The Queen of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner Page A

telescope, which he’d carried down to his room earlier in the evening after stargazing from the megaron’s roof. Eugenides wouldn’t let him go to his study and wouldn’t let him carry any clothes.
    “My history of the Invasion,” he had protested. “It’s in my study.”
    “You want people to think that you’re going down to the harbor, not running for your life,” Eugenides had told him. “Hurry, and you’ll live to rewrite it.”
    Dressed as an apprentice, he walked behind the magus, keeping his wooden hand close to his side, and none of the guards looked twice at either of them. Once in the narrow streets outside the megaron, Eugenides led the way, hurrying through the old city and then down through the new city by back streets. He detoured into a quiet cul-de-sac where he’d left a bag hidden behind a stairway. Inside were two faded gray overshirts. He handed one to the magus and pulled the other over his head.
    Crowds got thicker as they approached the harbor. Only the most dedicated revelers had been in the streets when the explosions began, but sailors sleeping on the floors of wineshops had dragged themselves out and were making their way, with the rest of the curious populace, down to the docks. Caught in the unexpected pedestrian traffic were the large wagons that moved through the city in the darkest hours of the night. They were forbidden to block the traffic during daylight hours. Dawn was approaching, and their drivers cursed as the horses moved a step at a time toward the market gate out of the city. The huge animals were normally placid, but the shouting, milling crowds unsettled them, and they jerked in their harnesses and their neighing rose above the sounds of people in the streets.
    Pulling the magus by the material of his cloak, Eugenides worked his way along the line of wagons. He had almost reached the market gate itself when hefound the wagon he was looking for and swung himself up onto the back of it. He seemed to the magus to move as easily with one hand as he had with two. He turned to help the magus as one of the men already sitting on the wagon bed spoke.
    “That was a near thing,” the man said as the wagon cleared the last of the congestion and picked up speed, rumbling through the torchlit tunnel under the city’s wall. “I see you collected your prize.”
    “I did indeed,” said Eugenides.
     
    The wagon was only a few miles outside the city when it left the main road and bumped down narrower tracks to a farmhouse and a stable. Waiting by the stable were saddled horses, one for each of the occupants of the cart, excepting the magus and Eugenides.
    Eugenides stood, with the magus beside him, as the horses were mounted. Each of the riders nodded once to him as they rode away.
    Then the riders were gone. Only Eugenides and the magus were left, and the man quietly unharnessing the cart horses. The farmhouse beside them was dark, the yard was quiet. The sky was pink and blue with the dawn, and the air was still. One of the horses sighed and stamped one huge hoof in the dust. The Thief disappeared into the stable through the open double doors and reappeared a few moments later, having removed the false hand and replaced it with a hook. He wasstooped over the crosstree of a sleek messenger’s chariot that he handled easily, even with one hand. He saw the magus staring and smiled.
    “You see how well planned this adventure is,” he said. “I arrange not only a cart but a chariot as well. Timos will drive us.”
    Timos led the cart horses into the stable and reappeared with a matched pair of racing horses. They were beautiful animals, graceful and excited in the morning air. Eugenides stepped back to give them plenty of room while Timos backed them to the chariot and began to fix their traces. When Timos was done and had climbed into the chariot, Eugenides stepped up as well and waved for the magus to join him.
    The messenger’s chariot was light and well balanced. The magus,