The town of Sprie in Sarnak reeked of rotten berries and boiled cabbage. Filth was embedded between the cobblestones beneath their feet and grime seemed to invade their skin. It was the last town before the Charyn border, and Sir Topher and Finnikin agreed that it was safer to buy provisions here than to stop in any Charyn town. Nevertheless, Finnikin sensed malevolence around him. Apart from Lumatere, Sarnak had suffered the most in the past ten years, and the fury of its people toward Lumateran exiles was boundless. Once, the Skuldenore River had flowed through Lumatere into Belegonia and Yutlind, and each day, the best of Sarnak produce was sent down the busy waterway into the rest of the land. Sarnak’s climate was perfect for growing almost anything, from succulent mangoes to sweet plump grapes. Their fresh river trout had graced the tables of kings and queens.
But without a trade route, such produce meant little. After the five days of the unspeakable, the river through Lumatere had disappeared into a whirl of fog, and the only passage now from Sarnak to the rest of the land was west into Sendecane or east into Charyn: one a wasteland, the other an enemy. Outside the exile camps, the poverty in Sarnak was the worst in the land, and two years past, armed Sarnak civilians had unleashed their wrath on Lumaterans camped on their southern border, a slaughter the king of Sarnak refused to acknowledge or condemn. And why would he, Finnikin thought, when there was no one to demand it except the First Man of a slain king and his apprentice from a kingdom that no longer existed?
On their first night in Sarnak, Sir Topher chose a place to set up camp deep in the woods. They would use it merely as a resting point to collect provisions and then move on. There would be no fire to keep them warm. Nothing to draw attention to themselves. Nothing to make them prey to a desperate people who needed someone to blame for their suffering.
Sir Topher and Finnikin made careful plans. They were not like the exiles who huddled in camps, waiting for someone to return them to Lumatere or for the captain of the King’s Guard to escape and save the day. Finnikin knew that if they wanted their people to survive, they needed strategies that would push them forward. Despite their detour into Sendecane and the presence of the novice and her extraordinary claim, he and Sir Topher were on a mission to find a piece of land for the exiles. And they always had a plan. Never a dream.
Sir Topher decided that Finnikin would go to the marketplace to purchase enough food to see them through to Sorel.
“Take the girl,” Sir Topher said. “They worship Lagrami here. They’re less likely to bother a novice and her companion. But don’t let her out of your sight.”
The town was a labyrinth of stalls and alleyways. More than once the novice seemed to become disoriented and wander in the wrong direction.
“Listen,” Finnikin said firmly. “Stay close and do not lose sight of me. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
She nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied.
“This whistle, I want you to listen for it in case we do get lost.” He whistled a birdlike tune. Twice. Just to be sure she understood. He watched her for a reaction, but there was none.
“I don’t expect you to learn it. But listen for it.”
She nodded again.
The sun was beginning to disappear, and vendors were packing up their wares. Finnikin walked over to purchase their supplies. A few moments later, he heard a furious cry and turned to see a young boy disappear into one of the alleyways. As he turned back to the vendor, he saw the novice stumble to her feet in a daze, but before he could call out to her, she was off in pursuit of the youth.
Stupid, stupid girl. In a moment’s frustration, he hesitated. It was a perfect opportunity to leave her behind so he and Sir Topher could continue on their way as planned. His mentor had promised him they would go searching for Trevanion’s men this autumn. This was his chance to go south, where a group of exiles had once reported seeing the Guard. But Lumatere had lost enough of its people to Sarnak, and before he could stop himself, he threw down his coins and raced after her.
Within a short distance, the alleyway branched out into a cluster of five others, each already seeped in darkness, indistinguishable from one another. Using instinct, Finnikin took the middle one, a mistake he realized too late when he found himself turning into yet another, which seemed to fork out into more and then more — never-ending high stone walls that seemed to conquer the light of the moon, forcing him to turn back until he lost track of where he had begun.
“Evanjalin!”
He caught sight of a flicker of her robe as she disappeared around a bend. He had smelled her fear when they arrived, had sensed the memory of her family’s death in Sarnak in every tremble of her body.
