Buying upper-class accoutrements posed little difficulty. Cerúlia took Hope with her to the shops, guessing that the novelty might make a good outing for the melancholic and needing Hope to speak for her to female merchants to hide her Weir accent.
Hope steered Cerúlia away from silk. “We wear silk for fancy occasions, not for traveling,” she murmured. Her friend helped her order split skirts, shirts with lace and billowing sleeves, and short open doublets made out of linen cambric, in light colors or with subtle contrasting stripes. For an extra payment, the seamstresses promised the outfits would be ready posthaste.
At the parasol shop, Hope assisted as Cerúlia chose two parasols with white fringe. One had a black-and-white checked pattern, and the other one she liked was white, with blue raindrops embroidered on the fabric. Cerúlia insisted that Hope choose a parasol for herself as a present and was delighted when she settled on a cheerful yellow with green leaves embossed in the fabric.
Finding a dog in Salubriton caused much more difficulty than new garb. Cerúlia admitted to herself that her need was irrational, but nonetheless, she wanted a dog. So many moons without one made her feel less like herself, as if she were missing an arm or a leg. And since Ciellō had confirmed that she was being hunted, having a dog by her side felt even more necessary.
The tabby cat at the parasol shop vouchsafed that dogs did live within the city, but she did not know where. The gamels told her to search northeast of the city center, in the area past the Park of the Dreamers.
The next day, comfortably dressed in her donkey boy outfit, she told her housemates she intended to take another ride.
“Could I accompany you, Damselle Phénix? Would you mind?” asked Damyroth. “I’d like to see if I can ride with one leg, and it would be nice to have a change of scenery. I have coin; I can pay my own way.”
Cerúlia did not really want to bring him, but she hadn’t the heart to say no to what would surely be a healthy outing for her housemate.
If the stableman at Vigor Hostelry recognized her, he made no extra effort at politeness. Cerúlia put Damyroth on Pillow and hired a smaller horse, Cotton, for herself. She told the stableman to place his largest double panniers behind Pillow’s saddle.
They rode to the Park of the Dreamers—a large, lush, and peaceful oasis in the middle of the busy streets (irrigated, Damyroth told her, with water diverted from the River Cleansing). It had walking paths and bridle trails, a small lake, and manicured greenery. Tall Salubriton peacocks, with their lilac-colored feathers, showed off their plumage and chastised anyone who approached too closely. Damyroth relished being out, and Pillow behaved so docilely that he had no trouble controlling her, which raised his mood even further. Cerúlia’s back and shoulder started to ache, but she could manage the discomfort. After a pleasant tour of the trails, they bought a meat pie from a vendor.
“What is that structure over there?” she asked Damyroth.
“That’s a Restaurà Pavilion. Inside you’ll find pillows and rockers.”
“People nap in public?”
“That’s the sweetest sleep, amongst your fellows, watched by Restaurà.”
Cerúlia regarded the pavilion, which had swaying white side curtains, with more interest. “It looks appealing, but in the rain?”
“It rarely rains, but if it does, that’s even better. You hear the raindrops on the roof, and a light mist blows through.” Damyroth urged her to take more of the pie. Then, through his chewing, he asked, “Do you want to try it? Lie down for a bit? You look fatigued.”
She shook her head. “No. I have an errand I must do.”
Looking up at Damyroth, she warned, “It might possibly be a rough neighborhood. Perchance, I could even lead us into some kind of difficulty. Will you back me up?”
While his eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as if considering whether he really knew her, Damyroth’s large swallow apple bobbed up and down, finishing the pie. “You know I will.”
After leaving the park behind and riding a few minutes northeast, Cerúlia sensed the presence of dogs, though they were too panicked to communicate anything besides gibberish. She steered the horses first past a row of deserted buildings and then through heaps of rubbish that desperate people picked through. As they rode on, they passed men wearing kerchiefs over their noses and mouths, shoveling waste into smoldering pits. The smell was overwhelmingly foul. The horses shied in discomfort.
Damyroth opened his mouth to question her, but closed it without speaking.
The horses did not find approaching the wooden building at the end of a narrow dirt road any easier. With every pace, dogs’ muffled howling grew more audible, and the horses skittered their hind hooves.
