Floodpath Read online

  “You’re dense,” she says.

  “What? Lark—I just said I was sorry.”

  “Veran—” She glances out the door at the others. “Look, let’s get this thing done. We can talk after, okay?”

  “What’s there to talk about? I said I was sorry.”

  She turns fully away from me, hitching her bandanna up over her nose. She whistles to Rat and together they descend the porch steps, heading out into the rain.

  I throw up my hands in frustration, pull on my cloak, and stomp out the door after her.

  Lark

  Tamsin and I huddle in the ferns.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She grimaces. Wet.

  “Yeah.” I tip my hat, letting a stream of water sluice off the brim. It’s been over an hour since we first took our positions, and I’m stiff with cold and from crouching on the steep slope. Iano and Soe are spread out down the road, and Veran is up the hill with the redwood tree, the wood straining against the metal wedges keeping the slice open.

  Tamsin sighs and shifts in the leaves. I want this to be over.

  I nod. “Me, too. I just hope this gets us some answers. That we can stop Kimela.”

  “Hm,” she says. Or at least that she listens.

  “Uah, that is what I meant. That she sees how smart your writing is and changes her mind.”

  She sighs again. What will you do after? she asks. If it all works.

  “Find a way to go to Callais, I guess. I have to find my campmates.”

  And your family?

  I pause. “I guess . . . I will have to see them.”

  You still don’t want to?

  “I . . .” I look up the road, where the carriage should be coming from. “Is it making sense if I want to see them but I am worried about . . . them seeing me?”

  She looks at me. We talked about that. She pats the pouch at her side, where her slate is hidden. The first night on the porch. That when we learn . . .

  Her fingers fumble, and she waves as if to clear the air.

  I nod and finish her statement. “We do better.” I do remember her writing that. It made a lot of sense to me, brought me a lot of comfort.

  I gesture to the hilt of the sword on my hip.

  “And here I am anyway,” I say. “Not doing better. Doing exactly the same thing I’ve always done.”

  She purses her lips, but she doesn’t get a chance to go on. From down the road, ringing through the trees comes a distinct four-note chirp. Both Tamsin and I perk up.

  “Soe?” I whisper.

  She nods. Here they come.

  I cup my palm to my mouth and give my best whistle, mimicking the sparrow Veran taught us as a warning. It’s wobbly and sounds far more like a person whistling than a bird singing, but a second later, we hear the same call repeated back in an affirmative. After another few silent beats, we hear the first metallic clang of a sledgehammer against a wedge.

  I draw in a breath. This part is the most crucial to get right. If Veran doesn’t drop the tree quickly enough, there’s a chance the oncoming entourage will hear him, or that they’ll pass by before it falls. Tamsin and I both lie, tense, in the underbrush, waiting to hear the crackle and groan of the falling redwood. Clang, clang, clang.

  A flash in the wet underbrush across the road catches my eye. I prod Tamsin and point. She looks. Iano and Soe are hurrying into position. Tamsin takes a small breath and looks back toward the crest of the hill, still ringing with the sledgehammer.

  Clang, clang.

  I grind my teeth. Iano had wondered last night if I should switch places with Veran to fell the tree, but I talked him out of it. Now I’m wondering if I should have insisted, even if it made Veran go to pieces. Clang.

  From down the road trickle the first sounds of clopping hooves and squeaking braces. I chew my lip, my mind racing. If I’m going to rush across the road and up the hill to help Veran, I have to do it now. In another moment, the coach and riders will round the bend, and the chance will be lost. I shift my feet to a ready position underneath me.

  Then, the sound—a tremendous groaning, and the splintering of wood. Through the ranks of trunks, we see a bundle of branches suddenly shudder and whip. With a sound that shakes the whole hillside, the tree arcs downward, disappearing behind the curve of the road with a muffled smash.

  Tamsin lets out her breath. I release my white-knuckled grip on the hilt of the sword.

  Hope they didn’t hear that, she signs grimly. I nod.