The light was disappearing fast. He called out her name as he ran after her, but there was desperation in her movements as she disappeared again and again. Finally she was brought to a stop by a dead end. But there was someone in the shadows, and before Finnikin could reach her, she was flung to the ground. Her assailant looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. Finnikin pulled Trevanion’s sword from its scabbard in an attempt to scare the boy rather than wound him.
Suddenly he felt the cold sharp tip of steel pressed against his neck. He felt little fear. From the moment he was born, Trevanion had taught him to fight, a skill Sir Topher made sure he continued to develop as they traveled from kingdom to kingdom. But when he turned, he could see four of them. Sensing that Evanjalin was no threat, the thieves had made Finnikin their target.
“Drop it!”
Not likely, he thought. He looked to where Evanjalin lay. When she raised herself onto her hands and knees, the youth shoved her and she fell again, whimpering. The young thief hammered her across the temple while holding her to the ground. Then he straddled her and began to search through the folds of her clothing, as if looking for something else of worth. This was why Sir Topher preferred they travel alone. No one to fear for. No one to protect. The girl would be their weak point until they left her in Sorel.
“Drop it!” The order came again.
Without taking his eyes off the novice, Finnikin reluctantly placed his sword on the ground and kicked it across the cobblestones. It stopped a few meters short of the girl’s feet, and he felt impotent rage as he watched the boy continue to fumble under her shift.
“Pockets first!”
“We have nothing….”
The sword at his neck moved to his cheek. He felt it pierce his skin, and a trickle of blood make its way down his face. But he tried to keep his eyes on what was taking place with Evanjalin and saw the boy leap up and disappear into the night.
Evanjalin screamed the moment she saw his bloody face. Finnikin knew the odds were against them. Four men, all armed; his sword out of reach at the feet of a hysterical girl; and three knives tucked securely away. One on his sleeve, one in his boot, the other on his back.
“Tell the girl to stop the screaming!”
Finnikin willed her to stop. He needed to think. Quickly. Sword at her feet. Three knives on his person. Four men with weapons of their own.
“Stop her screaming, boy, or it’s her throat first.”
“Evanjalin!” he called out. “Stop!”
But the novice was too far gone, and her screams turned into piercing wails.
Think, Finnikin, think. Knife to the throat of the one closest to him. Other knife hurled at the man who was now standing guard at the entrance of the alleyway. Grab the sword of the one closest to him and plunge it into the third man, but that left one more and he knew that he would be dead before the second knife left his hands.
His head rang with her screams. No words, just sounds. Earsplitting.
“Evanjalin!” he called out again. And then he saw the man on watch advancing toward her.
“No!” he yelled, trying to push past the three men surrounding him. “She’s simple. She doesn’t understand.”
He succeeded in shaking free, but he knew it would not be for long. And yet that was all it took. One moment the novice was screaming, and in the next, the moon bathed her face with light and he caught a look in her eye that spoke little of fear and more of rage. Before he knew it, Finnikin’s sword was kicked toward him as she grabbed the man’s sword at his hip and plunged it into his thigh.
Finnikin was stunned, but the sight of Evanjalin fighting one of the thieves was all he needed to act. One man down. Then two. The daggers silent and deadly accurate. The third he fought with Trevanion’s sword, a weapon too quick for a bunch of useless thieves. From the sound made by the singing swords behind him, it was clear that Evanjalin knew how to handle a weapon. Still, when Finnikin’s third man went down, he swung around to deal with her assailant, only to find himself face-to-face with her. Eyes blazing, sword held upright in both hands. Steady. Waiting to swing. At her feet the man was writhing in agony from a second wound to his ear. She dropped the sword, and they ran in the only direction open to them.
They found their way out of the maze of alleyways and back toward the main road leading out of the town, only to realize that one of the assailants, with Finnikin’s dagger still embedded in his body, had managed to pursue them. The girl shoved Finnikin toward a horse tied to a nearby post. She grabbed Trevanion’s sword out of the scabbard at his side and, without hesitating, held it by the blade and swung its ruby-encrusted handle between the legs of their pursuer. He heard a crack and knew it wasn’t the handle that had shattered. The howl of agony was enough to wake the dead.
