“At least, that’s how I remember it. I’ve managed to avoid sleeping on the ground for the last twenty years or so.”
“I can’t swear that you’ll be able to for the next twenty,” said Shane apologetically.
The artificer sighed. “On the bright side, after a day or two of that, I may be downright grateful if the Sail tries to kill me.”
There were two mules hitched to the wagon. They did not look any more pleased about the hour than Davith did.
“This is going to make us more visible,” Wren murmured.
“Yes, but I don’t think we have much choice.”
“You most certainly don’t,” said Ashes, who apparently had extremely good hearing. “I can sleep in the wagon if I have to, but if you expect me to hoof it across the landscape, you’re out of luck.” She thumped her cane on the cobblestones by way of demonstration.
Privately, Shane thought that he’d be doing well to be in Magnus’s shape by the time he was her age. He could already feel the ache of old wounds, and early mornings seemed to make it even worse.
The Saint of Steel’s chosen generally died in glorious battle and the few survivors went on to train the next generation, so he’d never given much thought to how his bones would feel once he was in his seventies.
If the last few days are any indication, not great.
Lord Nallan appeared, looking as if he’d been hard at work for an hour already. He helped Ashes up onto the wagon seat and said something to her that Shane didn’t catch, but which made the artificer laugh.
“You’ve got supplies for a few days,” said Nallan, patting the side of the wagon. “And I thought you might be wanting this.”
It took Shane a moment to realize the man was talking to him. “What?”
Lord Nallan held a sheathed sword, lying flat across his palms. “Not as long as the one you be used to using,” he said, nodding to the broken sword across Shane’s back. “But a damn sight better than the one you be carrying now.”
“You’re not wrong,” said Shane. “Thank you.” He unslung the broken sword and traded it to Lord Nallan for the one in his hands. “I’ve had no chance to replace it, and I’ve felt half-naked for days.”
Nallan nodded. Wren became very interested in the wood grain on the side of the wagon.
“Right.” The lord lifted a hand. “Go well.” Then he turned and went back inside, clearly not one for long goodbyes.
“Time to go,” said Ashes Magnus. Shane climbed into the wagon and she clucked her tongue. The mules picked up their hooves, and they left Nallanford behind.
DESPITE EVERYONE’S eagerness to put the highlands behind them, instead of turning east and downward into the plains, they headed north along the road that hugged the mountains. Marguerite judged that it was more important to get out of Cambraith, rather than travel down through a valley that was guaranteed to be swarming with the Sail’s people.
The northern road was a lonely one. Once they left the activity of Nallanford behind, the population thinned out to shepherd huts and the occasional prospector panning along a stream.
Marmots with mottled coats sat on small rises and watched the wagon suspiciously, giving hoarse whistles of alarm whenever a human did anything that might be construed as a threat to marmotkind.
Despite Ashes’ initial comments, she didn’t complain about the long hours spent on the wagon seat, nor did she object to a night spent on the road. Some of that was probably because one of the bundles in the back turned out to be a very thick bedroll, which she unrolled in the wagon bed. “You youngsters have a good time with your dirt,” she said. “Wake me up if anyone attacks us.”
（To Lord Nallan’s credit, there were also blankets for everyone else, so they slept warmer, if not that much more comfortably, than they had before.）
Shane, daring greatly, set his blankets close to Marguerite’s and waited to see what she would do about it. She smiled archly at him, and while he would have been appalled at the thought of doing anything…sophisticated…in front of other people, he did wake up with her pressed against his back, and her morning growl emanated from somewhere between his shoulder blades.
Neither Davith or Wren commented…much. Davith’s eyebrows did the talking for him, and Wren whistled a tune that might or might not belong to a song with extremely bawdy lyrics. Shane chose to ignore them both.
Midway through the second day, Marguerite consulted her map and pronounced them officially Out of Cambraith. Everyone sighed in relief, except the mules. （Shane was not skilled at reading mule expressions, but they seemed to disapprove of everyone, except possibly Davith. Davith was the one who had rubbed them down and given them oats and told them that they were good and strong and pretty mules. This affirmation of equine self-image had earned him slightly more tolerance, though not by much.）
“Whew,” said Ashes. “I feel less hunted already. Now where do we turn east?”
Marguerite consulted the map again. “As soon as we find a road going downhill. There’s supposed to be one, but don’t ask me how far it is. Parts of this map involve a lot of artistic license.”
“Ah, well. It’s pretty country, anyway.” The artificer surveyed the green rolling landscape. A nearby marmot took that as a threat and sent up an alarm whistle. “Though to be honest, I’m near dying to see a color that isn’t green. A wheat field ready for harvest would damn near make me cry.”
“I may cry just thinking about it,” Davith said. “No, wait, I’m thinking of what they make with wheat.”
“Bread?” Wren asked.
“That, too.”
Ashes snorted. “Don’t start with me, lad. I’ve been drinking the stuff they brew up here for months now. At first I thought, oh, a nice rich dark beer, how lovely. Now I’d give my arm for something light enough to read a book through.” She considered. “Well, somebody’s arm, anyhow.”
“Have you really been up here for that long?” asked Wren.
“Probably feels like longer than it was, but it feels like it’s been years.”
“When did you first realize the Red Sail was after you?” Marguerite asked.
“You might say that my workshop being burned to the ground was something of a clue.” Ashes scowled. “Stupid bastards. They didn’t realize that an artificer’s workshop either blows up or melts down at least once every few years. I waited ’til the wreckage cooled, fished out the fireproof strongboxes, and dropped them off at the Guild for safekeeping. Still, it didn’t seem healthy to stay around there. So I wrote to old Maltrevor, and he sent me out this way.”
“Maltrevor’s your patron, I hear,” said Shane, attempting to keep his voice neutral.
“Dreadful old lecher, isn’t he?” Ashes shook her head. “But he’s got deep pockets and I haven’t had to see him face-to-face in years. I ship him off some silly clockwork toy every few months and he’s happy.”
“He was showing them off at the Court,” Marguerite said. “Like the little dog that moved when you clap. Amazing craftsmanship.”
“Oh yes.” Ashes slid a look in her direction. “Surprised he didn’t try to show you some of the…