“Never mind.”
Aidan stroked his mustache. “What do you intend to do now?”
Looking at the leather sleeping bag with Lysandros inside it, she tried to guess how heavy it was. Probably too much for her to carry alone.
“Did you bring a travois? He has a fever. We should get him to the Host.”
“He’s going to die soon. Why go through so much trouble?” Aidan asked, echoing her earlier thoughts.
But Yuma gave him such a look that Aidan immediately clammed up and unhitched the travois from his saddle. They tied the ends of the travois to Yuma’s saddle before hoisting Lysandros up into it.
“Don’t go too fast, or the grass will leave scratches on his face.”
“As I just said, he’s going to die soon. Whatever we do or don’t do to him is inconsequential.”
“We still have to take care of him until then. He says he’s a foreign emissary.”
Once on Aston’s back, she turned to glance at Lysandros, his face barely visible in the sleeping bag. The Grim King’s attention was a terrible thing. Yuma doubted that there was a future for this brave, ailing man who surrendered himself to Yuma willingly. Such a waste, she thought, but it would take a revolt to save this man’s life—something the Chief Herder of Danras couldn’t afford to do. There were thousands upon thousands of her people in Danras, all at the Grim King’s mercy.
Then there was the silver giant, a weapon that could easily sweep away half a dozen of the Grim King’s skeletal soldiers each time it swung its metal arms. And the Empire, whose might could create machines like that.
The long, rhythmicalswooshesof wet grass blades brushing against the travois. Theplopsof Aston’s hooves on the rain-soaked ground. The steppe rarely got wet, and when it did, it dried quickly. Yuma turned her head to the unconscious, weakened man being dragged behind her. She chuckled to herself at her fantasy of metal giants smashing through the Grim King’s undead horde. All Mersehi knew that whatever oddities happened in Merseh, all would go back to the way it was, as long as there was the steppe, and as long as there was the Grim King.
She dearly wished otherwise.
13
EMERE
Septima led Emere through a series of narrow alleys, connected at all sorts of unexpected angles, not a single one of them wholly straight. There were no signs for road names, or even on half of the shop fronts they passed. Children in varying states of filth from all parts of the Empire ran through the alleys in packs.
It was a slum labyrinth, one of many in the Capital, made of wooden buildings with plaster carelessly slathered on the walls forming narrow, winding alleyways. If one went deep enough into the twisting paths, one’s shouting would not reach the main streets. It reminded Emere of the Dehan Forest with its trees crammed together; but instead of living trees, there were only buildings with the stench of piss and spoiling vegetables. Emere mused that the inhabitants who closed their windows and doors upon seeing unfamiliar faces were like the cautious animals of the woods.
It had been half a year since Emere had come to the Capital, but he had never come here before.
Septima led the way at a swift pace, with Emere following closely. At every split she unhesitatingly chose the next turn, never mentioning where it was they were going. He wouldn’t have known if they had lost their way; he would’ve simply assumed the destination was difficult to find.
But Septima’s movements were familiar. The one-horned deer of Dehan Forest, coming upon a hunter, would not immediately run away. It would use the densely growing trees as cover to leap this way and that. The hapless hunter would be led to a place where they could not shoot or follow, only to watch their prey disappear in plain sight. If Septima was the one-horned deer here, he wondered who the hunter was.
“Are we trying to avoid someone?” Emere asked.
Septima half turned her head and glanced at him, looking briefly impressed that he had understood what she was doing. “Someone has been following us. Don’t look back, Councillor. Just walk.”
The alley was quiet. The windows were all closed, and all of the nearby shops seemed to be the kind that opened at night and thus were shuttered now. Not even playing children lingered this deep in the maze. There was only their footsteps.
If someone was following them, it was probably someone who was used to tracking down prey. Emere could think of a likely candidate. His heart beat faster. It wasn’t with fear but with a little excitement.
“Does this someone have long hair and wear a leather coat?” Emere asked, thinking of the woman he had seen on the rooftop after the assassination attempt.
“She was a fast one, so I didn’t get a good look, but… I think so.”
Septima, as if keeping time with Emere’s heartbeat, quickened her pace. She seemed to have realized who it was that Emere was guessing.
“If this is your old friend,” she started, “we have a real problem. We won’t be able to lose her like this.”
“How do you know that?”
No answer. Emere closed the gap between them and hissed, “She killed my aide. I almost died myself. If you know who she is, you must tell me.”