Finnikin mounted the horse. The girl handed him Trevanion’s sword, then planted one of her feet on the assailant’s chest for balance and yanked out Finnikin’s dagger. She held out her arm to Finnikin, and he swung her up until she was seated behind him, clasping his waist, with the dagger in one hand. He looked down at her hands, strong and callused and bloody, as they clung to him. He felt her face against his back, heard her ragged breath close to his ear. A sudden desire to hear her voice flashed through him.
Sir Topher stared at them in shock. Finnikin didn’t know whether it was because of the presence of the horse or the half-wild state of the novice. He helped them both dismount, but his eyes were on the girl.
“She was robbed,” Finnikin muttered, beckoning him away. “But she knows how to use a sword.”
“I warned you to keep her away from harm, Finnikin.”
“Sir Topher,” Finnikin said, keeping his voice controlled, “she handled a sword and used her wits. I tell you, she’s no simpleton. I don’t trust her.”
“Handled a sword better than you?”
“Obviously not, but she still managed to maim two men, last count. One who, in all probability, will not be fathering anyone’s child for quite a while.”
They both looked over to where Evanjalin stood, her nose pressed against the horse. Finnikin leaned forward to whisper. “All that silence. It’s not right.”
“That would be the vow, Finnikin. The novices take it very seriously.”
“I saw the novices of Lagrami often as a child. My cousin was one of them. They sang; they weaved; they planted roses. They did not fight like a feral trainee in the King’s Guard. They did not know the amount of damage the handle of a sword swung between a man’s legs could do.”
“Times have changed, and even novices have had to learn to protect themselves,” Sir Topher said. “Why can’t you just be happy that she used initiative?”
Finnikin was silent. He remembered how she had pushed him toward the horse while she took Trevanion’s sword to fight. He realized the truth. He was not irritated that the girl had shown initiative; it was that she had taken charge.
When they woke the next morning, she was gone.
“She left the horse and her pack, which means she plans to return,” Sir Topher said, agitation in his voice. “You’ll have to fetch her, Finnikin. Now.”
“She’s gone back for the thief,” Finnikin said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He took her ring, no doubt, and she’s gone back for it.”
One of Sir Topher’s rules was to never indulge in sentimentality, never return for what was left behind. Finnikin’s eyes strayed toward the road that would lead them to Charyn. From there, with the girl, they would have traveled south to Sorel. On their own, Finnikin knew they would spend time in Osteria, where peace reigned. It was where the Lumateran ambassador now lived, working as the minister for Osterian trade.
Regardless of how annoying Finnikin found their former ambassador, he pictured the extensive palace library with its well-stocked fireplace and never-ending supply of hot tea and sweet breads.
“No, Finnikin,” Sir Topher said quietly, as if he had read Finnikin’s thoughts. “We will not leave her behind.”
So Finnikin returned to Sprie, praying that he would not be the target of four maimed men and a peasant searching for his horse. He knew it would be difficult to go unnoticed. His hair was the ridiculous color of berries and gold, and he was lankier than the Sarnaks, slighter in build. He stood out easily in the daylight. As would the novice with her bare head and ugly gray shift.
He found her almost straight away, sitting huddled on a stone bench beside a stall, watching the activity around her with those strange dark eyes. Next to her, a desperate seller and a choosy buyer haggled over a small decorative dagger. At the far end of the square, Finnikin recognized the slave traders from Sorel. These were men who preyed on the plight of a people forced to sell one child to feed another. He had heard stories about how these children and women were used, and it sickened him to think that men were capable of such evil.
When he approached Evanjalin, she stared up at him, as if questioning the time it had taken him to join her. He squatted beside her, refusing to give in to his anger. Living with Sir Topher had taught him how to harness his feelings.
“Who is in charge here?” he asked quietly.
Without speech, she had only her eyes to communicate, but she used them well.
“This hand,” he said, pointing to his left, “if I am. Or this hand,” he said, pointing to his right, “if you are.” He held them out to her, and she tapped his left hand gently.
He pulled her to her feet. “Good,” he said, pleased with her choice.
Suddenly her body tensed. She looked over his shoulder, and then she was pushing past him. He had no choice but to follow. He could see the young thief disappearing into the maze of alleyways beyond the square.
