Chapter Fourteen

 

 

Marta bit back a curse as her shirtsleeve caught on yet another thorn as they pushed through the forest undergrowth. It wasn’t the first such thorn—nor the dozenth—and it wouldn’t have been the first curse, either, but she didn’t feel like weathering another silent, disapproving look from the manservant. He hadn’t called her on it, at least not yet, had said nothing at all, in fact—but then, he didn’t need to. The look said it clearly enough. Ladies don’t curse. Marta didn’t know much about ladies—not many of them spent their time sleeping in alleyways and digging through the garbage for food—but she might have argued that ladies, at least so far as she knew, didn’t spend their time heading toward armies of the Dark. Something she would have said, had the manservant spoken to reprimand her, but he had not, and so saying anything at all would only make her appear foolish, maybe even scared. Which, of course, she was.

She glanced back in the direction from which they’d come. The trees obscured most of her sight lines, yet she was still barely able to make out the walls of Valeria through the hanging leaves and thick branches, and she was surprised to feel a pang of homesickness. Not for an actual home, of course, as she hadn’t ever really had a home save the city itself, and it was the city she already missed. She told herself she’d left it before, not long ago, in fact, when she’d gone with Katherine and all the others, journeying south even so far as the Ferinan lands, farther than she would have ever thought to travel. Yet, as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew that this time was different. She had never doubted, when she left Valeria with the others, that she would return, would once again walk the streets and alleyways in which she had lived her life, would see the familiar faces of shop owners and prostitutes—and guards, for it was always wise to remember those—that had been the actors in the play of her life.

Despite what they had been up against, she had never doubted that she would return, for she’d had her friends with her, friends who were strong and powerful. Now though, she was alone, or nearly so, as the manservant seemed even less prepared for what was to come than she. Now though, she did doubt. In another few steps, the city would vanish into the green growth, and she thought it unlikely she would ever see it again. She wiped roughly at the tears gathering in her eyes, turning back to see the manservant studying her. He said nothing, but she thought she could see compassion for her in his eyes, a compassion that threatened to break down her already flagging willpower and leave her bawling like some child.

“Will we see it again, do you think?” she managed.

“Valeria?” he asked.

She didn’t trust herself to speak, not then, so she only nodded, her eyes studying her feet, avoiding the manservant’s gaze so he wouldn’t see the heavy tears threatening.

Fermin was silent for several seconds, and Marta began to think that he didn’t mean to answer at all, but then she glanced up to see him with a thoughtful expression, considering her question as if it were some great puzzle. “Once,” he said finally, “when I was a child, a performing troupe came into our village. Such an occurrence was irregular, to say the least, for we were a small farming village of people only trying to survive and what coin we had was reserved for essentials. No doubt, the mummers supposed there was no money to be made from such a small, out of the way hamlet, and no doubt they were right.”

“Still,” he went on, his face taking on a wistful expression, “this one did come, was forced to stop in for repairs, in fact, but while they were there I suppose the troupe members thought they’d make what coin they could. Understandably, few people in my village were keen to spend their meager wages on entertainment. So in an effort to tempt them, the troupe ran a contest. For a small entry price—or so the sign said—contest entrants could win a chance at being chosen by the troupe, their names drawn from a hat. The one who was selected would have a song made for them, one written and performed by the entire troupe during the week or longer that the repairs would take.”

Marta, who’d lived on the streets long enough to know a con when she saw one grunted in understanding. “Clever.”

“Indeed,” Fermin said, smiling. “Young as I was, this seemed the most exciting thing in the world, certainly the most exciting thing that had ever happened in my life. Nor was I alone. Nearly everyone in the village was excited as well, and rare was the person who didn’t sacrifice some of their hard-earned—and, usually, heavily-guarded—coin to enter their name into the contest. There were still a few who thought it nonsense, of course—and they were probably right. My grandmother, the woman who raised me, was one. No matter how much I pleaded and begged, she refused to pay for me to enter my name, saying it was a waste of money.”

Despite all of her concerns about leaving Valeria and her worries over Sonya, Marta was absorbed by the manservant’s story. She’d never once heard him speak of his own life, instead concerning himself only with the Tirinians and their welfare. “What did you do?”

Fermin sighed, but there was still a small smile on his face. “What any young child would do, I suppose, given such circumstances. I knew where my grandmother hid her money, of course, and so I am ashamed to say that I snuck some of it out, just enough to enter the contest. While she slept, I went to the troupe wagons which had set up in the town square. There, I purchased my ticket into the contest, entering my name. The drawing was two days away, and I don’t mind telling you that I spent those two days in useless distraction, barely able to get any sleep for the thought it might be my name they drew from the hat.”

He laughed softly. “Ridiculous, of course. My village might have been small, as I’ve said, not even a thousand souls in all, but the vast majority had entered the contest, so my chances of winning were tiny to say the least. Still, on the day of the drawing, you can be sure that I snuck out of my grandmother’s house, certain that somehow it would be me. Almost the entire town was there, including most who had chosen not to participate. There was a celebratory atmosphere. People sold hot cakes and trinkets, everyone smiling and laughing and joking, but when the mummers took the stage with the hat containing our names, you can be sure the laughing and joking stopped and everyone watched and listened, eager to hear their name called.”

He laughed again. “I was young, as I told you, and I could barely even see the stage for the gathered crowd, but tiny chance or not, when the old man who was the leader of the troupe reached into a hat and withdrew one of the small slips, it was my name he called, and the troupe was as good as their word, performing the song they wrote for me each day until they left.”

Marta smiled. “Was it good? The song, I mean?”

Fermin grinned. “It’s funny, but I don’t remember. The truth is, I couldn’t tell you a word of it. But what I do remember is that I won. Despite the odds, despite the beating that followed later once my grandmother found out what I’d done, it was my name that was called, I who went and stood on the stage.”

His gaze focused once more, pulled back from that distant past as he turned to look at her. “Bad odds, Marta, don’t mean no odds at all. We might well see Valeria again.”

Not exactly a resounding vote of confidence, maybe, but Marta thought that, given the circumstances, it was the best she might have expected. And she did feel better. Sure, the odds had been against young Fermin winning the drawing, but somebody had to win it, didn’t they? And if someone did, well, why not him?

“Thanks, Fermin,” she said, being serious—something she normally avoided whenever possible.

He gave her a wink. “You’re welcome.” He glanced back at the trail ahead—not that it was a trail at all, just the next patch of thick bushes. “Are you ready?”

Marta took a slow deep breath and was surprised to find that she was. Or, at least, as ready as anyone was likely to be, given the circumstances. “I’m ready.”