  Veran cut it close. Less than a minute later, the foremost rider comes around the far bend, dressed in palace livery and riding a chestnut horse made sleek and dark in the rain. Another rider flanks him, and then comes the coach, pulled by a four-in-hand and rumbling ponderously over the road. Two guards sit atop the coach with the driver, and as they roll nearer, we can see the hooves of two more horses bringing up the rear.

  I inch my fingers toward Tamsin. Six guards. Plus the unknown threat of the possible maid inside.

  The first riders reach our hiding place and pass us by, followed by the stamping and jostling of the horse team. The driver and guards sway on top of the coach, its iron-shod wheels throwing up mud and pebbles. Tamsin and I both hold our breaths.

  The horse team slows at the hairpin curve.

  The coach stops, its rear wheel just a few feet up the steep slope from us.

  “What is it?” calls the driver.

  “A tree!” one of the front riders shouts back.

  “How big?” asks the driver.

  “Damned big,” replies the guard.

  There’s a coordinated round of cursing. On the coach window, a curtain flutters. Tamsin grabs my wrist.

  That’s her, she says, her fingers moving sharply.

  Good. I study the woman’s face in the window, accented by colored powder and framed by large jeweled earrings.

  “What’s the trouble, Uerik?” she calls.

  “A tree down around the bend, my lady,” the driver calls. “We’ll have to clear it.”

  The ashoki sighs and withdraws from the window. Tamsin and I watch as the guards dismount and situate their horses on the narrow road. The ones in the front edge around the coach, their boots sliding in the soft earth and sending trickles of mud skittering past our elbows. They confer with the rear guards and begin to unpack their tools from the luggage compartment.

  The group’s commander singles out one of the coach guards to stay behind, and with a lot of grumbling and squelching of boots, the rest trudge back up the road and around the bend. The guard clambers back up to her post, idly checking her crossbow. The driver reclines, hooking the reins and setting his boots up on the edge of the box. He draws a pipe from his pocket.

  We wait. Across the road, I can just barely see the shifting of Soe’s boots, the glint of Iano’s rapier. A few horses snort and stamp. The rain drums on the carriage roof.

  Finally, there’s a piercing call. Veran said it was a pewee, and that his folk use it for attack. We decided to use it for go.

  I draw in a breath.

  “See you in a minute,” I whisper to Tamsin. She nods and gives my arm a quick squeeze.

  I loosen the sword at my hip, seeing the ferns part around Iano and Soe across the road, and rise like a ghost from the bracken.

  Veran

  The attack is swift, quiet, and amazingly efficient. With no sound, Lark makes two hops up the far side of the carriage. One moment the guard on top is sitting with her crossbow in her lap, the next she’s facedown in the guard box, clutching her forehead. Lark catches up the fallen crossbow with her toe and flings it into the swallowing bracken, while in the same motion brings the flat of her sword around to connect with the driver’s head. Iano’s up by that point—he springs to pin the guard’s hand as she struggles to find her sword hilt. Soe climbs into the driver’s box with crossbow cocked and pointed at the cowering driver.

  Then, it’s just a matter of binding both their hands and mouths. As Iano stands over the gua
rd, and Soe over the driver, Lark swings off the coach. She reaches down into the bracken, and Tamsin appears, sliding on the steep slope. Lark adjusts her sword and knife, hitches her bandanna a little higher, and moves to the coach door. Tamsin follows. After that, my view is blocked by the carriage.

  I lean against the cold rock and wipe my forehead, my arm trembling with effort and anxiety. My hands are still stinging from the blows of the sledgehammer. I thought the tree would never come down. But it did, mighty and tragic and falling exactly where we wanted it to. Now the guards swarm around it, their hoods up against the rain, pointing at different places along the trunk and lopping off a few small branches, completely unaware of the plight of their comrades just around the bend.

  I try to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Things are working. Now it’s all down to what Lark and Tamsin can glean from inside. I shift on the rock, my vantage point, checking the bow and quiver of arrows for the dozenth time.

