1.

 

Though he was not given to ill omens, the morning the exiled Baron of Kein and Dark left Mireea, a deep certainty settled in him that he would not return to the city. It was a feeling that he alone had, he knew, for the lightness and ease that had settled into Dark the evening before remained, and their spirits were high as the Spine shrank behind them, despite the presence of Samuel Orlan. It was the presence of the old man that was the cause of much of Bueralan’s concern. The weight of his reputation and presence sat awkwardly with the subtlety required for the job at hand—try as he might, the saboteur had not come to the view that the presence of the cartographer was a gain—and he considered briefly taking a new road with Dark and leaving the Spine to whatever fate lay at its feet after the Keepers and the Leeran Army had finished with it.

“I appreciate you allowing me to come.”

Bueralan’s heels nudged his horse’s flanks and he glanced at the cartographer beside him, the thought still in his head. “That pony looks older than the sky.”

Orlan rubbed the ancient, gray beast’s neck. “You’ll hurt her feelings, Baron. Age does not stop one from being useful.”

“You have to stop calling me that.” It was the third time since they had met in the early hours of the morning, outside the stables. “And age does stop a man from running his fastest.”

“If we have to run,” the other replied, meeting his gaze, “then we have larger problems than an old pony.”

Bueralan grunted, said nothing.

Orlan continued: “Still, I thank you for the opportunity, and the chance to meet your friends.” He turned in his saddle, taking in all of Dark but Aerala, who rode at the front of the column as a lone sentry to guard against the raiders that had no doubt peppered the mountain with bolt-holes that the Mireean soldiers had not found. “Usually mercenary groups are linked through a heritage—which makes sense, given that most are armies who have lost wars or are soldiers loyal to generals who have fallen out of favor. But not so Dark, I have noticed. You are a more modern group, a more eclectic collection—a reflection of the changes in our world I think. Your two sisters, Aerala and Liaya, are from the City of Marble Palaces, are they not?”

“I met them in a different city,” Bueralan replied guardedly.

“I imagine you did,” the cartographer replied. “Men of your color are not welcome in that part of the world. But I would argue that that is where they are from, the sharpness of their rs and es, you see. What is more, it appears that Liaya is a trained alchemist, if I am to believe the bags I see on her horse, the herbs I smell and the clink of glass when the ground becomes uneven.”

“I did not to ask for credentials,” Bueralan replied. “Perhaps I should have you interview anyone I take on next?”

“It costs a fortune to enter the alchemist colleges there,” the other continued, without rising to the bait. “Only the wealthy can even begin to dream to sit the entrance exams.”

“People don’t like questions about their past, Orlan.”

“But it is so rich!” Turning, the cartographer focused on Kae, who rode next to Zean, his back as straight as the twin swords strapped to the side of his horse. “Here is a man from the Melian Isles who is missing two fingers on his left hand. If I was a betting man, I would say he had removed them himself fourteen years ago, one of the few soldiers to leave the ruins of Samar owned by a militant group who, adhering to the last words of the goddess Aeisha, took a vow of silence.”

The aforementioned man smiled faintly. “Very astute, cartographer.”

The other man inclined his head. “Next to him is a man from Ilatte.” Zean looked as if he had fallen asleep on his brown mount, but Bueralan knew otherwise. “No real surprises there, given that Ilatte has long been the occupied territory of the Ooila, seized during the reign of the Five Queens three hundred years ago and held since then. It is quite common for young men and women upon their birth to be taken away from their parents by nobles from Ooila and raised with one of their children as a blood brother or sister, a bodyguard and whipping post, where he or she is told that their soul will be taken into the family after a life of servitude. And you, my dear, exiled B—”

“What is your point?” interrupted Bueralan.

“What you saw this morning was an old man on an old pony.” Beneath him, as if it knew it was the focus of conversation, the pony flicked its ears. “It would be a mistake to continue to think of me in that fashion. I am not a killer, it is true. Nor do I run fast. But I am a man who has seen more of the world than any of you here present. I have seen it without a sword and I have survived every moment.”

“Well, I thank you for the lesson,” the saboteur said evenly. “But—”

“Wait, wait,” interrupted Ruk from behind Zean and Kae. “Now wait just a moment.”

Bueralan frowned. “What?”

“The old man didn’t say where I was from.”

Lips straightening—it was not a game—Bueralan turned to Orlan who, spreading his hands out, said, “I have no idea where you are from, sir. Was your mother a whore?”

“And a fine woman,” Ruk replied hotly.

The others laughed and, despite his reservations, Bueralan allowed his horse to continue along the trail to Leera, its path unchanged.