“Careful not to choke today,” comes a serious voice through the little barred window set into the door—another addition, along with the removal of the interior door handle. “Poia has the keys, and she’s down at the well, so I can’t come in to save your life.”
I don’t respond. I lie still, looking up at the window on the far wall. How ironic, the thought of either of them running in to save my life, when for three weeks their sole intent seems to be keeping me as close to death as possible without actually kicking me off the edge.
I’m in a strange limbo right now. My life’s worth lies somewhere between half a bowl of corn mush and an entire country.
“We’ll have another letter written later,” Beskin continues. Unlike Poia, she has both her eyes, and they’re wide-set and buggy. “Try not to shake so much when you sign your name—it needs to be legible. This is our last sheet of parchment, at least until one of us can go into town.”
My fingers pluck the packed dirt floor like the strings of my dulcimer, not a shake in them. It doesn’t even occur to her that ruining their last sheet of parchment would be entirely in my favor now that I know they’re running low.
I shake my head. Will someone remind me again how a handful of crones this stupid could be orchestrating such a nuanced political coup?
I need that parchment, though. I need them to send it, whatever hash-up of a ransom note is inside.
“I’ll be back later to empty your bucket.” Of my two improvised captors, Beskin is the one with the closest approximation of a conscience, even if half the time it’s accidental. She’s tidy and orderly more than anything, and while Poia might be content to let me rot in my own filth, Beskin probably couldn’t stand the smell. “Try not to spill the corn mush today.”
Oh, Beskin, you’re hilarious, and you don’t even mean to be.
I remain in my silent, supine position until I hear her footsteps fade away. Only then do I carefully roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position. The pain in my head spikes, and I let it hang for a moment—it feels like a rock on my neck, solid. Once the throbbing has subsided, I scoot to the bowl. Inwardly I curse my captors. The corn mush is undoubtedly salted—I haven’t been able to tell if it’s extra spite or if they’re too thick to consider the sting of salt in a wound.
But I’m hungry.
Silently, slowly, I raise my fist to the door and hook my pinkie finger at the empty barred window, the rude gesture learned from the streets of Tolukum and subsequently unlearned in more genteel company. It feels good to flaunt it now after so long kept primly discreet. I hold it there as I scoop a spoonful of mush and eat.
Veran
Dear Veran,
I’m writing to tell you that our stage was waylaid outside Snaketown by bandits on the first of July. Don’t panic. We all made it through just fine, though I lost a few pairs of shoes. I am back in Callais now in time for classes—I will merely be showing up to my first one in slippers. Don’t tell Gemma.
Here’s the real bit of news—it was the Sunshield Bandit and several associates who stopped us. I’d suggest you not share this in conversation. I know there are those in both Moquoia and Alcoro who would very much like to get their hands on her—perhaps folk who aren’t far away from the top rungs of society, even among the allies you all will be trying to make. The trafficking business is driven by wealth and power, and despite the fact that the Sunshield Bandit did indeed rob me of everything of monetary value, I’d rather she be allowed to continue her work.
I did find out one significant thing—her name. It’s Lark. If she has a surname, I didn’t hear it. Again, don’t share this information. But you know how dear the case of missing captives is to us. If the Sunshield Bandit has a camp full of recovered slaves, there is a possibility that Moira Alastaire is among them, or that she knows where she might be. It’s a long shot—Moira would be an adult now, if she’s still alive. But all the same, it’s as much of a lead as we’ve had for the past fifteen years.
I am not sharing the news with Mona yet, and I’d encourage you not to share it with Rou or Eloise, either. I’ve written them a separate letter without this little detail. I don’t want to give them false hope when it could all turn out to be nothing, and I don’t want to crack open that vault of old grief with so many other pressing matters at hand. But I am telling you. Keep your ear to the ground. Maybe amid all the other talk you’ll hear something.
We’re thinking of you here. Take care of yourself. Write to your parents. I already have four letters on my desk from your mother demanding news of our trip.
Wishing you well,
Colm
I lower the letter and lean against the rain-streaked glass, gazing absently over the waving treetops. Professor Colm waylaid by bandits . . . I’d been gnawing on this possibility from the moment we parted ways in Pasul. The Ferinno Desert has become an insanely dangerous place to travel, and I worried about him making the return trip without the caravan we journeyed with back in June. He had assured me the smaller numbers meant they’d travel through the worst country at greater speed.
Liar.
A sharp rap comes from my parlor door, and without waiting for an answer, it’s thrown open. I stuff the letter in my jacket pocket.
“Veran!” Eloise calls. “Are you decent? Even if you’re not, you’d better come on—we’re late!”
I stand from the window. “That’s an interesting suggestion—which do you think would be worse, appearing in court wearing the wrong color, or appearing in court naked?”
“I’m willing to bet color. You are wearing turquoise, aren’t you?” She steps around the door and sighs in relief at my silk jacket and trousers. The Moquoians observe twelve months like we do back east, but more important than the season is the corresponding si—twelve distinct colors, not seven. With the first day of August, we’ve transitioned from green to turquoise, and heavens forbid one appear in the wrong colors on the first day of the si. Eloise is in a long gown the color of a Paroan lagoon. Her dark brown corkscrew curls are piled on top of her head and secured with strings of opals.
She spreads her arms. “What are you doing? We should be downstairs by now—Papa’s already there.”
“I was . . .” I recall Colm’s words not to share the news about the attack with Eloise or her father. I gesture to the wooden box on the coffee table, the linen inside askew. “I was just working up the fortitude to put on the shoes.”
She tsks in annoyance. “I’m sorry, Veran—I know they hurt your feet, but we really don’t have time.”
Hurt your feet is an understatement. I’ve worn my fair share of foreign wardrobes, but not once have I ever had to trade out my soft-soled leather boots. Even at the University of Alcoro, Silvern students are allowed to wear our native boots, as long as there aren’t bells on the fringe. But here in Moquoia, men wear breathlessly tight silk breeches, fastened with large, jeweled buttons up the calves. It was a shock, that first day we arrived in court, when I realized my boots wouldn’t fit over the embellishments. In their place, the stiff, hobnailed slippers don’t so much blister my feet as eat them away one layer of skin at a time. Almost four weeks into our diplomatic trip, and I’m still no better at walking in them than day one.