The building with a soot-stained chimney sat slightly apart from any neighbors, surrounded by packed, dry earth. Two shuttered windows and a metal door were closed up tight. The barking noise escalated to deafening levels. Cerúlia climbed off Cotton and banged on the door, but no one came to her knock.
Help! Help! Help! Out! Let us out! Out!
Cerúlia tried the door, finding it locked. Taking a step back, she searched for something to use as a tool to force the lock; but Damyroth, who had also dismounted, had already secured a rock with a sharp edge. Bashing the latch several times with his strong arms, he succeeded in busting it open.
Cerúlia’s eyes didn’t have much of a chance to adjust to the dark interior as she rushed inside. The building was small—even tinier than the cottage in Wyndton. In the middle of the room stood a waist-high table stained with what looked like blood, viscera, and fur, with leather gloves and several axes strewn on top. To her right was a stack of faggots and a large stone hearth capable of roasting a pig.
With the light that streamed in the doorway she made out two cages filled with half-starved, terrified dogs, penned up in their own excrement.
The noise the dogs made was unbearably distressing. Cerúlia sprinted to each cage, using her dagger to cut the twine that bound them shut and opening their sides. Jumping on top of one another in their haste, about a dozen dogs streamed out of their pens, bolting for freedom out the door. Cerúlia exited the noisome building in their wake.
Outside, Damyroth held the horses’ reins; he commented, “I take it that in the Free States dogs are valued.”
“Aye,” she answered.
“Strange,” he remarked. “Different countries, different ways.”
“Hmm-mm,” she agreed, turning to look in all directions.
“Now what? Is freeing the dogs what we came for?”
“Only incidentally,” Cerúlia responded, glancing down at her side. “This is what we came for.”
As she had hoped, not all the captive dogs had run away—one had stopped as if called to her side. He was a large, red-colored animal, with a white blaze on his chest, a ridge of raised, exceptionally dense fur down his back, and a cocked ear.
Cerúlia squatted down on her heels so her face was level with his warm, brown eyes.
Hullo, she sent. How did you come to be here?
He met her gaze for a moment, then politely looked to the side.
One came with a caravan. One had a master; after he fed the gamels he would feed one. The new smells in this big town enticed one far from familiar wagons. One could nay find the right caravan again and slept on the streets for many suns. One found naught to eat. People threw rocks, so one hid. But anon the axe man caught one and brought one here. Such a terrible place that stinks of fear.
This is a terrible place, Cerúlia agreed. But I’ve come to free you. She stroked both sides of his head. Would you like to be my dog? My heart hurts from lonesomeness.
The dog had had a chance to process her scent. He began to whimper and crept forward to lean his full body weight against her chest. His weight unbalanced her crouch, so she sat on the ground and wrapped both arms tightly around his back as he grew more emotional rather than less. He began to stick his black nose and muzzle into the hollow of her neck and to rub his silky cheek against hers. His tail beat wildly.
Where hast thou been! Why did it take thee so long to find one? Oh where hast thou been!
There, there. Your lonely days are over. I’ve got you now, and you’ve got me. Shh. Shh. We’ve got one another. Her eyes brimmed over, and the dog licked up her tears.
Looking up at Damyroth, she said, “Isn’t he wonderful? Free Staters in general do like dogs, but I—” She broke off to giggle as the dog enthusiastically licked her mouth and chin.
“Look at that funny ear. I’ll call him ‘Whaki.’”
“You let him lick you with his dirty mouth?” Damyroth tried to keep the shock out of his voice.
“As you see,” she answered as she gave the dog a final tight hug and a kiss on his nose before she got to her feet. “I love dogs.”
“What about that one?” her companion said, pointing to a small dog hiding behind Cotton’s legs.
Cerúlia hadn’t considered that more than one dog might be called to her side. Though dirty and matted, the white lapdog—the fluffy kind that noble ladies like to caress and teach tricks—stood up on her hind feet and walked toward them, wagging her tail.
Damyroth laughed. “Like a toy, isn’t it? Kind of cute.”
“She’d be adorable if we washed her. She’s too small to survive running free, because the first predator that comes along will snap her up.”
“Don’t you think that Damselle Hope would like her?” asked Damyroth.
Cerúlia leapt at the idea. “I think that having a dog to care for might do wonders for Hope.”
“Let’s take her home with us then!” Damyroth enthused.
