Queen of the Unwanted Page 20

  Then, he’d been given the opportunity to accompany one of Women’s Well’s very first trade caravans on its long and very important journey to Rhozinolm, and he’d practically burst with pride. He’d received the assignment from Lord Jailom himself, who’d told him what a fine job he’d done during all the training exercises.

  “Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Prince Corlin had sneered when he’d overheard Smithson telling his friends at the barracks about the assignment. “The lord commander is sending you because he can’t do without his best men for more than a month, so he’s found the most expendable warm bodies available.”

  Smithson had pretended to ignore the prince’s jab—Corlin was always spoiling for a fight, and he didn’t much seem to care whether he won or lost them. But when Smithson had set out with the caravan—which consisted of a single mule-drawn wagon, a driver, and two of the Citadel’s most junior soldiers in addition to himself—the echo of those words was harder to ignore. And it hadn’t taken very long for him to realize that in the future, he would prefer to do without such “honors” whenever possible.

  The first day of travel was not so bad. The influence of the Well that had brought life to the desert Wasteland meant that the once barren, dry land was now green with life, the soil no longer rising in clouds of dust at every footstep. There was enough wildlife that for their first supper, the men of the small caravan feasted on fresh rabbit roasted over an open fire.

  The second day was considerably less pleasant, as the Well’s influence began to wane. Smithson had lived most of his life in Miller’s Bridge, a struggling town in Aaltah that had eked out a barren existence on the very edge of the lifeless Wasteland. He was well aware of the Wasteland’s nature, had lived with its influence never far from his mind, but months of comfortable living in Women’s Well had somehow blunted the edges of his memory.

  Aaltah had flatly refused to allow any travelers from Women’s Well to use its trade routes, and therefore the caravan had no choice but to travel outside of Aaltah’s borders, within the Wasteland itself. The parched land produced no life whatsoever, not even the dry, brittle grasses that peppered the very outskirts of the land Aaltah claimed as its own.

  There was no water, of course, save what they had brought with them, and every mouthful of food was strictly rationed. They traveled at night, both men and mule taking shelter inside a cramped canvas tent during the hottest part of the day. By the end of the first week, Smithson had to tighten his belt to keep his pants up, and the skin of his face was peeling and itchy. He entertained longing thoughts of the comfortable warmth of the forge and the intellectual stimulation of hammering hot metal.

  Impossibly, the second week was even worse. There was only so much food and water they could carry, and though Smithson had found their first week’s rations inadequate, it was abundantly clear that they’d eaten and drunk too much. The mule’s ribs were showing, and the creature’s head drooped with perpetual weariness as it strained to pull the cart that was growing ever lighter as they used up the food and water.

  Smithson wished Women’s Well did not suffer from such a dire shortage of chevals. With a pair of chevals to pull the cart, they would not have needed to bring so much food and water, and they could have traveled the same distance in the span of just a few days. But chevals were powered by Aal, and the Women’s Well did not produce any Aal. Nor did they have the metal necessary to build the cheval skeletons even if they’d had the Aal to power them. Those chevals that the principality did have could not be spared just to make the journey more comfortable for the caravan.

  At last, the fortnight of misery was coming to a close. Once the caravan crossed the South Twin River, they would be in the Principality of the Midlands, which had granted Women’s Well passage without demur. There would be water and food and even a bed to sleep in, for they had been granted enough coin to secure two nights’ lodging to rest up after the ordeal of the Wasteland before continuing on the considerably shorter and easier road through the Midlands to Rhozinolm. The prospect was enticing enough that they did not set up camp at first light and instead traveled on, despite the ever-increasing heat.

  Smithson’s stomach growled loudly in hunger, and his mouth would have watered at the thought of eating his fill if his body had a drop of water to spare. The other soldiers’ stomachs were no quieter, and they exchanged a few half-hearted jests as their pace picked up despite their exhaustion. Even the mule seemed to sense that the worst of the journey was almost over, its head rising and its nostrils flaring. Perhaps it scented the water of the river.

  The caravan steered closer to Aaltah’s border, although they would remain on the Wasteland side until they had crossed the river into the Midlands, just to make sure Aaltah had no cause to complain or excuse to seize their cargo, which consisted of potions and of pebbles containing the Women’s Well version of a traditional Trapper spell. What was ordinarily a minor spell used by trappers to hide snares had, with an unusual combination of both men’s and women’s magic, become the most powerful concealment spell ever known, and therefore one of Women’s Well’s most valuable assets.

  Smithson suspected the caravan’s insistence on staying on the Wasteland side of the border was due to an overabundance of caution. There was no sign of civilization in sight, no one to see if they were to veer just slightly into the land that at least held the possibility of life. Even the hardiest of border towns were built at least half a day’s travel from the Wasteland, and it was hardly as if Aaltah had to guard against attacks along this particular border.

  Even the banks of the South Twin River were barren on the Wasteland side, but Smithson could see in the distance where the stubborn life of the desert had turned the banks in Aaltah sparsely green. And at least once they reached the river, there would be plenty of water to drink. Nothing lived in the water that traveled through the Wasteland, but it was not poisonous.

