listen, but she would also draw the attention of the other servants and slaves, and she had been bred from the cradle not to draw attention. She needed to encourage someone else to voice concern at the silence.
At the back of the train, where the cows walked on tethers, five men-at-arms, some part raka, one full raka, had clustered to talk. There was tension in every line of their bodies. They would do.
Aly strolled up to them. “I know I’m new here,” she began. The five men turned to stare at her. She smiled at them shyly. “It’s just, you know, I’m a country girl at home, and my old dad taught me a few things.”
The one named Fesgao, Veron’s second-in-command and a pure-blood raka, raised angled brows. His ebony eyes were calm and level. His nose followed a straight line down from his forehead; he had high cheekbones and a square chin. Dressed in Balitang tunic and breeches, he was solidly muscled. His sword and dagger were plain but of good-quality steel. Aly guessed him to be thirty or so, younger than Ulasim and more reserved than the head footman. “And why should we be interested in what your father taught to you, little girl?” he inquired.
“Because Da taught me the same thing you have noticed,” she said. It was a guess, but judging from the way two of the men looked up at the trees, it was a good guess. “Or do all your birds and mice and monkeys take a nap this time of day? Back home, we hear silence in the woods, and we arm up.”
“And do you know woods?” asked Fesgao.
“I know the ones at home,” she said. “I know them as well as Da.”
The next moment Fesgao gripped Aly by the arm and drew her to the front of the line of wagons. Mequen and his sergeant, Veron, were idly talking while they watched a servant unharness the mare who had taken the stone in her shoe. The old hostler, Lokeij, waited with a fresh horse, his lined, monkey-like face worried as he looked at the lame mare. The other slaves liked to tease him that he thought of each and every Balitang horse as his own child.
“Fesgao, what’s this?” demanded the sergeant. “And who’s this wench?”
“A country girl who hears the same thing we do,” said the raka, letting go of Aly.
“And what does she hear?” asked Mequen, his steady brown eyes on Aly’s face.
She bobbed an awkward curtsey. “Nothing, Your Grace,” she replied, keeping her eyes down as she acted the same country girl she had pretended to be for Fesgao. “Back home, in the woods, when the animals go silent, oft-times it’s because robbers are waiting up the road.”
“I’d like permission to scout ahead, sir,” Fesgao said to Veron. “We five are country-bred like her. In the city streets you know I follow your lead without pause. Here …” He left the word hanging in the air as he met Veron’s gaze.
The sergeant, a luarin, scratched his head and sighed. “Forgive me for saying it, Your Grace, but he’s right. I’m not a raka jungle runner. Fesgao is.”
Mequen looked at Aly. Now she returned his gaze in an un-slave-like manner, silently reminding him of a god whose voice had driven him and the duchess to their knees. After a moment Mequen focused his gaze on Fesgao. “What do you recommend?”
“If we may scout ahead?” asked Fesgao.
“Go,” Mequen ordered.
Fesgao hand-signaled to three of his companions. They faded into the brush on the left of the road. Aly couldn’t even hear them once they vanished from sight: these men were good.
Fesgao and the other part-raka guard started for the right side of the road. Suddenly Fesgao stopped and looked at Aly. “Do you wish to come and see for yourself?” he asked, an ironic twinkle in his eyes.
Aly shook her head. “
I’m
no warrior,” she said, still the country girl.
Fesgao let the tiniest of smiles reach his lips. Then he and the other man-at-arms skipped over the brook and vanished into the jungle.
Mequen looked around, his eyes assessing
At the back of the train, where the cows walked on tethers, five men-at-arms, some part raka, one full raka, had clustered to talk. There was tension in every line of their bodies. They would do.
Aly strolled up to them. “I know I’m new here,” she began. The five men turned to stare at her. She smiled at them shyly. “It’s just, you know, I’m a country girl at home, and my old dad taught me a few things.”
The one named Fesgao, Veron’s second-in-command and a pure-blood raka, raised angled brows. His ebony eyes were calm and level. His nose followed a straight line down from his forehead; he had high cheekbones and a square chin. Dressed in Balitang tunic and breeches, he was solidly muscled. His sword and dagger were plain but of good-quality steel. Aly guessed him to be thirty or so, younger than Ulasim and more reserved than the head footman. “And why should we be interested in what your father taught to you, little girl?” he inquired.
“Because Da taught me the same thing you have noticed,” she said. It was a guess, but judging from the way two of the men looked up at the trees, it was a good guess. “Or do all your birds and mice and monkeys take a nap this time of day? Back home, we hear silence in the woods, and we arm up.”
“And do you know woods?” asked Fesgao.
“I know the ones at home,” she said. “I know them as well as Da.”
The next moment Fesgao gripped Aly by the arm and drew her to the front of the line of wagons. Mequen and his sergeant, Veron, were idly talking while they watched a servant unharness the mare who had taken the stone in her shoe. The old hostler, Lokeij, waited with a fresh horse, his lined, monkey-like face worried as he looked at the lame mare. The other slaves liked to tease him that he thought of each and every Balitang horse as his own child.
“Fesgao, what’s this?” demanded the sergeant. “And who’s this wench?”
“A country girl who hears the same thing we do,” said the raka, letting go of Aly.
“And what does she hear?” asked Mequen, his steady brown eyes on Aly’s face.
She bobbed an awkward curtsey. “Nothing, Your Grace,” she replied, keeping her eyes down as she acted the same country girl she had pretended to be for Fesgao. “Back home, in the woods, when the animals go silent, oft-times it’s because robbers are waiting up the road.”
“I’d like permission to scout ahead, sir,” Fesgao said to Veron. “We five are country-bred like her. In the city streets you know I follow your lead without pause. Here …” He left the word hanging in the air as he met Veron’s gaze.
The sergeant, a luarin, scratched his head and sighed. “Forgive me for saying it, Your Grace, but he’s right. I’m not a raka jungle runner. Fesgao is.”
Mequen looked at Aly. Now she returned his gaze in an un-slave-like manner, silently reminding him of a god whose voice had driven him and the duchess to their knees. After a moment Mequen focused his gaze on Fesgao. “What do you recommend?”
“If we may scout ahead?” asked Fesgao.
“Go,” Mequen ordered.
Fesgao hand-signaled to three of his companions. They faded into the brush on the left of the road. Aly couldn’t even hear them once they vanished from sight: these men were good.
Fesgao and the other part-raka guard started for the right side of the road. Suddenly Fesgao stopped and looked at Aly. “Do you wish to come and see for yourself?” he asked, an ironic twinkle in his eyes.
Aly shook her head. “
I’m
no warrior,” she said, still the country girl.
Fesgao let the tiniest of smiles reach his lips. Then he and the other man-at-arms skipped over the brook and vanished into the jungle.
Mequen looked around, his eyes assessing
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