Your Majesty! sent the white dog, pawing at her knees. Thou rescued us!
They loaded each of the panniers with a dog—Whaki barely fit and the basket cover wouldn’t latch—and retraced their route down the dirt street. By the time they reached the midden piles, a crowd had started to gather.
Shrink down, Whaki, as tight as you can.
Most of its members had the mien of rough-looking laborers, but among them stood a young, black-haired woman wearing thigh-high hunting boots and a feathered hat. This strange woman also shouldered a longbow. This was the first time Cerúlia had seen a weapon carried openly on the streets of Salubriton.
“Who might you be?” one of the men asked. “Did you see a bunch of dirty dogs running loose?”
Knowing that speaking would betray her accent, Cerúlia looked at Damyroth meaningfully.
“Dogs? Gosh no. Dogs? We’re just out for a ride, friends.”
Another man in the crowd pointed to Damyroth’s wooden leg. “A peg leg. A recovery patient. Such don’t go about causing trouble.”
The suspicious woman pointed to the livery name on the saddle blankets and panniers. “Vigor Hostelry. You’re a long way from that part of town,” she said. “What are you folk doing hereabouts?”
“We’d heard of the beauty of the Park of the Dreamers,” said Damyroth. “We brought midmeal to eat by the pond and feed the peacocks. Have you seen them?”
The woman’s nose twitched. “Then why are you over here?”
“Just curious to see more of the city. Though I guess we’ve wandered about a bit and lost our way.”
“Don’t you talk?” said a second man to Cerúlia. She kept her mouth closed.
Again, Damyroth answered for her, “She’s mute. Trauma patient. Melancholic. We don’t even know her name; we call her ‘Restaurà’s Ward.’”
“Hey! There’s one of them!” The crowd took off after a stray dog they glimpsed down an alley. The riders moved on at a leisurely pace that Cerúlia hoped would not raise suspicion.
She stretched her back casually and stole a glance over her shoulder. To her amazement, the smoke from the closest of the midden piles condensed as it rose in the sky instead of dispersing. As she watched, the gray wisps slowly pulled together, making a darker cloud; then the cloud took on an unnatural form. It transmuted into a giant, dark hand, standing out from the rest of the sky, with a forefinger … pointing straight at the princella.
They needed to hide—quickly.
Pillow, where would you go to shelter from danger?
One’s stable.
No, that’s too far. I mean, is there anyplace in Salubriton that is sacred to Restaurà?
Restaurà favors the parks, Cotton piped in. A smaller park lies nearby.
Head for the nearest park as fast as you can.
“Damyroth, hold on!” she warned.
Pillow and Cotton took off down the street at a gallop—or at least, the closest gait they could manage. In truth they ran at a speed that would have drawn even old Syrup’s contempt, but at least their pace was faster than a person could run, and that was what mattered.
Cerúlia snuck another look behind. As if blown by a magic wind the smoke cloud kept pace above and behind them, pointing. In the distance Cerúlia could see the woman with the bow loping on a diagonal from a street that stretched east. She had cut them off and was almost approaching bow range.
Veer left around that building, Cerúlia sent to the horses.
She heard an arrow thunk into the wooden slat with tremendous force.
“Damyroth, duck down!”
We just have to outrace the archer. Cotton, how much farther to the park?
One smells the grass ahead, sent Cotton.
They had reached a more populated district of Salubriton, and people stared in shock at the running horses. Another arrow, shot with tremendous force, struck Pillow’s pannier, the one with the white dog inside. The dog yapped so Cerúlia deduced it had missed getting skewered. Ahead she saw an archway labeled “Park of Peaceful Risings.” Pillow came dangerously close to running over walkers with parasols, while Cotton jostled a mother holding a baby.
“Watch out! Make way!” Cerúlia shouted, motioning with her arms, and then finally they raced through the archway. A third arrow struck the stone on the archway’s side, missing the princella by the span of a hand. Pedestrians screamed and rushed about wildly at the attack, and many cried out, “Help!” “Guards!”
Gamels! I beg you! Create a big pileup of carriages at the archway.
At last they were inside the park. The Pointing Hand hovered outside, apparently prevented by Restaurà’s Power from entering. Cerúlia hoped that the chaos at the gate and the guards racing in that direction might delay the woman hunting them.
