The Hanging City (94)

I’m due to rendezvous with Qequan’s scout tomorrow night. If I run now, I’ll arrive early, but most of my travel will be during the night, when it’s cooler. I won’t be able to get provisions. I’m not sure where they are, since I’ve never seen foodstuff in the other tents. But I can survive without food and water for a day. I’ve done it before.

My breathing sounds like grating slate to my ears, so I hold it when I slip out, replacing the stake and smoothing the dust. I stare at the lit tent between me and my cot, listening for guards. Someone passes on the other side of my father’s tent. Maybe I can loop back around another way and avoid whoever it is. Scanning the subtle ridges of the parched landscape, I slink toward the shadows, imagining myself a beast from the canyon. I follow the shadows, surprised when my footsteps hush. I’ve stumbled upon a soft trail of sand, and I wonder if a river or stream used to flow here. Grateful for my luck, I quicken my speed. Following this, I’m moving away from my rendezvous, but once I get a good distance from camp, I can circle back and—

Men’s voices touch my ears. I drop to my hands and knees, causing my hair to fall out of my shirt. It’s so pale it reflects the starlight. Carefully tucking it away, I search for the source of the voices. It isn’t hard, since one of them carries a lantern.

They’re coming from up ahead, to the north. And they’re getting louder. Pulse quickening, I search for cover, but there’s nothing nearby but a riverbed. I hunker lower, listening to the steps. At least four men. But a scraping noise hums beneath the steps, like something dragging across the rough earth.

Biting my lip, I lift my head and squint. The lantern light casts a sickly yellow over the bunch, turning all but the front man into silhouettes. They carry a great, dark mass between them—the source of the dragging. At first I think it’s a sledge, but as they near, I realize it’s the trollis from the tent.

A shock shoots up my spine. I pinch my lips together. Where are they taking him? Is he still alive, or did they . . .

I don’t have time to find out. The men walk straight toward me. Even pressing myself down into the sand, I’ll be seen. Cursing inwardly, I carefully retrace my steps, tiptoeing as softly as I can until I wind back toward the lit tent where my father and his men are. I start to go south, even more out of the way of my rendezvous point, when I hear a soft sigh and a trickle of water. I freeze. Somewhere in the sagebrush, a soldier is relieving himself.

West, then. I pass my father’s tent, too afraid to linger and glean more information. I’m confident that what I have is sufficient. I veer toward the storage tent where my cot is—

Guard.

Vile words push against my tongue. How is this so hard? My thoughts tumble over one another. The men need to rest at night, yes, but that’s also when they’re the most vulnerable. Though the center of the camp sleeps, guards will patrol its borders, ensuring the army isn’t assailed in the darkness. I might try to outrun them . . . but if I stumble, if I hurt myself, I might not make the rendezvous, and then Qequan will believe me to be a traitor. I’ll never see Azmar again.

My hands shake. Focus on the guard. It’s not Dunnan; this soldier is too broad. He’s circling the tent. He’ll see me any second. I need to hide, and the only place to hide is in that tent.

I let a thread of fear trickle into him. I can’t control what a person fears, but his mind will choose something—a sound, a smell, even the surrounding darkness—if he can’t see me.

He stills. Turns and looks toward the southern horizon. I push a little more fear into him. Sweat beads along the curve of my back. My heartbeat strikes a little harder.

The man draws his sword. He’s a fighter, not a runner. I clench my fists.

He heads toward the horizon. Perhaps to prove to himself there’s nothing there. Regardless, I have my opening. Keeping my focus and the fear steady at his back, I tiptoe to the tent. Slip beneath, replace the stake. Step away from the cot to shake dust from my clothes. Smooth my hair. Draw slow breaths as I untangle my binds. Slip hands and feet where they belong, tighten the knots. Lie on my cot, listening. Worrying.

I hear the guard return. He doesn’t enter the tent.

I don’t fall asleep for a very long time.





Chapter 25


Today is the day I have to make my rendezvous with Qequan’s scout. The option of sneaking away has come and gone, so I’m searching for any opening I can possibly get. My father has us marching northeast again. Judging by yesterday’s speed, Pentalpoint will be closest around midday.

If I don’t make the rendezvous, I fear the scout won’t wait for me. And if I don’t find him and deliver what little I know, I will never be allowed in Cagmar again.

My heart squeezes at the thought. Acting the part of the dutiful daughter, I help tie tents to sledges as the army prepares to set out at the cusp of dawn. I can’t picture a life without Azmar. My mind refuses to piece together a future devoid of him, where I fail in my mission and spend my days looking west, toward the canyon, pining for him and the life we might have had.

Then again, a human and a trollis were never meant to have a happy life together. And yet part of me hopes that because I cannot truly picture a permanent separation, it must be an impossibility. It must be. I could not bear anything else.

When I see four soldiers crossing the dry plain, brushing their hands on their stained, faded-blue clothes, I pause. Were they the same men from last night? Dunnan lingers nearby. After securing a knot, I step over to him and ask, “Where were they?”