"Hoy, Squee! Everything going well up in front?" Gerrard asked, not expecting to get any real information from the goblin's answer.
"Oh, yeah. Great. Gerrard?"
"What?" The Benalian spoke through dry, cracked lips.
"Ain't you supposed to salute Squee when yer talking to Squee?"
Gerrard's lips moved, forming some of the same words Tahngarth spoke fifty yards away. Next, the Benalian thought sourly, the little goblin will expect to take Sisay's place as captain of Weatherlight.
That thought jolted Gerrard's mind back to the present. With a quick command he brought the party around in a right turn and then headed them back in the direction in which they'd come. Every day, every foray, the Mercadians improved a bit. He held up a finger, marking wind direction, and then rode up beside Tahngarth. "Well, what do you think? Are they ready?"
"No," the minotaur growled. "Their discipline is poor, and too many have not yet mastered fighting skills. If they were to confront properly trained soldiers, they would be slaughtered."
"I agree. From what Takara reports, the Cho-Arrim are more than trained soldiers. They're bloodthirsty head-hunters. It would be murder to march into Rushwood with unseasoned troops." Gerrard shook his head. "But from now on, we drive these enlistees harder… Who knows what those inhuman monsters have done with Orim?"
The shrill voice of Squee broke into the conversation. "Play dead! Everybody, roll over 'n' play dead!"
In unison, Tahngarth and Gerrard spoke a curse.
The vendor ran a hand lovingly over his display. It was hard to imagine that anywhere in the lands ruled by Mercadia was a farm that could best these farfhallen melons: firm, ripe, an edge of green showing along the creases in the rind. He drew the morning air into his lungs and let loose a bellow heard across the entire marketplace. "Fresh scarlet melons! Beautiful farfhallen melons! Ripe for the taking! Who'll take some nice, ripe farfhallen melons?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a long, thin arm reach for the fruit and pull one off the stand. Visions of adolescent boys, the bane of his existence, filled his mind, and he spun around, slapping down hard. An outraged squeal was heard, and the merchant found himself facing a small, green figure whose face showed surprise, anguish, and anger.
It was a goblin.
Yet this one was different. The merchant looked at the small green figure carefully. Like everyone else, he was well acquainted with Kyren, but this goblin was smaller than most. His eyes were dull and lacked the malicious glint of those who daily ascended the steps of the Tower of the Magistrate.
The farmer snatched back his hand as if it had been burned, his voice switching to a pleasant tenor. "I do beg your pardon, my good sir. I'm pleased my melons have found favor with you."
The thin, green face looked inquisitively at him. Behind the thief loomed an enormous brown figure, twisted horns brushing the top of the stall. The farmer gave a whimper of fear and stepped back away from his wares.
"Come, Squee. It's only a melon. Give it back and come along."
"But, Tahngarth, Squee's terrible hungry."
"You are always terribly hungry."
"Not always!" The goblin's face wore an injured expression. "But Squee ain't had a decent meal since we got ta this place." He looked disdainfully at the melon. "This place ain't got no proper goblin food. What 'bout bugs? What 'bout slugs? Squee ain't seen none around nowhere anyhow."
The farmer found his voice. "Pardon me, but the melons are scarce this season. There has been little rainfall in the lowlands, and Cho-Arrim raiders plague the caravans."
The minotaur gave a sour grunt. "Put it back and come."
"Sir, wait!" The merchant ignored the enormous brown creature and deferentially addressed Squee. "Allow me to offer you this melon-as a gift."
A young blonde woman, who had materialized by the minotaur's side, said to the merchant, "We apologize for our friend's behavior. We're a bit new to the city. We thank you for your generosity."
The fruit seller performed an obsequious obeisance. "Whatever our scaly friends desire."
The blonde woman wore an unsettled expression. "Yes, we've noticed."
"1 can't believe they already sent a contingent after Weatherlight.'" Gerrard growled, whirling his sword. The blade struck the practice dummy, shearing off its head. "I can't believe they didn't wait until our troops were trained!"
Takara took a deep breath of the dusty afternoon air. Gazing at the decapitated dummy, she said with dark humor, "If it is any consolation, the force they sent was slaughtered."
"Of course they were slaughtered!" Gerrard said. He kicked the post and snapped the thing in half. His troops on the practice grounds beyond stared with bald fear at their angry commander. "Of course they were slaughtered. Our fighters are the only fighters Mercadia has. It's taken us six weeks to turn these lazy sausages into fighting men. Anybody else would have been killed."
The Mercadians' eyes grew wider still. They stared down into the dust, practice swords hanging limp in their hands.
In six weeks, every last one had dropped in weight and bulked their muscles. They had learned to fight hard and bathe afterward. They were even beginning to be impressive with trident and sword, but still they feared their vitriolic commander.
Takara, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on his fury.
He hissed, "They're trying to get to Weatherlight before we can. They're trying to renege on the deal."
Folding arms over her breastplate, Takara replied, "That's not reneging. They've met all the demands and will let you have your force when they are trained. The Mercadians never agreed to leave Weatherlight alone."
Gerrard nodded, sweat falling from his forehead. "Well, we'll just have to take these soldiers sooner."
"The Cho-Arrim aren't just cannibals. They're monsters, if you can believe these Mercadians. These Cho-Arrim are apparently vicious, inhuman beasts."
"All the more reason to whip these sad sacks into shape, and quickly. Orim is a prisoner among them-if she still lives," Gerrard said. "Go find Tahngarth and Sisay. I know this is their day off, but from now on none of us gets a day off until we have Weatherlight back."
"As you wish," Takara said, striding away.
Gerrard turned toward the Mercadian troops and barked out, "Back to the drill!"
The minotaur grumbled as they left the merchant's tent. Squee greedily seized another melon and began to munch on it, the juice dribbling over his chin.
A porter rushing along with a heavy basket of fruit on his shoulder barreled into the goblin and sprawled, the basket spilling bright red berries. Hanna and Tahngarth bent to retrieve what they could. Seeing Squee, the porter gave a sudden shriek and rushed off, leaving his basket and scattered wares behind him.
Tahngarth gave a snort, trying not to laugh. "Kyren goblins! What sort of place is ruled by goblins?"
Hanna shook her head. "I don't know. It's clear they're very important."
"Goblins! What 'bout goblins?" Squee appeared at her elbow, his nose and mouth smeared with red berries.
Hanna said sharply, "You shouldn't eat these things until you know what they are."
"Yeah, but how're you gonna know what they are without tasting 'em?"
The trio passed on down the street. Every few yards they were confronted with yet another merchant shouting and gesturing. It was a dizzying spectacle. The whole city was dizzying. During their six-week stay, the crew had come to realize the labyrinth of streets was ruled by a contorted, recursive geometry. A person could reach a landmark not by walking toward it but by walking away. A woman striding down a straight street would discover that she had been going in circles. A man wandering in circles would quickly reach his destination. It was as though a city of millions had been impossibly squeezed into a city of a hundred thousand. Space folded and refolded, maddeningly unpredictable. Sobriety led to utter confusion. Delirium led to truth.