A Hero's justice

Chapter 16

Ten thousand mounted warriors crowded the square before the imperial palace, completely covering the mosaic of Ackal Ergot’s victories that decorated its vast surface. They were arrayed in two huge blocks, separated by a narrow avenue. Drawn from the city’s garrison, they represented a quarter of Daltigoth’s defenders. Their scarlet mantles were like a sea of blood; their polished iron helmets gleamed. Lining the steps and stone plinths on either side of the palace doors were a thousand drummers, pounding in unison. The thunderous booming reverberated off the walls of the Inner City and shook the palace down to its foundation. High above the scene, watching from a turret window, Valaran could feel the drumming through the soles of her slippers, feel it in her very bones.

It might have been a stirring sight, glorious and terrible, but Valaran knew only a growing, suffocating sense of desperation. Two days had passed since the emperor’s sudden recovery of mental clarity. His energy in that time had been breathtaking. Man by man, he had culled the garrison of its best warriors, made battle plans with his warlords-the ones he hadn’t banished or executed-and ordered a huge amount of food and arms from the imperial stores. He also reversed a lax trend in his household and forbade his family to set foot outside their private quarters.

Yet another custom dating back to Ackal Ergot’s day-the confining of the empress, consorts, and their children-had begun as a means to protect the imperial family, and preserve the purity of the dynasty’s bloodline. But Ackal V invoked the Purity Sanction to prevent Valaran from intriguing behind his back. She couldn’t be certain exactly what he knew about her plotting, and the uncertainty was maddening. As with all his enemies, he used her doubt to keep her off balance.

Now he passed two calm evenings with his wives and children, playing the role of good husband and stern father. Valaran found his insincere serenity more unbearable than his casual cruelty, for it left her in an agony of suspense, never knowing when his mood might shift and he would order some new outrage. He took Crown Prince Dalar on his lap while continuing a conversation with his other children, and Valaran’s blood ran cold. Seeing her son in his hands was like watching the boy menaced by a deadly serpent. The question wasn’t if Dalar would get hurt, but when.

At the end of last night’s family dinner, Ackal V had risen from the table at last-his appetite had been prodigious since the breaking of Mandes’s spell-and called for Tathman. The Wolf captain arrived and stood by his master, a silent, hulking menace. Then Ackal addressed his family.

“I leave tomorrow to destroy the invaders,” he announced. “But you need not fear. In my absence, both the Purity Sanction and my Wolves will ensure your safety. I could not face the enemy without knowing all I hold is safe.”

Valaran fumed silently. Not only was he imprisoning her in the palace, he was setting his killers to watch over her. Tathman’s men would not dare lay hands on her, but her every action would be reported to the emperor.

Ackal took up a golden goblet filled with nectar. He drank it slowly, as though savoring the liquid’s delicate flavor. He was up to something, keeping them together like this. Valaran could see in his eyes it was the continuing suspense he savored, not the drink. Finally, he let the other boot drop.

“Crown Prince Dalar will accompany me.”

“Sire, no!” Valaran was on her feet before she was even aware of having moved.

His false smile vanished. “The boy goes where I say he goes! He will see his first campaign, and what better place for that than with his father?”

Valaran could barely remember the rest of that horrible evening. Ackal’s decision was unprecedented, his motives hardly paternal. Dalar, so small, so fragile, was to be a hostage to her good behavior. More than ever she thought the emperor must have learned of her seditious activities. Since recovering his wits, he had been closeted with advisors, spy-masters, and unsavory practitioners of magic. Had he divined the cause of his own madness-the same evil he’d visited on his own brother, Ackal IV?

There was no better news from the College of Wizards. Helbin’s successor as chief of the Red Robes, the wizard Eremin, reported they had at last broken through the veil that so long shrouded events in the east. They had seen imperial forces driving the nomads from the empire.

Eremin did not know the horde names, and so described the standards they’d seen. As Ackal V identified each one-the Plains Panthers, the Firebrands, the Corij Rangers, the Black Viper Horde-he grew more angry. All were landed hordes, the provincial gentlemen he loathed and had refused to call to duty.

Eremin was astonished by the emperor’s furious reaction to what he believed would be welcome news. With nomads raging throughout the Eastern and Riverland hundreds, surely it was better that the local hordes raise themselves, rather than allow savages to rampage unchecked.

