tried to walk it off while the mules munched at their feed. He felt Ettie's impatience growing by the minute.

Soon they were back on the deserted road. Even with Ettie's guidance, Rowan didn't dare trot the mules in the dark—and in any case he was pretty sure they were all trotted out. Still, they seemed ready to keep up their steady, dogged walk forever. Unable to see much of anything, Rowan put his faith in the mules' sure-footedness and turned his worried mind back to Samik.

What had happened to his friend? While it was theoretically possible that he was sick or injured or robbed and left stranded on the side of the road, Rowan didn't believe for one moment in any of these scenarios. For Samik, there was only one kind of trouble.