Finally, after almost everyone had had a chance to greet Luca, Tala clapped his hands for attention, addressing the throng.
“For seventeen years, we have had the people, the placement, the plan.” Tala turned to Luca. “All we needed was you, my Otsakumea.”
It was meant to be a compliment. This was his destiny, his duty. Luca looked out into the crowd and into the faces of those who had hope in him long before he knew who he was meant to be.
“I am yours. The wait is over and the Warlord will be defeated!”
Again, Tala clapped his hands. “Let stage one commence!”
The great room cleared as everyone spun into action, hundreds of people streaming down several high-arched passageways that radiated from the main cavern. Everyone knew exactly what those words meant and their role. Everyone but the piece that set it all into motion.
Tala shepherded the group into a smaller room hidden behind a pillar just off the main entry. Some sort of receiving room—a place fitted with bowls of water and linens to wash away the marks of a hard day spent in the Torrent.
Luca was uninterested in such luxuries. “Tala, forgive my questions, but I have many.”
“Me too. First, I would like to know why Guille did not announce his intentions before attacking Luca,” Ula said, referring to the ghost—the man he and Amarande had encountered at the Hand. “He threw a knife at Luca, and I don’t want Luca anywhere near him.”
“I don’t remember a knife fight with Guille,” Urtzi ventured, perplexed.
“That’s because you didn’t have one,” Luca explained. “He came upon our camp after Amarande rescued mefromyouand, knowing that my three kidnappers were two pirate boys and a girl he called a ‘savant with a sword,’ he believed the girl had killed her partners to keep me for herself.”
Ula’s mouth dropped open. “He what now?”
“It was a reasonable guess,” Luca continued, “given Amarande’s nature.”
The look in Ula’s golden eyes could etch glass. “Men always think so little of women. I do not like him.”
From across the room, Osana chuckled—she was the only one of the crew taking a chance to freshen up. “He called you a ‘savant’… I mean, that’s a compliment.”
“Not as given.”
“Guille is a watcher—the Warlord watches us; we watch her,” Tala explained. “Among other things, we watch for prisoners she has special interest in. So, when the Warlord sent men to intercept a prisoner at the Hand—we did not know it was you at the time, my Otsakumea—we sent Guille. And though his injuries from that fight have ended his watch, it was lucky he recognized you. By identifying the Otsakumea the way he did, all of you avoided sleeping darts to the neck.”
Ula squinted at him, still unmoving. “Like the dart on Erfu’s body?”
“Yes, it’s part of our protocol. We use similar methods as the Warlord does—imitation is part of our survival. Though Erfu was the Warlord’s work, the technique is almost indistinguishable.” The old man put a decisive hand on Luca’s shoulder. “Now, shall I give you the tour? Show you how we grow our food and store it? Our drying room is quite spectacular.”
A pang of frustration dropped in Luca’s empty stomach.
He was the last piece—what they were waiting for, yes, but he was a piece.
“I am sure it is, Tala, but the first and most pressing question I have cannot wait.” Luca faced him. They were nearly the same height, this man was once as tall as Luca, before age stooped the line of his shoulders. He was as stubborn and spindly as the trees in the forest where Amarande rescued him. Likely harboring venom as deadly asthe asp’s, too. Tala’s eyes were as golden as his own, but hooded and lined—they did not glance away. “Whatisthe plan?”
TALAushered Luca, Ula, Urtzi, and Osana down yet another tunnel, into the strategy room. Torches in sconces lit the space, and moonlight peeked through at the crest of the vaulted ceiling, yet another man-made glimpse into the world above. The floor was a patchwork of stitched-together pelts. Large reams of parchment were rolled upright in canisters along the walls, and books—bound in careful leather binding—lined narrow wooden shelves drilled into the bedrock.
A spread of wooden platters sat in a constellation at the center of the rug, the heady scent of rosemary and thyme wafting as steam escaped from under domed lids. Clay cups marked each place setting, brimming with cool water.
“Please eat, my Otsakumea. You and your companions must be famished.”
All eyes swung to Luca. His stomach grumbled, but Luca held up a hand. “Thank you for this meal. Please do not wait for us to finish before detailing the plan. The lines of communication have collapsed and the Warlord could be on the move this very moment.”
“I assure you, we know exactly where the Warlord is headed and it is not here.”
Another pang of frustration clawed at Luca. “That is a relief, as I have spent all day expecting assassination. Where is the Warlord headed if not here, guided by watchers? And what is the plan?”
Tala stood and pivoted toward the canisters along the wall. “Please fill your plates, and I will set the stage.”
Luca gestured to the others to serve themselves first. Beneath the domed lids was a feast indeed—goat stew, roasted carrots, potatoes smothered in butter and a patchwork of herbs. Large rounds of unleavened bread lay stacked under a warm blanket of muslin, weeping more butter and begging to be dipped in the stew.
