“You’re the Sunshield Bandit,” he says.
I tilt my sword so the light glances off the blade. He blinks against the glare but doesn’t throw up his hands.
“If you know who I am, you know what I’m after,” I say.
“I do. And I’m grateful for it. I believe what you do is quite commendable.”
I narrow my eyes over my handkerchief. “I’m about to rob you blind, old man.”
“Oh, go ahead,” he says with a sigh, leaning his head back against the cracked glass on the far window. “I’ve hardly got much of value, unless you enjoy historical accounts of Moquoian permaculture. The money’s in the leather valise. There should be an extra pair of boots in the trunk—nice ones, too, with silver buckles. Otherwise it’s mostly traveling garb and books.”
“Pickle, open the trunks in the back,” I call. He’s already performing this task, but the man’s indifference irks me. I crouch at the door opening and jump down into the carriage interior. It’s an awkward fit with the stage on its side. I sheathe my sword and draw the big hunting knife from my belt.
“Hold still,” I say—unnecessarily. The man’s eyes are still closed; he may as well be about to doze off. I take his bearded chin and tilt his head back and forth—no earrings in his ears. No chains or baubles around his neck. No rings on his fingers or pins on his lapels. The edge of a tattoo peeks out from his rolled-up sleeve—the prow of a sailing ship, it looks like. The ink is faded but still crisp, unlike most of mine. I grit my teeth—I have a low regard for ships.
“I’ve got a good case of matches in the pocket of my cloak,” he suggests, waving to the garment now crumpled on the bench. “Cypri-made. Might be useful for you.”
My irritation spikes, and I swipe up the cloak and toss the whole thing out the stage door. “Take off your boots.”
They’re old boots, with no buckles or adornments, covered in telltale dried mud that means he must have come from Moquoia. But I don’t care—I just want to rattle him at this point. Slowly he kicks off each one. I stoop to pick them up and throw them outside as well.
His eyes are still closed. I hiss and lean forward, letting the edge of my knife touch his neck. “You seem very easy about life and death. If you travelers are this unconcerned, perhaps I should make an example out of you. How would you like to be tied to a horse and dragged the rest of the way to Snaketown?”
“I would not like that at all,” the man says, opening his eyes. They’re blue—an uncommon color. He’s got freckles, too, mixed in among the age spots. “But there are folk in Alcoro who would notice my absence if I don’t show up in a week’s time for the start of the semester, and the provost will be extremely displeased with anyone who holds up classes.” His gaze gets a bit sharper. “And anyway, that’s not your particular style—torturing captives. If it was, I imagine the Alcorans and the Moquoians would have put more effort into rooting you out.”
“Cases emptied, Lark,” Saiph calls from the back.
“Lark,” the old man says, as if testing the word.
I swear behind my handkerchief. Saiph is wiry and fast, but he’s a clodhead, a reason I haven’t let him come on raids until the last few months.
“Turn out your pockets,” I say. “Now.”
He does, but he continues to talk. “What you do is exceptional, Lark.” His voice is suddenly less light—more grave. “The human trafficking in the desert has become an international crisis. Your commitment to confronting and freeing slave runners’ wagons is desperately needed. But it must be hard to live the way you do. How many freed captives live in your camp? How many children you haven’t managed to reunite with their families? How many hungry mouths?”
“Shut up.” I pluck the lone coin he’s fished from his pocket out of his palm. Still holding the knife against his throat, I sweep my other hand under the cushions on the coach seats. But they’re tacked down to the wood—no space to hide valuables.
“Do you know about Queen Mona of Lumen Lake?” he asks with a touch of urgency in his voice. “Do you know about the Cypri ambassador? Have you heard about what happened to one of their children?”
“Ready the horses, Pickle,” I call outside.
“There are extremely influential people who are very interested in what you do,” he continues a little faster. “Life could be different for you and your fellows. I encourage you to consider . . .”
I hear a shrill whistle from Rose. The luggage is loaded onto the horses. I put one hand on the frame of the stage.
“Lark,” says the old man.
I whirl around and drive the butt of my knife against his cheek. His head slams back against the wooden siding.
“I told you to shut up,” I say down at him. He groans again. I put both hands on the carriage door and hoist myself out of the stage. The others are already mounted, their horses burdened with goods. Rose still has her crossbow trained on the driver. The fore guard is struggling to sit up, examining her bandaged calf. The rear guard is moaning about a broken arm.
I swing onto Jema’s back.
“Come on, Rat,” I call.
He leaps from his crouch by the agitated horse team and together we wheel for the hillside. The sun is halfway below the horizon, its curve red and shimmering in the dust. I glance back over my shoulder before we reach the safety of the towering rocks. The old man is standing up in the stage, holding on to the frame for support. I can see the moment his face turns from the driver and guard up to us. I swear again and face forward, kicking Jema.
“Saiph,” I call angrily over the hoofbeats.
He groans. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“You call me Lark outside of camp again, and I’m stretching your hide on the tanning frame.”
“Spare him the lecture, Lark.” Pickle’s voice is triumphant. “Hey, I made a pretty sharp throw, didn’t I?” He edges his horse in front of mine and spurs it to kick up dust. “First one to camp gets the old fella’s boots!”
I spit out Pickle’s dust and urge Jema after him.
Tamsin
I open my eyes on yet another morning.
Still not dead.
I suppose that’s good.
Before I move, I take stock of my body. Over the past few days I’ve learned that moving too suddenly can send me into a whirl of pain and nausea. So I lie still on my mat, the dirt floor cool under my palms, staring at the tiny window near the ceiling that has become the most interesting feature in my life.
I am pleasantly surprised to find the pain less intense today than yesterday. My head hurts the most, of course. My mouth is still tender and swollen. I resist the urge to probe my lips and instead touch my scalp. I can feel the crusted parts where the cuts from the razor are scabbing over. My hair prickles my fingers, the barest fuzz covering my head. For my own sanity, I’ve been focusing most on that sensation—the lightness of my head with all my hair gone, the automatic gesture to tuck loose strands behind my ear before remembering there are none. It helps to focus on this—the most trivial and reversible facet of my present state.
There’s a scrape at the foot of the door, and in slides the morning’s meal. The slot was hastily hacked away after I arrived here—this room clearly wasn’t intended to hold prisoners—and some of the corn mush in the bowl is knocked onto the floor.