  These guards are slow to begin their work, noodling around the trunk, peering here and there. There’s not much sound from the coach at this point, but I’d like them to start sawing—it would keep them all the more preoccupied.

  My gaze flicks between the two scenes. The coach, still and silent, with Soe and Iano standing over their wards. The tree, where the guards cluster around the trunk, their tools at their sides.

  What are they looking at?

  Slowly, one by one, their faces turn up toward the hill.

  My heart vaults to my throat.

  I’m hidden well enough that they can’t see me from the road, but I shrink against the rock all the same. I watch with horror as two of them detach from the others and begin the tedious, slippery work of toiling up the hill, along the length of the tree. The others begin their work a little half-heartedly, trimming off a few skinny branches here and there.

  I race through my options. If they reach the base of the tree and find it cut, what then? They won’t be able to see the coach from the stump, but it will definitely make them wary. I glance down at the carriage again. No change—but have Lark and Tamsin made any progress inside? Will Kimela tell the guards to stand down?

  The two are getting closer to the stump. I wet my lips, making a decision. At the very least, I can warn the others that something’s amiss. Trying to beat away the same panic that crept up on me when Lark collapsed in the water scrape, I purse my lips and blow. The first whistle is only air, and I rush to try again. I give the rising two-note call of the cardinal. What cheer! Danger.

  Through the trees, I see Iano’s head shift, but he doesn’t react beyond that. At least I know he’s heard. The two guards climb closer. With fumbling fingers, I pull an arrow from the quiver and set it to Iano’s bowstring. I’m not sure what I plan to do with it, but it’s there.

  The two guards stop short, their gazes up the slope. They’ve seen the smooth, purposeful cut at the end of the trunk.

  I purse my lips again. What cheer! I don’t dare take my eyes off the soldiers to see how the others react at the coach.

  The guards close the last few feet to the stump and see the saw, the sledge, the wedges. They look around their immediate vicinity. I’m above their line of sight, but any closer and I won’t have much cover to depend on at all. This rock was convenient because it was high above everything else, with little to block its view down to either side of the road. But it’s a perch, not a hiding place.

  I whistle again, trying to inject urgency into the call. What cheer!

  Best case scenario, Kimela will pop out and holler for everyone to stand down. Worst case, Lark and the others are planning their retreat. I throw a glance down at the coach.

  They’re just standing there! Iano and Soe, standing immobile, the same as before. No movement from the coach. Didn’t they listen? Have they forgotten the calls I taught them?

  The guards are alert now, their hatchets replaced by their sword hilts. They’re looking around, back to back, searching for the culprit. With real panic now I clamber sideways along the rock, hoping to find somewhere with better cover. There’s a cluster of trunks nearby that should hide me—if I can get to them.

  When no attack bursts from the underbrush, the guards must realize the danger isn’t right here at the stump. They turn back down the hill. One shouts to the guards clustered around the tree.

  I take another breath and give one more desperate attempt to warn the others. What cheer!

  My whistle cracks on the final note, sounding more like a person than a bird. The rear guard halts in his tracks and pivots back up the hill. His gaze locks on me.

  “Hey!” he shouts.

  As sure as if his shout was a crossbow quarrel, my foot slips on the wet rock. I slide toward the ground, losing sight of the carriage.

  It’s only as I hit the brush and scramble in the opposite direction that I realize what I’ve done.

  The cardinal isn’t danger.

  It’s all’s well.

  Tamsin

  The interior of the coach is dim and thick with the scent of perfume. Lark enters first, her sword up. There are two high gasps.

  “Quiet,” she growls. “All we need is quiet, and you will not be hurt.”

  I step up behind her. It’s a tight fit, but both Kimela and her maid have shrunk against the far door, leaving the middle of the coach clear. Lark edges to one side to give me space, blocking the maid from my view. Kimela’s gaze falls on me. At first, there’s only the same terror as for the Sunshield Bandit, with no flicker of recognition.

  “Hi,” I say flatly.

  “What do you want?” Kimela asks sharply. “If you want the jewels, you can have them. But I warn you—the palace will not rest until they’ve tracked you down—”

  “Quiet,” Lark orders again. “Your job is to listen to Tamsin.”