She was fast; that he knew from the night before. Although she was hindered by her shift, Finnikin struggled to keep up with her. The chase was short, for the boy made the same mistake he had the previous night and led them into an alleyway that seemed to go nowhere.
He’s not from here, Finnikin thought.
Evanjalin backed the boy into a corner and held out her hand. She received a backhand to her face for her effort; and she staggered from the impact. Finnikin gripped the thief by the coarse cloth of his jerkin and threw him against the stone wall, pinning him there with a hand to his throat. He went through the thief’s pockets and found four pieces of silver. When he showed the girl the coins, she grabbed them, flinging them with the same rage he had glimpsed the night before.
“What did you do with the ring?” Finnikin asked the thief, shaking him.
The boy spat in Finnikin’s face.
“Not the response I’m after,” Finnikin said, hurling the thief away from the wall. “Now we play it this way. Back there by the spring are slave traders from Sorel. I’d recognize them anywhere. They stink of shit because that’s all their victims do around them, from the fear of knowing where they are going to be taken.”
The thief mocked a whimper. He spat in Finnikin’s face again, this time straight in his eye. Wiping it slowly, Finnikin stared at him furiously, then dragged him out of the alleyway, with the novice trailing behind. “Get the silver, Evanjalin,” he ordered.
The boy tried to escape by pulling out of his clothing.
“What you doing?”
Finnikin could hear a trace of alarm in the thief’s voice. He’d used Sarnak words, clumsily spoken.
“Trading you for a horse.” Finnikin took a long deliberate look at the boy. “Oh, and they do like them young.”
The thief continued to struggle, but Finnikin held on tightly, almost choking him. “Peddler from Osteria,” the boy wheezed. “Said it fake anyway.”
The novice slapped him. Her eyes were glinting with tears. Finnikin tried not to imagine what he would do if the thief had sold Trevanion’s sword.
“He’s not worth it. Let’s go.”
But the novice would not move. She stared at the youth, eyes blazing.
The thief repeated his favorite gesture by spitting in her face. He wore a black felt cap that came down to his eyes. They were a nondescript color, strawlike perhaps, and Finnikin could see his features were beginning to display a blunt cruelty, a mouth forever in a sneer. He had the build of one who would thicken with age, evident by the size of his fists. But he was young, at least five years their junior. Finnikin wondered how many more of his kind were roaming these streets.
“They come hunting,” the thief said. “Hunt you people down.”
He spoke like a foreigner, and it was in that moment Finnikin realized where the boy came from. There was a glassy look in his eyes that Finnikin had not seen since he was separated briefly from Sir Topher at the age of twelve and placed in a prison in the Osterian capital. There had been Lumateran exiles with him, children whose parents had either been killed during the five days of the unspeakable or died of the fever. Some of the children did not know their own names and couldn’t speak a word of any language. A shared origin meant nothing in that prison, and he could tell it meant nothing to this boy, who would have been no more than three or four when his family escaped from Lumatere.
Finnikin didn’t need to ask who would be hunting them. In Sarnak there was always someone. Perhaps a pack of youths. Or bitter men, no longer able to put food on the table for their families. Finnikin was certain the thief would betray them to the first person who would listen, for any price. When the novice caught his eye, he knew what they had to do.
Sir Topher stared at the three of them with his usual aplomb. “So now our little party has a horse and a thief?”
Finnikin secured the rope around the boy’s hands. “It’s either him or a pack of Sarnaks he will send in our direction.”
Sir Topher looked at the thief. “What’s your name, boy?”
The thief spat.
“It’s his favorite response,” Finnikin said dryly. “We can dump him in Charyn.”
“Not if we find exiles there, and I suspect we will. Perhaps Sorel.”
“I think he’d like Sorel,” Finnikin said. He turned to the thief. “Heard of the prison mines there?”
The boy paled, and Finnikin looked at Sir Topher, pleased. “Good. He seems familiar with them.” He glanced over to where the novice was huddled under the tree, her hands covering her head. “He sold her ring.”
Sir Topher sighed. “As soon as we’re in Sorel, we won’t have to worry anymore.”
A fortnight, Finnikin calculated as Sir Topher began loading up the horse. That was all they needed before the thief from Sarnak and the novice Evanjalin were out of their lives forever.