  Smithson was staring so fixedly at the water that when the soldier in front of him grunted and then collapsed to the ground in a cloud of dust, he did not at first have any idea what had happened.

  “Down!” the other soldier shouted, running for the rear of the wagon to take shelter. The driver gave an incoherent cry of alarm and dropped the reins, diving into the back of the wagon amidst the boxes of trade goods.

  For a moment, Smithson stood frozen in his tracks, his mouth falling open as his confused mind finally made sense of what he saw, of the bloody arrow point piercing his fellow soldier’s chest. The arrow had gone straight through the man’s mail.

  Another arrow thunked into the side of the wagon, the sound startling the usually placid mule.

  “Get down, you idiot!” someone shouted—Smithson was too dazed to tell if it was the soldier or the driver—and he finally came to himself enough to realize he was an easy target.

  He dove headfirst into the dust, his body sliding until he was at least partially under cover of the wagon. He coughed as he inhaled a lungful of the dust he’d just stirred up. The mule brayed and lurched forward, dragging the driverless wagon with it. A gust of bone-dry wind blew a cloud of blood-scented dust into Smithson’s face, and he coughed once more. The earth beneath him vibrated with the thunder of hooves. Squinting, his eyes gritty, he saw the band of horsemen, eight or ten strong, that had obviously been lying in wait, concealed by the banks of the river.

  The mule wanted no part of those charging horses, and instead of going forward, it skittered backward, pushing a wagon wheel dangerously close to Smithson’s head. He wriggled in the dirt, trying to keep himself centered under the wagon and away from the wheels. A cry of pain from behind him told him the soldier had not been as lucky.

  The horsemen were on them within the span of a few heartbeats. One of them slipped expertly off his horse and grabbed the mule’s reins. Smithson glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the wagon. The injured soldier had drawn his sword, but one of
his hands was mangled from its encounter with the wagon wheel, and the weapon wavered unsteadily.

  Heart hammering in his throat, Smithson drew his own sword as tears of terror burned in his eyes. He had no room to maneuver under the wagon, but the enemy horsemen now had the caravan surrounded. There was the twang of a bow, and the driver cried out in pain. Then another arrow speared through the soldier’s throat, driving home how useless a sword could be—even in the hands of one who knew how to use it—when faced with bowmen.

  Smithson gasped for breath, his lungs heaving with effort as he continued to take in more dust. He clutched tightly to his sword, expecting to feel the bite of an arrow any moment, despite the cover of the wagon.

  A man in peasant’s rags dropped to the ground on his knees and peered under the wagon at Smithson, keeping carefully out of sword range. Not that Smithson could find the courage to take a swing. For all his six months’ training, he was obviously woefully unprepared for the true experience of battle, and he wished with a desperate ache that he had remained his father’s apprentice. A sob rose in his throat.

  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told Smithson the man kneeling by the wagon was smiling, though the bottom half of his face was entirely hidden behind a kerchief. Despite his terror, Smithson couldn’t help noting that although the man was dressed as a peasant, his feet were clad in what appeared to be brand-new boots, and the sword he held was a thing of beauty, its pommel engraved with careful precision. It was possible this bandit had stolen both the sword and the boots, but there was absolutely no way any self-respecting bandit would lay an ambush out in the Wasteland.

  “What have we here?” the bandit asked. “Looks like a baby soldier.”

  Smithson heard the laughter and jeers of the other bandits—all of whom were appropriately masked, but all of whom also carried themselves with suspiciously erect posture—more like soldiers than bandits. Not one looked especially dirty or underfed.

  “Are you willing to die to protect your precious cargo, baby soldier?” the bandit asked, patting the side of the wagon.

  Of course, the only honorable answer was “yes.” That was the assignment Smithson had taken on when he’d agreed to accompany this caravan, and it was what any brave soldier was honor-bound to do.

  The man’s eyes softened, and he tugged down his kerchief to reveal a face that under other circumstances Smithson might have described as kind. “There’s no need for you to die here. Not even the most demanding of all commanders would fault you for surrendering under the circumstances. Drop the sword, and come out from under there.”

  Smithson’s hands tightened on the sword. Unbidden, he saw his mother’s face, saw her holding back tears as she sent him off to the Citadel, proud of him, but also afraid. Although she’d never come out and said so, he was well aware that she had not wanted him to become a soldier, had heard her and his father arguing over whether they should allow him to enter the Citadel. She had eventually been persuaded, but if Smithson did not return from this mission, she would probably never forgive his father for that persuasion.

  The make-believe bandit sighed. “I really don’t want to kill you. I am not in the habit of killing children.”

  Smithson tried to summon up some sense of affront over having been called a child, but he was too terrified to manage it.

  He’d been so focused on the bandit who was speaking to him that he’d forgotten how many others there were. Someone grabbed his ankles and yanked. The unmasked bandit hastily stuck out a leg and planted his booted foot on the blade of Smithson’s sword, keeping it pinned as Smithson was pulled out from beneath the wagon.