  “Tamsin?” echoes Kimela faintly. “Who . . .” Her gaze travels to me again, and her eyes nearly pop from her head. She straightens up, staring through the dim light. Her rouged mouth drops open.

  “Tamsin . . . Tamsin Moropai?”

  I thin my lips as her gaze roves over me, from my homespun dress to my shorn hair. I’d like to think I look a little healthier than I did a week ago, but all the same, I’m certainly not the same person she remembers—I’m the face on the bounty sheet, the accomplice of the Sunshield Bandit.

  “How did you . . . where . . . you died! Everyone said you had died!”

  I shake my head grimly.

  “But I . . . I saw your si-oque myself—they locked it in the case by your pedestal. It convinced Queen Isme to rush my appointment. She hoped it would draw out the prince’s kidnappers . . .”

  I frown and hold up my wrist, where my si-oque rests just above my sleeve. Her gaze falls on it.

  “But . . . ,” she says. “But then . . . how did the minister produce it? Whose did he have?”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Minister Kobok—he received your si-oque in the mail anonymously. He presented it to the queen and suggested that expediting my appointment would encourage the kidnappers to come forward.”

  Lark and I exchange a glance. Kobok, always an opponent of mine, miraculously produced a forged si-oque and claimed it was a sign to rush Kimela’s confirmation?

  That seems awfully convenient.

  “But there were other people who saw you die!” Kimela protests. She turns to her maid. “You said she had died!”

  I crane my head to look around Lark. Kimela’s maid is shrunk against the seat, a look of dread on her face.

  My next thoughts fizzle out.

  It’s Simea.

  My maid.

  I go to declare her name and end up only sputtering on the s. She draws a deep, trepidatious breath.

  “My lady Tamsin?” she whispers.

  “I . . .” I begin. Lark cuts her gaze to my fingers as I move them numbly.

  “Tamsin says she thought you died in the attack,” Lark translates, then glances back to me. “This is your old maid?”
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br />   I nod. I remember her body, heavy and stifling, as she collapsed against me, pinning me in the coach outside Vittenta.

  “You said she’d died!” Kimela insists.

  “I thought she had,” Simea whispers.

  A creak of the coach and an angry mutter from up top whips me out of my thoughts. I can dwell on Simea later, but we have to buy ourselves time first. I shake myself and lift my hands again. Lark and I have practiced this part, and she barely has to take her gaze off Kimela and Simea to give them my words.

  “Tamsin didn’t die, and she is not here as your enemy,” she says. “She commends your appointment to ashoki and hopes your career will be long. But Moquoia and Prince Iano Okinot in-Azure are in very great danger.” It does seem ironic to say this when Iano himself is just a foot above us, brandishing his rapier, but I go on.

  “Tamsin needs to talk to you about the threat to the Moquoian court, and how it can be stopped—”

  “I beg your pardon, I’m sure, but why are you doing all the talking then?” Kimela asks, her voice high but resolute. She’s regained some of her poise, a steely glint in her eye.

  “Tamsin, if you did not know, had her tongue split in the attack outside Vittenta,” Lark says, shifting her sword the barest inch. Kimela’s eyes dart to its point. “She is speaking to you with hand signs. I am telling you her words.”

  Kimela looks back to me again. Simea is sitting rigid in her seat, her lips parted in a sort of permanent, soft scream.

  “Tamsin needs you to listen to her now,” Lark goes on. “We ask that you tell your guards to stand down.”

  “I most certainly will not!” Kimela exclaims. “Not with the world’s most notorious bandit waving a sword in my face!”

  I have to give Kimela credit for pure nerve, but I need her to understand what we’re here for. Despite her new career in theatrics, her shock is real, and with the news of Kobok’s miraculous possession of a forged si-oque, I’m now certain she’s not our blackmailer. If I can get her to calm down, we can all sit and think rationally about this. I dig in the pouch on my belt and come out with my pamphlet.