The Red Robe could not tell his liege who led the landed hordes. The visions had not been that precise. He promised to work hard to improve them, but it was plain Ackal V already knew who was responsible for the uprising.

All this Valaran remembered as she watched the warriors in the plaza await the arrival of their supreme commander. Beset with doubts and fears, she held on to Tol as her lifeline. His love for her and his hatred of Ackal V were the greatest assets she had left.

In her mind she saw him, not as he’d been when they parted, beaten and lying in the back of a creaking cart, but as he had been when they first met, a vibrant young warrior, newly come to Daltigoth for the dedication of the Tower of High Sorcery. It wasn’t his broad shoulders or rough-hewn looks that had ignited her love, but his open mind and good heart. Too good, really. Born far from the fount of power, the peasant’s son was ill equipped to match wits with Prince Nazramin. Time and bitter exile should have cured Tol of his naivete, but she hoped the goodness remained.

Valaran’s thoughts were interrupted by the concerted roar from ten thousand throats, which silenced the pounding drums. The emperor had appeared.

Ackal V wore armor enameled in crimson and inlaid with gold. His head was bare, displaying thick red hair untouched by gray. The roaring cheer continued, grew even louder, and Valaran winced against the painful volume. Tyrant though he was, Ackal V was revered by the many Riders of the Great Horde. The emperor descended the palace steps to his waiting troops, revealing the tiny figure who followed behind him. Valaran caught her breath.

Dalar, dressed in a breastplate and helmet made just for him, moved hesitantly. The roar of the fighting men frightened him. Valaran’s hands ached to snatch her child back, for his sake and hers. All she could do was grip the ledge of the window before her, until the stone cut her palms.

Ackal’s horse waited at the foot of the palace steps. Sirrion, named for the god of passion and fire, stood sixteen hands. He was one of the special royal breed whose hide was a striking shade of ruby red. His mane and tail were a darker oxblood, and his broad, black hooves had been polished until they gleamed. Only those of imperial blood could ride horses of the Ackal Breed.

The senior warlord of the Warblade Horde stood by Sirrion, a position of great honor. Bending forward, the warlord cupped his hands. The emperor placed a booted foot in them and swung onto the magnificent horse. Another soldier hoisted young Dalar onto the pillion behind him. Alarmed at finding himself so high off the ground, the little boy clutched his father’s back.

Ackal V drew his saber. The chanting of the warriors ceased. The abrupt silence left Valaran’s ears ringing.

“Forward, Ergoth!” commanded Ackal.

The ten thousand horsemen took quite some time to funnel out of the Inner City gate, but Valaran remained at the window until all were gone.

Where in Chaos’s name was Helbin? She had to know what was happening in the east. More importantly, where was Tol?

The nomads clung stubbornly to their green bulwark, fending off sortie after sortie by the Ergothians. By this time the hordes had encircled the Isle of Elms completely, but every attempt to storm the forest stronghold, on foot or horse, was bloodily repulsed.

Night fell. A steer was roasted. Over beef and beer, the Ergothian commanders debated what to do next. There were two camps: those who wanted to attack again immediately, and those who thought it better to besiege the nomads and starve them out.

Egrin, to Tol’s surprise, was in the attack faction. Usually a cautious tactician, Egrin was not given to fire-eating. When he counseled immediate attack, Tol wanted to know why.

Firelight played on Egrin’s features. His half-elven heritage, carefully concealed from all but Tol, had kept him a vigorous warrior some three decades after their first meeting. In spite of their closeness, Tol knew almost nothing of Egrin’s life before that time. The former marshal was as taciturn as a Dom-shu.

“We don’t know what resources the nomads may have,” Egrin said, “but Lord Argonnel says there’s a spring in the grove, so they do have water.” Argonnel nodded. He owned large tracts of this land and knew it well.

Egrin went on. “Our men can’t sustain themselves unless we move and forage. If we besiege the nomads, we may end up being hungrier and thirstier than they are.” He spat into the fire. “Worse, while we delay here, the treasure caravan is making its way to Caergoth. I, for one, do not want to leave the caravan too long in the hands of a renegade elf and hundreds of kender.”

The other warlords agreed. Tol turned to Hanira, seated on his left and asked her opinion. She’d been silent through the entire council, eating little but imbibing quite a lot.

Face rosy from wine, she said flatly, “They’re savages. They should be slain to the last man.”

