Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

I can’t do this, she thought.

Nightfall came early. Only half of the carts had been emptied, and the caravan master was all but chewing his own wrists over it. Marcus didn’t think it would be a problem. The storm had come from the west, and the mountains would squeeze the worst of the snow out. They might be tunneling up from the roofs in Birancour, but Bellin was in the rain shadow. They’d be fine. At least when it came to snow.

Yardem had arranged a separate barracks for the so-called guards. Two small rooms with a shared fire grate, but in the town proper, tucked snugly in the living rock. Carved swirls and whorls caught the firelight, and the walls seemed to breathe and dance. Marcus pulled off the soaked leather of his boots and leaned back, groaning. The others were about him, lounging and talking and negotiating for the best sleeping spaces. The ease the actors took in close company wasn’t all that different from real sword-and-bows, and the jokes were better. Even Yardem seemed half relaxed, and that wasn’t a common thing.

Still, Marcus’s work wasn’t done.

“Meeting,” he said. “Our job’s changed now. Best that we talk that through, not find ourselves surprised later.”

The chatter stilled. Master Kit sat beside the fire, his wiry grey hair standing like smoke gone still.

“I don’t see how the ’van can afford this,” the actor said. “Even with small quarters, it’s going to cost having us kept and fed for a full season.”

“Likely they’ll lose money,” Marcus said. “But that’s the caravan master’s problem, not ours. We aren’t here to see a profit turned. Just everyone kept safe. On the road, that means bandits. Holed up for a winter, that means no one gets stir crazy or starts sleeping with someone, makes someone else jealous, or gets in mind to cheat too much at cards.”

Smit, the jack-of-all-roles, pulled a long face. “Are we playing guards or nursemaids?” the man said.

“We’re doing whatever gets the ’van to Carse safe,” Marcus said. “We’ll protect them from ourselves if we have to.”

“Mmm. Good line,” Cary, the thin woman, said. “Protect them from ourselves if we have to.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, frowning.

“They’re writing a new play,” Master Kit said. “A comic piece about an acting troupe hired to pretend they’re caravan guards.”

Yardem grunted and flicked an ear. Maybe annoyance, maybe amusement. Likely both. Marcus chose to ignore it.

“We’ve got a dozen and a half carters,” Marcus said. “Add the ’van master and his wife. You’ve traveled with these people for weeks. You’ve watched them. You know them. What problems are we going to have?”

“The man hauling the tin ore,” Smit said. “He’s been spoiling for a fight since those raiders. He’s not going to last a season without one unless someone starts sharing his bed or puts him down hard.”

“I’d thought the same,” Marcus said, allowing himself a moment’s pleasure. The actors were much more perceptive than his usual men. Given the circumstances, that would help. “What else?”

“The quarter-Dartinae,” Opal, the older leading woman, said. “He’s been avoiding the ’van master’s sermons almost as much as you have, Captain. A constant diet of scripture isn’t going to sit well with him.”

“The girl in the false whiskers,” Mikel, the thin boy, said. “She’s looking mightily fragile.”

“Oh, yes. Her, ” Cary said.

“And God knows what she’s really hauling,” Opal said, her tone all agreement. “Gets jumpy as a cat whenever anyone gets too near her cart. Won’t talk about it either.”

Marcus raised a hand, commanding silence.

“ Who? ” he said.

“The girl in the false whiskers,” Master Kit said. “The one that calls herself Tag.”

Marcus looked at Yardem. The Tralgu’s expression mirrored his own blank surprise. Marcus lifted an eyebrow. Did you know? Yardem shook his head once, earrings jingling. No.

And God knows what she’s really hauling.

“With me, Yardem,” Marcus said, pulling his boots back on.

“Yes, sir,” the Tralgu rumbled.

The carters and and ’van master were in a separate network of rooms and tunnels. Marcus went through the smoke-hazed halls and common rooms, Yardem looming at his side. The other guards or actors, or whatever they were, trailed along behind like children playing follow-me-follow-you. With every room that Tag wasn’t in, Marcus felt the hair on the back of his neck rising. His mind ran back over everything that had happened on the road, every time he’d spoken to the boy, everything that the ’van master had said about him. There was very little. Almost nothing. Always, the boy had kept himself—and, more the point, his cart—to himself.

The last of the rented rooms looked out over the dark and snow-carpeted hills. Behind him, Marcus heard the high, excited voices of the carters asking what was happening. The chill, wet air smelled as much of rain as snow. Lightning sketched the horizon.

“He’s not here, sir.”

“I see that.”

“She can’t have gone,” Opal said from behind them. “Girl hardly knew how to steer the cart without something in front for the mules to follow.”

“The cart,” Marcus said, walking out into the gloom.

The carts that hadn’t been unloaded were near the low stone warehouses. Half a foot of snow covered them, making them all seem taller than they truly were. Marcus stalked among them. Behind him, someone lit torches, the fires hissing in the still-falling snow. Marcus’s shadow shuddered and danced on the wool cart. The snow on its bench was hardly an inch thick. Marcus hooked a foot on the iron loop beside the wheel and hauled himself up. Once atop it, he pulled back the tarp. Tag lay curled in a ball like a cat. Now that the words had been said, Marcus could see where the whiskers were unevenly placed, the dye in the hair patchy. What had been an underfed, half-dim Firstblood boy resolved into a girl with Cinnae blood.

“Wh-what—” the girl began, and Marcus grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Her lips were blue from the cold.

“Yardem?”

“Here, sir,” the Tralgu said from the cart’s side.

“Catch,” Marcus said and shoved her over. The girl yelped as she fell, and then Yardem had her in a headlock. Her cries were wild and Yardem grunted once as a lucky blow struck. Marcus ignored the struggle. The wool was damp and stank of mildew. He lifted up bolt after bolt, letting them drop to the ground. The girl’s cries became sharper, and then quiet. Marcus’s hand found something hard.

“Pass me a torch,” he called.

Instead, Master Kit scrambled up beside him. The old man’s face expression said nothing. In the torchlight, Marcus pulled up the box. Blackwood with an iron fastener and hard leather hinges. Marcus drew his dagger and slashed at the hinges until there was enough play to let him push the blade between lid and box.

“Be careful,” Master Kit said as Marcus bore down on the knife.

“Late for that,” Marcus said, and the lock gave with a snap. The box hung open, limp and broken. Inside, a thousand bits of cut glass glittered and shone. No. Not glass. Gems. Garnets and rubies, emeralds and diamonds and pearls. The box was full to the brim with them. Marcus looked down into the hole he had left in the wool and snow. There were more boxes like it. Dozens of them.

He looked at Master Kit. The old man’s eyes were wide with shock.

“All right,” Marcus said shortly, letting the box fall closed. “Come on.”

On the ground, the other guards were clustered around Yardem and the girl. Yardem still held the girl in his wide arms, ready to choke her asleep. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. The set of her jaw was all defiance and grief. Marcus pinched off a bit of the whiskers from her cheek, rubbed them between his fingers, and let them drop to the ground. Beside the Tralgu’s bulk, she seemed barely more than a child. Her eyes met Marcus’s, and he saw the plea there. Something dangerous shifted in his chest. Not rage, not indignation. Not even sorrow. Memory so vibrant and bright it was painful. He told himself to turn away.