The horses, exhausted from their unaccustomed exertion, had slowed to a walk. Scanning around her, Cerúlia saw a group of well-dressed, chatting riders coming around a bridle path toward them.
“Damyroth. There’s no time for any questions.” She pulled her foot out of the stirrup and slid down the side of the horse, then gathered up Cotton’s reins, which she passed to her friend. “Take the horses and mingle with that group of riders for as long as you can. Then just give Pillow her head and she’ll take you back to Vigor Hostelry. Cotton will follow along.”
Damyroth gazed at her with grave concern. “Who is after you and why? Will you be safe?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you at the Bread and Balm after I’ve shaken off pursuit. Go, now!”
Whaki raised the basket’s top by pushing his nose through, saw that she was walking away on foot, and leapt the distance to the ground.
Strollers shrieked, “Look out! There’s a dog!” but Cerúlia was already running for a wooded area in the park with the offending animal streaking at her heels. With any luck the archer would follow the horses a ways, until she discovered that Cerúlia was missing; then she would double back, searching for her prey, leaving Damyroth alone. But while the archer might have her scent, she didn’t know her footprint.
Cerúlia ran as far as she could, but like the horses, she was not in any condition for such exertion. She needed to hide, but where? This park was smaller and not as manicured as the one earlier in the day; the landscapers had settled on a more rustic look. All she saw were trees and shrubs, bridle paths and footpaths, and a few small rolling hills.
She turned to head back toward the park’s center. Between some trees she spied a small Pavilion, its white curtains swaying in the breeze.
I’m going to hide in there, she told the dog. But what about you?
This tree be empty, said Whaki, nosing a hollow log. Raccoons once lived here, but not this day. One can hide inside.
Trying to walk calmly, Cerúlia angled her way onto a walking path that led to the Pavilion. Inside, she saw a small table that held burning incense that smelled of lavender, and a stack of damp, folded towels that smelled of lemon water. Two of the rocking beds were occupied: a young Wyelander lay comfortably reading a book in one, and a middle-aged woman slept in the other, a lemon cloth spread over her face. Seeing that they had both removed their shoes and covered themselves with the lilac-colored blankets that lay neatly piled in the Pavilion’s center, Cerúlia followed suit.
After what seemed like forever, Whaki sent to the princella, She comes.
Cerúlia covered her face with the lemon cloth and breathed rhythmically. Under the blanket she pulled her dagger.
If the woman even looked inside the Pavilion, she did so noiselessly.
She passed thee by.
Be sure you get her scent, Whaki.
Cerúlia must have dozed off for a little while. When she awoke the other occupants of the Pavilion had left. Whaki assured her the archer had disappeared from as far as his sharp nose could detect, so they both crawled out of their hideaways.
All right. Now we need to get off the streets. Whaki, stay in the shadows, behind bushes or trees. I suspect fewer people are out strolling this late.
Cerúlia led them back to the main walker’s path. Ahead stood another archway gate, leading back into the city streets, but the princella had lost her sense of direction. She sent Whaki to hide behind a bush and approached an elderly couple.
“Excuse me. I fell asleep in the park, and now I’m disoriented. Do you know High Street? Could you point me in that direction?”
“High Street runs for leagues through the center of the city,” said the old man, peering at her shortsightedly. “What part of High Street would you be wanting?”
“I’m not sure. I do know a jewel shop near where my friends are staying. It’s called Many Facets. Does that help?”
“Many Facets, Many Facets,” repeated the old man, and shook his head.
“I know the place,” said his wife. “It’s near the cobbler’s where I got your clogs repaired. That’s Upper Middle High Street, damselle.” She pointed. “If you head that direction you can’t miss it. Once you hit High Street, will you recognize your way?”
“Oh, yes. I’m certain I’ll be fine. You’ve been most kind.”
Cerúlia, with Whaki keeping to shadows, slunk back to the Bread and Balm. Anxiously, she considered that the archer had seen the livery stable name on the horses’ blankets and panniers, but she didn’t think she’d ever told the stableman where she lived. But the crowd had seen Damyroth’s leg—how many recovery houses lay close to Vigor Hostelry?
No one accosted the woman and the dog, but the gamels’ incessant cries of Yoo-hoo, Queenie, echoed through the dark streets, pointing her out to anyone with ears to hear.