“If that means attack, then I agree,” said Kiya, on Tol’s right.

Tol also agreed. However, they needed a practical means for forcing their way into the Isle of Elms. They had no way of knowing how many nomads were there. Best guess was five or six thousand, but not all were fighters. Nomads traveled with their entire tribe, so a goodly number hidden in the elms would be old folks, children, and the wounded of earlier battles. Trapped as they were, the nomads could be expected to resist to the bitter end.

They wrangled, as old soldiers will, over the best way to assault the Isle. Simultaneous attack on multiple points was best, said some. Others were positive that quiet infiltration under cover of darkness would bring victory. Disguise a small group as nomads and send them in to confuse the defenders.

As they argued, Hanira left. Lord Mittigorn, returning from a trip beyond the circle of firelight, saw her heading in the direction of her pavilion in the Free Company’s camp.

“Just as well,” said Trudo. “Women and foreigners have no place at a council of war.” Kiya glared, but the callous old Rider did not apologize.

Egrin’s plan of infiltration was close to winning the day-fifty warriors would dress as nomads and sneak into the woods-when Pagas lifted his head suddenly.

“Something burns,” he announced, sniffing the wind.

The scent was stronger and greener than the dying campfire before them, which had been laid with dry wood. A freshening breeze brought more smoke. Mittigorn Cried out and pointed to the distant Isle of Elms. The formerly dark wall of trees stood out starkly against a dull red sky.

Fire. The night wind was driving flames toward the trees.

Tol took off at a dead run, Kiya at his heels. The warlords followed.

The source of the fire was soon discovered. Tarsans in brass breastplates were jogging through the waist-high grass, setting the scrub alight with torches. Tol grabbed one and spun him around, demanding an explanation.

The Tarsan stammered, “I’m following my mistress’s orders, my lord!”

Cursing the syndic, Tol ordered the man to smother his torch, then he and Kiya hurried through the smoldering grass, putting a stop to the efforts of the other Tarsans. Each told the same story: the fire had been ordered by Syndic Hanira.

Before long they came upon the woman herself. She stood in a patch of burned grass, a blazing torch in each hand. Her dark purple gown was black with ash. Her hair was unbound, and long black tendrils blew wildly around her face. She was singing a Tarsan lullaby at the top of her lungs.

He shouted her name and she turned to him. Her eyes, usually a warm honey color, were like dark holes in her ashen face. Tears had made tracks in the soot on her cheeks.

“Let them burn!” she screamed. “Murdering savages! Let them all burn!”

Tol feared she would get her wish. The fire, fanned by the night wind, had become unstoppable. It devoured the dry grass and caressed the dark trunks of the ancient elms. The nomads did not wait for the fire to engulf the wood. On horseback and afoot they fled the forest, racing for the faraway shelter of the Great Green.

Egrin, Trudo, and the other warlords ordered the Riders to horse. Argonnel’s men met the mounted enemy and drove them back. The nomads surged out again, striking Mittigorn’s Black Viper Horde.

Kiya rode up, bringing Tol’s horse. “Come, Husband. The battle is joined.”

As Tol mounted, Hanira dropped her spent torches and held out her hands toward the fire, as if warming herself. Kiya shuddered.

“She looks like Azalla herself!”

Azalla, the Fire Lady, was the Dom-shu goddess of revenge and evil, said to be the child of Argon and the Dragonqueen. Nomads had dared kill Hanira’s daughter, and the mistress of the Golden House would not be denied vengeance. Had it happened in Tarsis, she would’ve hired assassins to exact her revenge. Here, on the plains of Ergoth, she took matters into her own hands.

Kiya and Tol galloped off to join Pagas’s horde. So desperately did the nomads fight, they came within a heartbeat of breaking the Ergothian line before the Plains Panthers arrived to reinforce Mittigorn.

The fight was fierce, but brief. When the last nomad warrior was unhorsed, those remaining on foot finally ended their resistance. Tol halted the slaughter. He left Egrin to oversee the sorting of the prisoners, and to look for Tokasin among the captured, then he himself went to search for the chief among the fallen.

The Isle of Elms was fully ablaze now, lighting the scene with a garish orange glow. Kiya, riding with Tol through the battle site, watched as the roiling smoke rose skyward, obscuring the stars. The gray columns came together to form figures like those she’d seen before: giant human shapes standing shoulder to shoulder and looking down on her and everyone else. They resembled the stone statues she’d seen in Daltigoth, inert yet watchful. She wondered if the smoke-figures were gods.

