“I am a widowed landowner from the province of Eskethia,” she informed him. “I have business in Mirtesk. You are my journeyman escort, contracted to see me there safely without injury to body or reputation.”
She gave him the care of the packhorses and hauled herself into the saddle of the tallest riding horse, a grey mare which seemed to know her from the way it snorted in pleasure as she patted its neck. Her gown had slits to accommodate riding full saddle and her bare thighs were bronze in the morning sun. He looked away and saw to the pack animals.
Their loads consisted mainly of food and water, sufficient, he assumed, for their journey to Mirtesk. They were well cared for with no signs of infirmity that might lay them low in the desert, hooves shod with broad but thin iron shoes suitable for trekking across the sands. He remembered how the Alpiran desert had taxed his scout troop’s mounts to the limit until they copied the smithing tricks used by the Emperor’s cavalry. Memories of the Alpiran war came to him constantly and, despite all the blood spilled in their doomed attempt to fulfil the King’s mad vision, the months spent with the Wolfrunners, with his brothers, with Vaelin, had been the best days of his life.
His scars gave a short burn as the woman shifted impatiently in her saddle. He tightened the straps on the packs and mounted his own horse, a youthful black stallion. The mount was somewhat feisty, rearing and snorting as he settled onto the saddle. He leaned forward to cup the stallion’s ear, whispering softly. Instantly the animal calmed, trotting forward without demur as Frentis nudged his heels to its flanks, the packhorses trailing behind.
“Impressive,” the woman said, spurring her own mount into motion. “Only seen it done a few times. Who taught you?”
There was a command to her tone and the binding tightened a little. “A madman,” he said, recalling Master Rensial’s conspiratorial smirk as he imparted the secret of the whisper, something, Frentis knew, he had never taught any of the other novice brothers. Looks like the Dark, doesn’t it? he said with one of his high-pitched giggles. If only they knew. The fools.
He said no more and the woman let the binding recede to the now-standard tingle. “There will come a time,” she said, as they rode towards the west, “when you’ll tell me every secret in your heart, and do so willingly.”
Frentis’s hands clenched on his reins and inside he howled, raging at his prison of scars, for he knew now it was the scars that bound him, the means by which each overseer and master bent him to their will. One Eye’s final gift, his ultimate revenge.
They journeyed until noon, resting under small awnings as the sun baked the desert, moving on when the shadows grew long and the heat abated. They stopped at a small oasis, already crowded with caravans setting up camp for the night. Frentis watered the horses and established their camp on the fringes of the temporary community. The caravan folk seemed a cheerful lot, all free citizens, exchanging news with old friends or entertaining each other with songs or stories. Most wore blue, but here and there was a grey-clad veteran with a long beard and a longer string of horses. A few approached them with wares to sell or requests for news from the wider empire. The woman was all charm and affability in refusing the wares and offering minor gossip about the Council’s doings or the recent results of the Sword Races, which seemed to be a major preoccupation.
“The Blues lost again?” one older grey-clad said, shaking his head in disappointed wonder. “Followed them all my life, I have. Lost two fortunes in bets.”
The woman laughed and popped a date into her mouth. “Should switch to the Greens, grandfather.”
He glowered a little. “Man can’t change his team any more than he can change his skin.”
After a while they were left in peace. Frentis completed the remaining chores then sat by the fire watching the night sky. Master Hutril had taught him to read the stars during his first year in the Order, and he knew that the hilt of the Sword pointed to the north-east. But for the binding he would be following it back to the Realm now, however many miles it took.
“In the Alpiran Empire,” the woman said, reclining on a blanket, elbow propped on a silk cushion, “there are men who grow rich telling gullible fools lies about the portents foretold by the stars. Your Faith does not allow such nonsense, I believe.”
“The stars are distant suns,” he said. “So the Third Order has it anyway. A sun so far away can’t have any power here.”
“Tell me, why did you kill the overseer and not the master?”
“He was closer, and it was a difficult throw.” He turned his gaze on her. “And I knew you could deflect the blade.”
She gave a small nod of acknowledgment, lying back onto her pillow and closing her eyes. “There is a man camped next to the water. He’s dressed as a journeyman, grey hair and a silver ring in his ear. When the moon’s fully risen, go and kill him. There’s poison in the packs, the green bottle. Don’t leave any marks on the body. Take any letters you find.”
She hadn’t stopped his speech but he didn’t ask for a reason. There was no point.
The Volarians, like the Faithful, gave their dead to the fire. The caravan folk wrapped the grey-haired man in canvas, doused it in lamp oil and set it aflame with a torch. No words were said and there was no display of grief from the onlookers as none seemed to know the man who had died in his sleep, only his name taken from his citizen’s tablet: Verkal, common and nondescript. His belongings were being auctioned off as Frentis and the woman continued on their way.
“He was sent to spy on us,” the woman said eventually. “In case you were wondering. One of Arklev’s, I expect. Seems the Council-man’s enthusiasm for our grand project has waned somewhat.” This wasn’t for his benefit, he knew. Sometimes she liked to voice her thoughts, converse with herself. Something else she had in common with Master Rensial.
Five days’ travel brought them in sight of the Jarven Sea, the largest body of inland water in the empire according to the woman. They made for a small ferry port situated in a shallow bay, the terminus of the caravan route, busy with travellers and animals. The sea was broad and dark beneath the cloudless sky, tall mountains visible in the haze beyond the western shore. The ferry passage cost five squares each plus five circles for the horses. “You are a robber,” the woman informed the ferryman as she handed over the coin.
“You’re welcome to swim, citizen,” he replied with a mocking bow.
She laughed shortly. “I should have my man here kill you, but we’re in a hurry.” She laughed again and they led the horses aboard.
“When I first took this tub it was one square per man and one circle per horse,” she said later, as the slaves worked the oars under the whip of an overseer and the ferry ploughed its way across the sea. “That was over two centuries ago, mind you.”
This made him frown. Centuries? She can’t have more than thirty years.
She grinned at his confusion but said no more.
The crossing took most of the day, the city of Mirtesk coming into view in early evening. Frentis had thought Untesh the largest city he was ever likely to see but Mirtesk made it a village in comparison. It sprawled in a great bowl-like coomb ascending from the shore, countless houses of grey granite stretching away on either side, tall towers rising from the mass, the steady hum of thousands of voices growing to a roar as they reached the dock. A slave was waiting on the quay as they guided the animals ashore. “Mistress,” he greeted the woman with a deep bow.
“This is Horvek,” she told Frentis. “Ugly, isn’t he?”