  Being dragged kicked up a smothering cloud of dust, and Smithson’s incoherent shout of alarm was cut off by a heaving cough. Grit coated his eyeballs, and he shut his eyes, sure the killing blow was about to land.

  Whoever had his ankles let go, and though Smithson thought distantly that now was the time to make one last, desperate attempt to save his life by running, he couldn’t seem to make himself move. He kept his eyes closed and tried to find some semblance of a soldier’s dignity as he heard the heavy tread of footsteps approaching from the far side of the wagon. Still, the killing blow did not land.

  “I told you I don’t want to kill you, and I meant it,” the bandit said.

  Reluctantly, Smithson opened his eyes, blinking desperately to try to clear the grit. The unmasked bandit was squatting right beside him, holding Smithson’s blade, but not in a menacing way.

  “I don’t feel inclined to give this back to you,” the bandit said, “but if you stay right where you are until we are out of sight, then you will live through this encounter. I swear it.”

  Smithson swallowed hard. “I’m to trust the word of a bandit?” he rasped, though there was no doubt in his mind that this man was no bandit. He and his men were soldiers of Aaltah, and had been stationed near the river for the express purpose of disrupting any trade caravans from Women’s Well.

  The bandit grinned. “You can trust the word of this bandit.” He stood up and dusted off his pants, which was a fruitless endeavor. “Stay where you are, baby soldier. We’ll leave you your water skins and any food you have left. With some skill and luck, you’ll make it back to your home all right.”

  Smithson imagined trudging for two weeks through the desert, carrying his own water and food, with no chance of obtaining more along the way. Try as he might, he couldn’t see himself making it back to Women’s Well.

  “If it’s all the same,” he said, his voice shaking despite his best effort to sound brave, “I’d rather a quick death by the sword than a long and torturous one by the Wasteland.”

  The soldier shrugged. “I’ll kill you if I must. But you can reach South Bend in the Midlands in less than a day. The people there would likely be more kindly disposed toward you than someone from Aaltah. They might even help you find your way home in one piece.”

  Smithson swallowed hard, half-afraid to let himself hope. He had a few coins in his purse, and he had as yet seen no sign that the so-called bandits were going to rob him personally. It might not be enough to buy him passage back to Women’s Well, but it should at least be enough to allow him to send a message home and perhaps obtain new orders.

  “Stay where you are,” the bandit-soldier said again as he turned toward the wagon.

  Smithson watched him, then regretted looking up, for he caught sight of his three companions, all dead. One of the other men climbed into the back of the wagon and tossed the dead driver out into the dust. Smithson’s hands clenched into fists at the insult to the dead.

  The bandit-soldier turned back to him, his face tight with what looked like anger. “I would see your dead sent off properly if I could,” he said, “but I have my orders. I’m sorry.”

  Without another word, he jumped into the back of the wagon and rummaged through the boxes and bags there, tossing out the scant stores of food and water. He gestured his companion into the driver’s seat as he himself climbed down and retrieved his horse. He gave Smithson a salute that was only half-mocking as he remounted and ordered his men forward.

  When the dust of their passage cleared, Smithson was left alone—but alive—in the blazing heat of the sun. He was too shaky to stand at first, so he merely rose to his knees and watched the dust cloud head toward the river—and then turn sharply toward the Aaltah border.

  Still coughing out dust and trying to blink it out of his eyes, Smithson tried not to look too closely at his dead companions as he gathered up the water skins and what was left of the food. It was a sin against the Creator to leave their bodies to rot, but he had no fuel with which to burn them. Guilt made his stomach heave as he checked each of their purses, collecting a few more coins to fund his efforts to return to Women’s Well. Then, muttering a brief prayer under his breath, he grimly began marching toward the river once more.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN


  Delnamal slipped out of the grand ballroom as soon as the dancing had begun. His father had always stayed to the very end of even the longest balls, not because he enjoyed them so greatly but because he was constantly surrounded by those who wanted just a little of his time, and he felt it his duty as king to oblige. Delnamal, however, wondered sourly if anyone had even noticed him leaving.

  But it was silly of him to be surly over something that turned out to be so damned convenient. He did not want this particular meeting with Rhojal of Nandel to be public knowledge, and there were very few opportunities for a king to meet with anyone, much less an ambassador, without everyone knowing about it.

  Ordinarily, Rhojal declined nearly every social invitation sent to him, for he had the typical Nandelite’s disdain for what he considered frivolity. Most envoys and ambassadors from Nandel learned at least a few of the most popular court dances and participated now and again just to be polite, but Rhojal never had, so Delnamal had sent him a private invitation by flier to request his presence in the Rose Room for a one-on-one meeting.

  There were palace guards stationed throughout the halls, but Delnamal had instructed them to stay away from the Rose Room, which had always been his father’s favorite location for private meetings—although in his father’s case, those private meetings had almost always been with friends and family, not for official business.

  The luminants on the path between the ballroom and the residential wing of the palace had been dimmed or even extinguished to discourage guests from wandering that way, but the Rose Room itself glowed bright at the end of the hall. Delnamal entered to find Rhojal waiting for him as requested.