“Eh? Gods?” asked Tol, his attention on the bodies sprawled on the ground.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, as she realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “It’s nothing.”

They found Tokasin. He lay dead amidst a circle of warriors who had died trying to defend him. When Tol turned him over, they realized the chief had taken his own life at the end, by falling on his sword. Tokasin knew the fate of enemy commanders captured by Ergoth.

Day came, and the woods still burned. Elms, many hundreds of years old, flamed like giant candles, and eventually toppled over, sending up gouts of smoke and glowing embers. The heat from the hard, heavy wood was intense, keeping everyone well back. The animals in the grove had long since fled-birds, deer, rabbits, even a wild boar or two had dashed out while the Ergothians sorted out their victory.

Tol sat on the blackened turf back to back with Kiya. She was asleep. He drank from a wineskin while Lord Trudo reported.

“One thousand, twenty mounted enemy warriors dead,” recited the commander of the Oaken Shield Horde, consulting the strip of bark on which the computations had been scratched. “Of the nomads on foot, six hundred ninety-seven were killed. One thousand, two hundred sixteen are our prisoners.”

Altogether, not quite three thousand had been in the woods, fewer than Tol had estimated. He asked Trudo about their own losses.

“Four hundred nine killed and five hundred forty-one wounded to a greater or lesser degree.” Trudo stroked his white beard complacently. “Not so bad, my lord.”

Tol took the bark tally from him, moving with care so as not to disturb Kiya’s rest. He wished he could sleep, but knew his next task could not be put off any longer.

“Bring the syndic to me.”

Hanira and her bodyguard Fenj arrived. They were accompanied by Egrin.

“My lord,” the old marshal said, “I have come to speak on the syndic’s behalf.”

Hanira, red-eyed, soot-stained, and haggard, said coldly, “I don’t need your help.”

Undeterred, Egrin directed his words to Tol. “I know you’re angry, my lord, but Syndic Hanira’s actions, harsh though they were, resolved a pressing problem. We were debating how best to come to grips with the enemy, and she supplied the way.”

“She meant to kill them all.”

“Pity I didn’t succeed.” Hanira brushed lank tendrils of hair from her face.

Tol, mindful of her loss, kept his voice calm. “I did not ask you to come and fight,” he said. “You joined of your own accord. You agreed to accept my authority and obey my orders. Your actions last night were treacherous, vindictive, and insubordinate. The fact that you resolved the matter in our favor does not excuse you!”

From behind him, Kiya said sleepily, “Send her home.”

Since she was awake, Tol stood and handed Kiya the wineskin. “No. The syndic will stay.”

“You think to punish me like some errant servant?” Hanira sneered.

“I don’t intend to punish you.” Not in the way she was thinking, at any rate. Tol locked gazes with her. “You joined this campaign, Syndic, and I expect you to see it through. But if you ever disobey my orders, or take such a deed upon yourself again, I’ll clap you in irons!”

Silent Fenj tensed, ready to interpose himself between his mistress and Tol, but Hanira suddenly laughed.

“By Shinare, I believe you! There’s not a Tarsan general or admiral who’d dare, but you would!”

Their exchange seemed to restore a measure of Hanira’s poise. She straightened, and her manner underwent a subtle shift. Although still dirty and disheveled, she seemed more like the woman Tol remembered.

“I will send Tindyll to you for our orders,” she said briskly. “Are we bound next for Daltigoth?”

The abrupt change surprised Tol, but he answered her readily enough. “We have one stop to make first,” he said.

“We have business in Caergoth,” Kiya put in. “A treasure to reclaim.”

At that moment, Tylocost beheld the pale walls of Caergoth. The southward march of the treasure caravan had been without undue incident. The vigilance of the Juramona Militia and Tylocost’s active cavalry escort discouraged any from approaching too closely.

The ranks of the Royal Loyal Militia dwindled as the city drew near. No one ever actually saw a kender leave, but a handful vanished each day. The weird desertions were not confined to the kender; the Household Guard evaporated as well. Some days the only sign of Casberry’s personal guard was the dwarf doctor and centaur standard bearer, who could always be located by his uncommon stench. By the time the towers of Caergoth came into view, the kender queen led barely a hundred followers, most of whom were hired humans. She wasn’t distressed. In fact, she acted as if nothing untoward had happened. For his part, Tylocost was happy to have fewer kender to deal with.

