Melina Marchetta - Finnikin of the Rock

Regardless of how annoying Finnikin found their former ambassador, he pictured the extensive palace library with its well-stocked fireplace and never-ending supply of hot tea and sweet breads.

"No, Finnikin," Sir Topher said quietly, as if he had read Finnikin's thoughts. "We will not leave her behind."

So Finnikin returned to Sprie, praying that he would not be the target of four maimed men and a peasant searching for his horse. He knew it would be difficult to go unnoticed. His hair was the ridiculous color of berries and gold, and he was lankier than the Sarnaks, slighter in build. He stood out easily in the daylight. As would the novice with her bare head and ugly gray shift.

He found her almost straight away, sitting huddled on a stone bench beside a stall, watching the activity around her with those strange dark eyes. Next to her, a desperate seller and a choosy buyer haggled over a small decorative dagger. At the far end of the square, Finnikin recognized the slave traders from Sorel. These were men who preyed on the plight of a people forced to sell one child to feed another. He had heard stories about how these children and women were used, and it sickened him to think that men were capable of such evil.

When he approached Evanjalin, she stared up at him, as if questioning the time it had taken him to join her. He squatted beside her, refusing to give in to his anger. Living with Sir Topher had taught him how to harness his feelings.

"Who is in charge here?" he asked quietly.

Without speech, she had only her eyes to communicate, but she used them well.

"This hand," he said, pointing to his left, "if I am. Or this hand," he said, pointing to his right, "if you are." He held them out to her, and she tapped his left hand gently.

He pulled her to her feet. "Good," he said, pleased with her choice.

Suddenly her body tensed. She looked over his shoulder, and then she was pushing past him. He had no choice but to follow. He could see the young thief disappearing into the maze of alleyways beyond the square.

She was fast; that he knew from the night before. Although she was hindered by her shift, Finnikin struggled to keep up with her. The chase was short, for the boy made the same mistake he had the previous night and led them into an alleyway that seemed to go nowhere.

He's not from here, Finnikin thought.

Evanjalin backed the boy into a corner and held out her hand. She received a backhand to her face for her effort; and she staggered from the impact. Finnikin gripped the thief by the coarse cloth of his jerkin and threw him against the stone wall, pinning him there with a hand to his throat. He went through the thief's pockets and found four pieces of silver. When he showed the girl the coins, she grabbed them, flinging them with the same rage he had glimpsed the night before.

"What did you do with the ring?" Finnikin asked the thief, shaking him.

The boy spat in Finnikin's face.

"Not the response I'm after," Finnikin said, hurling the thief away from the wall. "Now we play it this way. Back there by the spring are slave traders from Sorel. I'd recognize them anywhere. They stink of shit because that's all their victims do around them, from the fear of knowing where they are going to be taken."

The thief mocked a whimper. He spat in Finnikin's face again, this time straight in his eye. Wiping it slowly, Finnikin stared at him furiously, then dragged him out of the alleyway, with the novice trailing behind. "Get the silver, Evanjalin," he ordered.

The boy tried to escape by pulling out of his clothing.

"What you doing?"

Finnikin could hear a trace of alarm in the thief's voice. He'd used Sarnak words, clumsily spoken.

"Trading you for a horse." Finnikin took a long deliberate look at the boy. "Oh, and they do like them young."

The thief continued to struggle, but Finnikin held on tightly, almost choking him. "Peddler from Osteria," the boy wheezed. "Said it fake anyway."

The novice slapped him. Her eyes were glinting with tears. Finnikin tried not to imagine what he would do if the thief had sold Trevanion's sword.

"He's not worth it. Let's go."

But the novice would not move. She stared at the youth, eyes blazing.

The thief repeated his favorite gesture by spitting in her face. He wore a black felt cap that came down to his eyes. They were a nondescript color, strawlike perhaps, and Finnikin could see his features were beginning to display a blunt cruelty, a mouth forever in a sneer. He had the build of one who would thicken with age, evident by the size of his fists. But he was young, at least five years their junior. Finnikin wondered how many more of his kind were roaming these streets.

"They come hunting," the thief said. "Hunt you people down."

He spoke like a foreigner, and it was in that moment Finnikin realized where the boy came from. There was a glassy look in his eyes that Finnikin had not seen since he was separated briefly from Sir Topher at the age of twelve and placed in a prison in the Osterian capital. There had been Lumateran exiles with him, children whose parents had either been killed during the five days of the unspeakable or died of the fever. Some of the children did not know their own names and couldn't speak a word of any language. A shared origin meant nothing in that prison, and he could tell it meant nothing to this boy, who would have been no more than three or four when his family escaped from Lumatere.

Finnikin didn't need to ask who would be hunting them. In Sarnak there was always someone. Perhaps a pack of youths. Or bitter men, no longer able to put food on the table for their families. Finnikin was certain the thief would betray them to the first person who would listen, for any price. When the novice caught his eye, he knew what they had to do.

Sir Topher stared at the three of them with his usual aplomb. "So now our little party has a horse and a thief?"

Finnikin secured the rope around the boy's hands. "It's either him or a pack of Sarnaks he will send in our direction."

Sir Topher looked at the thief. "What's your name, boy?"

The thief spat.

"It's his favorite response," Finnikin said dryly. "We can dump him in Charyn."

"Not if we find exiles there, and I suspect we will. Perhaps Sorel."

"I think he'd like Sorel," Finnikin said. He turned to the thief. "Heard of the prison mines there?"

The boy paled, and Finnikin looked at Sir Topher, pleased. "Good. He seems familiar with them." He glanced over to where the novice was huddled under the tree, her hands covering her head. "He sold her ring."

Sir Topher sighed. "As soon as we're in Sorel, we won't have to worry anymore."

A fortnight, Finnikin calculated as Sir Topher began loading up the horse. That was all they needed before the thief from Sarnak and the novice Evanjalin were out of their lives forever.

It was always their eyes that gave away their Lumateran heritage, and this time was no different. As they entered the gates of Charyn, the two guards snickered and Finnikin heard one of them mutter, "Dogs." Whether from the Rock or the River or the Flatlands, whether dark or fair, Lumaterans all had eyes that were set deep in their sockets. Finnikin had heard that the king of Charyn had once ordered his guards to measure the distance of a Lumateran prisoner's eyes from his nose, deeming them too close and therefore not human. He hated this kingdom. The one time he and Sir Topher had visited the Charyn court in the early years of their exile, he had feared for their lives. There were strange and sinister occurrences in the palace that week, bloodcurdling screams in the night and shouts of rage. Many claimed that the royal blood was tainted and that the king and his offspring were all half-mad.