“I wonder now if he remains loyal to the Seven Sleepers. Does he still follow our cause? I do not know what is in his mind and heart any longer. We cannot trust him. That is why I cannot let him travel with you and Elene into the south. What if he betrays you?”
“I don’t think he will. We need another experienced traveler, a strong hand, a keen eye. The desert is a hard place. We might come to grief in a hundred ways. I am an old woman, Marcus. My granddaughter is strong, but she is young and inexperienced. My servants are loyal and have great stamina, and we can hire a goodly retinue here in Qahirah. Still, I wish Brother Lupus to accompany us as well.”
“No. My plan is best. You will travel by means of the crown, if we can use it, and thus you will not have to endure a long journey across this desolate land. If a gateway opens to the southeast, then you will pass through. If not, it means the southeastern crown is lost. Let us pray that is not so.”
“Let me take Brother Lupus. We need him. My granddaughter likes him. It will make my task easier.”
“No.”
“You give me no good reason, only your own doubts.”
“Very well, then. Sister Anne commanded me explicitly to send him back to her. If it is her will, and after she has interrogated him, then she will send him after you. If not—so be it.”
“She no longer trusts him?”
“Her will is my will. I do not contest her in this, or in anything. Nor should you.”
“Well.” Sister Meriam’s pause was as eloquent as her words. “We must rely on such servants as we can hire here in Qahirah. I hope they are trustworthy. I hope the desert is not rife with bandits and monsters and storms.”
Marcus chuckled. “You are not helpless, Meriam. Neither is Elene. You have taught her well.”
Meriam’s tone was as dry as Zacharias had ever heard it. “So we must hope.”
Beyond the fountain, along the opposite wall, Zacharias saw a slight movement, as much as a hunting beast might make when it eases behind bushes while stalking a bird. Marcus and Meriam, themselves scarcely more than shadows, took their leave and slipped away to their own rooms, but Zacharias remained, knowing it wise to linger until he was sure it was safe to move. Among the Quman, he had learned to remain still and silent for hours at a time, hoping to escape Bulkezu’s wrath.
Yet in all that time he waited there, he saw no sign of that slip of a shadow. Who else had been listening? A breeze stirred the vines and he caught a hint of their perfume under-laid with that other, dustier scent. It was ungodly silent. He did not even hear dogs barking.
At length his legs grew tired because he was no longer accustomed to standing so still. Keeping to the shadows, he slunk back to the room. The curtain brushed his face as he slipped past, but his bare feet made no sound and no voice rose to challenge him as he lay down to sleep.
In the morning Wolfhere was missing, his pallet empty and his pack removed from the pile of baggage.
“Gone!” Marcus slammed a fist against the wall, then cursed at the pain. But his temper calmed as quickly as it had flared.
“So be it,” he said to Meriam as they made ready to leave for the ruins of Kartiako. “He has revealed himself through his actions.”
She said nothing.
Elene wept.
2
HE smelled the choking scent of smoldering fires long before his feet told him that they had left the loamy forest path for a grimier track through ash and dust. Charred and splintered debris crackled underfoot. Its acrid chaff coated his lips. In the distance he heard the sound of men cutting wood, echoes upon echoes of the throbbing in his head.
The throbbing swallowed everything. He couldn’t remember how long he had been walking or where he had come from or what he had been doing before being coffled together with the other prisoners.
He wasn’t cold—that was good—but his left foot still hurt. A few days ago the pack mule had trodden on it, and it pained him as he stumbled along grasping the rope that bound him to the prisoner in front of him. Besides the merchant and his two hired guards, there were six prisoners roped together and bound for the quarries—or at least, he had learned to recognize nine voices over the days of their journey, and more than once had felt the prod of the guards’ staves. He would have fallen a hundred times if not for the mercy of the two men roped before and behind him, a Salian criminal named Willehm and a captured brigand who called himself “Walker.”
“Careful, Silent,” sang out Will, addressing him by the name the rest called him. A good enough name, since he had no memory of a name, only a hazy recollection of hot tears and shouted fury. “There’s a drop right ahead of you. Take a big step and brace yourself.”
From behind the rope pulled taut as Walker leaned back to brace him.
He swung his foot out and felt it fall, and fall, trusting to Will’s directions. The foot struck loose earth, crushed leaves, and the slick remains of charcoal, and he slipped sideways, flailing. The rope snapped tight on either side of him, and he righted himself and dug his toes into the dirt for purchase. There was a reek about this place that tickled his nostrils and made his head spin and his blind eyes ache. His lungs burned each time he took in a breath.
“Get on!” The master’s whip cracked so close that air snapped against his cheek, but he’d taken too many hurts and bruises to flinch.
Walker muttered a curse under his breath as Will tugged on the rope to guide him onward.
“We’re walking through leavings scattered from two old charcoal pits,” said Will, who often described the scenery for him. “They’ve burned down to the ground and been cleared off. There’s a pit—no, two—burning off to the west. I see smoke through the trees.”