They approached the empire’s second largest city with caution, using the line of hills northwest of the city to hide their line of march. Studying the walls from a hilltop just over a quarter-league away, Tylocost found it strange they had encountered no Riders from the city’s garrison. With bakali and nomad invaders about, warriors should be patrolling the countryside.

With his more than human vision, Tylocost could see the city gates were shut, save for one, the Dermount Gate on the north side. It was guarded by several hundred troops. A thin stream of people came and went through the portal.

The elf’s plan was to wait for Tol, keeping out of sight until his arrival. Like any good general, though, he craved information, and wished he could know what was happening in the city.

He made this comment in Zala’s hearing. With a shrug, she said, “I could find out if you like. I could enter the city.”

Since her father was a resident of Caergoth, Zala had a glean-a brass token that identified her and allowed her to pass in and out of the city. Given the threat hanging over Caergoth, her glean might no longer be honored. She was willing to try. She could find out whatever Tylocost wanted to know, and look for her father at the same time.

She put aside her weapons, save for a belt knife, and commended Helbin to Tylocost’s care. The wizard had been distracted. He’d spent much of the day toying with a small glass mirror, fitted in a hinged wooden box. It appeared to be an activity that caused him great frustration.

“You watch yourself, girl,” Tylocost told her.

Zala felt strangely pleased by his concern. The Silvanesti was arrogant and opinionated, but there was something about him that made her want to please him. If he weren’t so hard to look at-

She ruthlessly suppressed that thought. No good could come of such feelings.

Leaving the hidden caravan behind, she started down the hill toward the city. As she descended the slope, she picked up speed, until she was jogging rapidly. She’d been too long in the company of soldiers, refugees, and captives. The exhilaration of being on her own flooded through her. For a moment she allowed herself to think of freeing her father and running away with him, away from unsightly, vexing elves, notions of honor, warlords, and kender. If she ran without stopping, beyond the empire, to the end of the world, perhaps she would find peace.

By the time she reached the queue of people waiting to pass through the Dermount Gate, she’d put away such extraneous thoughts. Instead, she concentrated on appearing to be nothing more than a young woman bent on visiting her aged parent.

All those entering Caergoth were searched. Soldiers carried out this process with rapid, rough thoroughness. Packs were opened, their contents dumped on the ground; pushcarts were upended, babies’ swaddling was groped. Faced with bared swords, no one protested.

The officer in charge of the gate guards examined Zala’s glean and pronounced it outdated.

“What’s your business in Caergoth.

“I’m visiting my father. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Her mixed heritage gave rise to ribald comments from the soldiers. The harassed officer growled at them to shut up. He daubed the glean with a spot of white paint.

“This means you have twenty-four hours. If you’re caught in the city after that, you’ll be thrown in prison as a suspected spy.”

She nodded curtly, moving on.

The city beyond the thick wall had changed since her last visit. Caergoth had always been an orderly city, with wide, clean streets and well-scrubbed stone buildings. No longer. Now the lanes were crowded with people, wagons, horses, and livestock. Half the population of the province seemed to be trying to squeeze within the walls. It was obvious they did not know that Lord Tolandruth and the landed hordes had driven out the raiding nomads.

Her father lived on the top floor of a rooming house in the scribes’ district. His two rooms were small, but cheap, clean, and except on festival days, quiet. He wouldn’t be home-the empress had had him taken to the citadel-but Zala headed there first anyway. If possible, she wanted to wash and change clothes before going to the governor’s palace. Tiring of the lewd and ugly comments from passers-by, she untucked her hair from behind her ears so it would hide their shape.

The trip through the clogged streets to the scribes’ quarter took an age. Market squares, once lined with neat, widely spaced rows of stalls and pushcarts, were now crammed with tents and squalid with the offal of thousands of squatters. Pickpockets and cutpurses worked the mobs. After fending off a fourth attempt to steal her purse, Zala grew so annoyed she broke the pickpocket’s wrist and left him howling on the pavement.

The last square between her and the scribes’ district was the city’s largest, Luin’s Field. Bounded on three sides by Caergoth’s major temples, it was a sacred space used for religious ceremonies and imperial parades. It was always kept spotlessly clean, with not even the smallest bit of litter allowed.

