“Eleven, as of this morning,” Ash says.
No one speaks.
“Did the Bone Throwers have any advice?” Samsen asks. “All I heard was that our number should be five.”
“That was it, on the first cast, besides the usual, stick to the protocols.”
“First cast?” Belair says and everyone looks up. “There was a second?”
“Just this morning.” I force my face into a calm mask. “It surprised me, too.”
“What does it say?” Belair asks, his eyes narrowing. “Anything about this?”
I open the note from Oba and read it aloud.
Remember to keep the company’s number to five.
In spite of autumn chill, optimism wins out.
When in doubt, go north.
A sword brings truth and deception.
Do not raise your phantom until safe on Aku.
Surprise comes from the sea. Don’t resist it.
The Heir will not be stopped.
Out of Aku, the warriors triumph, and the southern realms are changed forever.
A surprise certainly has come from the sea, and not a good one.
None of the rest makes much sense, really, except for, When in doubt, go north. Also, The Heir will not be stopped. It’s enough assurance for me. After that debacle with my family in the throne room, it is this one tenet from the Bone Thrower that I cling to. “It’s settled,” I say. “We pick up supplies and ride north.”
Ash frowns. “But can we make it in time?”
“Maybe not,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but we have to try.”
6
Ash
After two sleepless nights and long days in the saddle, my body feels like it was pounded with a bone bag—then trampled by a team of mules.
But we made it.
Here on the cliffs overlooking Toretta with an hour to spare before dark, the whitecaps sparkle and the breeze is fresh with moist, salty air. I can’t see the harbor, though, so I wouldn’t know if anyone is shouting empty, or full of boats. But I’m optimistic.
“You’re always optimistic.”
Well, hope is the currency of the scribe, is it not?
Marcus leads us down the winding path, the dry red soil clouding beneath our horses’ hooves. Where the dirt roadway yields to cliff and plain, the knee-high grasses ripple in waves. It’s beautiful, but oh, the dust. My once-white shirt is brown, my mouth and eyes full of grit. No price is too high for a bath tonight. And, dear gods of the deep, may we all sleep in beds.
“Clean ones.”
Agreed.
It’s not long before we are through the gates and slap in the middle of Toretta’s noisy city streets lined with vendors peddling aromatic foods, bowls of steaming white rice, red chili soups, salads of bright-yellow mangoes and green papaya. My mouth waters.
Chickens in coops cackle and peck at the ground. Spotted goats with long, drooping ears are milked on the spot. In one stall, a big woman in an apron fills baking pots with apricots, dried fruits, and raw meats, ready to pop them into the hot wood oven behind her. Farther down, a short man sells plates of noodles and fish; the delicious smell of curry wafts from his stall. After two days of thin soup and rock-hard bread, I’m drooling like an old dog. We all are, though I don’t rest my eyes on the butcher skinning eels. I’m no fan of those. Too slimy.
Savants of various colored robes, mostly green and yellow, stand out, including Northern Aturnians with their breastplates of armor and streaming capes. Our group is strung tight as a bowstring, no doubt thinking about what, exactly, a host of Northern Aturnians would do if they discovered the Heir of Baiseen in their midst.
For once, thank the bones, Marcus isn’t drawing attention to himself. We seem to go unnoticed and I guess, with his green robe covered with grime and hood up hiding his golden curls, he’s as far from an image of the Heir of Baiseen as anyone can be.
Belair helps, too, riding close to Marcus on his tall bay, obscuring him even further. They seem to be getting along better now. I was worried Marcus would resent him all the way to Aku, but Belair’s too amiable for that, and the replacement really wasn’t his fault. I’m still shocked by the Magistrate’s decision to give Marcus’s seat on the council to Petén. Marcus kept his voice even when he told me, but I felt the bitterness underneath his words. A father should support his son, not betray him.
They’ll have a different opinion once De’ral, fully controlled by a yellow-robed Marcus, returns to them from Aku.
I smile at the thought.
We ride out of the main district and past quaint pastel buildings with bright flower boxes under the windows. Many of the older inhabitants are on the stoops, playing games of cards and dice.
Marcus twists around in the saddle when we come to a crossroad.
I draw out the map, balance it on my mare’s neck and the pommel of my saddle, but it’s not necessary. “Can’t you smell it, sir?” I point ahead, using the new title to remind him to be covert with his name. If I know Marcus, he’ll need it.
Young children kick balls and hoops back and forth in the street, darting out of our way as we approach. An elderly orange-robe savant with a lined face and skin dotted with spots from the sun snores from his low chair. Beside him, a phantom sits on its haunches. The brown bear is huge, easily eighteen hands high. It watches our approach, its gaze shifting between us and the children it appears to guard.
My mount tenses beneath me. “Easy, girl.”
We progress down the road, the bear’s black eyes locking with mine. In Baiseen, I’m used to the phantoms engaging me. Here, I don’t find the habit nearly as endearing.
My hands shorten the reins of their own accord. This isn’t Rhiannon’s little meerkat, twitching a whiskered nose about my bare feet, that’s for sure. I feel the bear’s eyes on my back as I follow the others, but we pass uncontested, finally reaching the entrance to the harbor. Still, the water is blocked from view.
“Half the size of Baiseen with twice the stink,” Belair says, a kerchief covering all but his eyes. I doubt anyone but me heard him over the cries of the gulls. The sky is full of them, and why not? There are at least ten cartloads of reeking garbage lined up, waiting to be loaded onto a barge and sent out to sea. The barrels of fish bones and shrimp tails are quite an attraction for the birds as well.
A few peddlers crowd the entrance, but this section is more for offloading goods and supplies than selling them. Winches and pulleys dominate the space, and giant cranes topped with bright flags stand out against the sky. One long building, a warehouse, I’m guessing, runs the length of the avenue, its peaked roof decorated with noisy gulls, cormorants, and the odd pelican.