Act of Will

SCENE IX



The Road East

I shouldn’t have had that last beer,” I said, holding my stomach as the wagon rocked me from side to side.

“Renthrette will feel vindicated,” Orgos laughed.

“No doubt.”

He laughed again and I groaned softly to myself. She was riding twenty yards ahead of us next to Mithos, who was astride a black mare and wearing ring mail with a light helm. Renthrette looked the part too, in heavy scale and a blue-grey helm of riveted plates, which hid her hair and face completely. Garnet was riding his dappled mare behind the wagon, ax at the ready. I suppose I should have felt secure, seeing as how they were all armed to the teeth, their eyes constantly flicking around them, but this show of strength merely served to remind me that we were outlaws in dangerous country. In Cresdon the Diamond Empire’s embrace was strangling, but at least it kept predators at bay. Out here we were deer in tiger country.

For the next week or so there would be few patrols, and the wolves and bandits of the Hrof country would know how to avoid them. Orgos told me that wolves never attacked people and that it was all some kind of myth. So that just left the bandits. I asked him if they were bedtime-story material as well. He didn’t answer.

I started to fiddle with the small crossbow nervously. Orgos noticed and, taking the reins in one hand, showed me how to load, aim, shoot, and uncock it. I drew the slide back a dozen times until it felt like I knew what I was doing.

“Good,” he said, never lifting his eyes from the road, “and that shouldn’t be the only lesson you learn today. Garnet is not always an easy man to deal with, and Mithos takes self-restraint very seriously.”

“I didn’t notice Garnet being all that restrained,” I said defensively.

“I think he suspected you were deliberately annoying him. And your sparring with his sister didn’t help.”

“His sister?!”

“Yes, didn’t you guess? They are virtually identical.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“In appearance, I mean, though they share a certain . . . earnestness.”

“There’s a euphemism if ever I heard one,” I said.

“They have had hard lives,” said Orgos, “and they take our profession very seriously.”

“Yeah? Well, my life has been no bed of roses either. What made theirs so difficult that the rest of us have to pay them back?”

He glanced at me quickly, irritated, then looked back to the road and said, “Maybe one day I’ll tell you.”

Great. There wasn’t a lot you could say to that.

Around us the ground looked paler, less fertile. Trees were becoming scattered and small, as if drained by the sun. It was getting hotter and the air was thick and heavy. Sweat broke out all over me but didn’t evaporate, leaving me sticky and uncomfortable. We swatted at sprightly little mosquitoes that whined around our ears, drank from our forearms, and then hopped into nothingness. Little swine. Soon I could see the pinpricked pimples they left in their wake, and my temper declined. I began to mutter curses under my breath, and twice Orgos turned to me as if he thought I was talking to him. In the end, to occupy my mind, I did.

“So how did you get into this game?” I asked him.

“Another grim story,” he replied, “to be saved for another day.”

He stared ahead in silence and I let it go.

Since Orgos was about as entertaining as a juggler with no arms, I watched the vegetation grow still sparser and the ground more arid as the miles passed. It was pretty gripping stuff. It was also hotter than a swamp rat’s armpit, which didn’t help. I remember disinterestedly watching a finch tugging seeds from a thistle as we rattled past. After that, nothing.

It shouldn’t be boring, being an adventurer. I knew because I was, you might say, a bit of an expert on heroic stories. My portrayal of the princess in A King’s Vengeance had played a couple of times a month for a year and a half. There was nothing in the story about sitting around on a wagon for hours at a time.

Orgos woke me three hours later. Thanks to the quality of the road, for which I suppose we must thank the bloody Diamond Empire, we had put over thirty miles between us and Cresdon. We had passed only a couple of caravans thus far, but Orgos had woken me for a reason. Behind us was a mounted Empire patrol, closing fast.

“Get in the back,” he said. “There’s bolt of silk you can hide under—”

“I’m not hiding,” I said.

Orgos gave me a look.

“If they stop us, they’ll search the wagon, find me, and then we’re done.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Other than them leaving us alone? Not yet,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

I looked back: a full platoon of Empire troops, numbering about twenty-five with an officer riding hard. They pulled ahead of us and waved us to a halt. Then they formed a single line, circled the wagon and our outriders, and stopped, spears leveled at us.

Hiding in the back suddenly seemed like a good idea.

“We are looking for one William Hawthorne,” barked the officer, “a notorious rebel. Dismount and stand clear of the wagon.”

We did so, and eight soldiers climbed cautiously down from their mounts and held us at the tips of their spears while four others searched us and removed our weapons. Orgos gave me a reproachful look. No one spoke and I felt a wave of nausea washing over me. The officer, a large, tanned man with the hardened features of a soldier whose authority comes from experience in the thick of things, spoke to a younger man in the uniform of the town guard. There was a long silence and they just looked at us while someone opened the tailgate. A moment later one of the soldiers emerged from the back of the wagon and said, “Captain.” He held a heavy scale tunic in one hand and a battle-ax in the other. “The vehicle is laden with weaponry, sir.”

The officer turned back to me, and a thick smile spread slowly across his scarred leathery face. The Cherrati-merchant story wasn’t going to cut it this time.

“Which one of you is Hawthorne?” said the officer, pleased with himself. “Or would you rather identify yourself on the rack in Cresdon?”