When Zala beheld Luin’s Field, however, shock froze her in place. The square had been turned into an army camp. Warriors were quartered along its sides, and its center was taken up by huge cages, row upon row of stout wooden posts joined together by iron strapping. The cages were filled with people. Some, clad in buckskins, were plainly nomads, but others looked to be city folk or peasants. At least a thousand captives were being held in Caergoth’s most sacred square.

An Ergothian soldier, trying to get by her, asked sarcastically, “Something ailing you, girl?”

Instantly, Zala assumed a slightly hunched posture and looked at him with wide eyes. Stammering, she asked, “Who are those people, sir? Why are they here?”

As she’d guessed from his voice, the soldier was an older man. Her shy, deferential manner caused his tone and expression to soften. She imagined that he had daughters of his own at home.

“We need every room in the citadel to house the garrison,”

he said. “Lord Wornoth emptied the citadel dungeon and put the scum here.”

After admonishing her to “get herself on home,” the soldier moved away, and Zala approached the cages. In the general confusion, she was able to get within a few paces. She walked slowly along, looking anxiously for her father among the wretched captives.

“Has anyone seen Kaeph the scrivener?” she asked as she walked. “An old man with white hair and a bald spot on his crown? Anyone know Kaeph the scrivener?”

For a long stretch all she heard were negatives. Finally, one of the prisoners, a coarse-looking woman with a city accent, answered in the affirmative. Zala stepped closer to her cage.

“I seen him,” the woman repeated. “He’s in with the condemned-the cages around the corner, facing the Temple of Corij.”

Zala thanked her. The woman thrust a hand through the bars, snatching at Zala’s sleeve. “A favor for a favor! Tell Mextro I’m here! Mextro, the innkeeper at the Golden Galley! My name-!”

Her plea was cut off as a soldier thrust the butt end of a spear through the bars and struck her in the belly. The woman fell back. Under the guard’s unfriendly glare, Zala moved on.

As befit a warrior nation, the Temple of Corij was the largest and most splendid in Caergoth. Built of white marble, it was floored in red granite, to honor all the warriors’ blood spilled for the empire. The temple rose in a series of sloping terraces, making a step-sided pyramid. At the pinnacle, in a small columned portico, an ever-burning flame was tended by the warrior-priests of Corij.

The cage facing the temple was isolated from the other enclosures. Warriors on horseback circled it. Friends and family of those within hovered outside the perimeter of guards, looking for loved ones among the many prisoners.

Zala called her father’s name, but could hardly make herself heard over the cries of the others around her. “Kaeph the scrivener! Where is Kaeph the scrivener?” she shouted.

“He may be dead already.”

The words had come from a woman prisoner sitting close to the bars a few paces further along. Zala walked quickly toward her. The woman was very tall, even sitting down. Her hair, cut to chin length like Zala’s own, was brown, and she wore the embroidered deerskins of a forest woman. Her accent was urbane, also like Zala’s.

“Why do you say that?” Zala demanded.

“Many have been beheaded-the latest batch was three days ago. Go to the citadel, you can see the heads.”

“Do you know Kaeph the scrivener?”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t know anyone but the Dom-shu I came with.”

Zala recognized that name. Lord Tolandruth’s constant companion, the female warrior who called him “Husband,” was a Dom-shu. Perhaps she could persuade this sullen giantess to help her if they proved to have a mutual acquaintance.

“I know a woman of your tribe,” she said. “Her name is Kiya. Very tall, like you, but with blonde hair.”

The Dom-shu’s weary gloom vanished instantly. “Father! Come here!” she shouted, bolting to her feet. Her head touched the bars roofing the cage.

A tribesman joined her. His yellow hair and beard were streaked with white, but he moved smoothly through the shuffling prisoners.

At the female prisoner’s request, Zala repeated what she’d said.

The elder’s face glowed with relief. “She lives! She is free! What of the Son of My Life?”

The Dom-shu woman leaned close to the bars and murmured, “Does Kiya travel with a man, brown hair, brown eyes, a short beard, and nearly as broad in the shoulders as he is tall?”

“Yes. Lord Tol-”

“Keep that name between your teeth,” the Dom-shu woman snapped, then grinned widely. “The gods still love him, and his friends, too, I pray! Girl, I am Miya, sister of Kiya, and wife of that man you know!”