Drake

Drake was surprised to find himself back on the road and back with a woman who seemed to be experiencing virtually no reaction to the hints of his more-sullied-than-not past with the Escorpias. She might have been hiding her actual revulsion, but she had already proven herself an abysmal liar. She was more likely distracted, and the wariness would come. For example, right now, she was trying to pronounce her fake alias for the hundredth time.

"You've got to roll your r's," Drake advised.

"You say that like it has any meaning," Rosaliy grumbled, trying another "rrr" that sounded a little like she was growling.

"Esmeranda," he demonstrated, dragging out the r. "Stick your tongue on the roof of your mouth."

"Esmerrrr..." she tried. "I sound more like a cat than a Baysellian."

That was true.

"You just need to convince a guard you're a fortune teller from the Old Coast."

"This is necessary-why?"

"Because your mother decided wrapping you up was the best disguise, and it's against your heritage to let the sun touch your head while the harvest moon is in the house of Razdon."

They made their way at an easy, walking pace toward the western gate. A single horse walked between them, reins adorned with tassels and colorful twisted fabric. Drake liked having the natural divide between them; it was easy to pretend like nothing had happened.

"Is that a real thing?" Rosaliy asked, craning her scarf-draped head around the mare, her blue eyes barely peeking through the folds of fabric.

"I've never thought so, but I would not dare suggest such a thing in the company of one of the Old Coasters. They're terrifying."

"What happens if sun touches their heads?"

"I've never asked."

"Well, I'm not going to be the first to chance it," Rosaliy said, pulling a long, draping scarf over her head. She made a face. "I'll never be able to eat all wrapped up, and we're almost to the main road. Hold up."

He pulled the horse to a stop, and Rosaliy rifled around in a bag. A paper bundle marked with a "D" was thrust at him under the horse's neck.

"She made sandwiches," Rosaliy explained.

Family was truly an odd thing.

Inside Drake's sandwich wrapping, he found a note. He pulled it out warily, tossing a glance in Rosaliy's direction. She had been careful not to talk about what had happened that morning, which suited him just fine, but the obvious silence left him waiting for an actual comeuppance. Perhaps this was a threat.

"I have one, too," she told him. "'Be safe, Rose. Love you bunches!' She drew grapes. Yours?"

He unfolded the little paper and read to himself before braving the note aloud. "Best of luck, Drake! Look out for Rose." The "u" of luck was a horseshoe.

Rosaliy sniffed. She crossed the horse to take his note, which put her in uncomfortably close proximity. "I swear she still thinks I'm six years old."

"Meena would do that," he remembered. "Not sandwich notes. That thing where she would try to protect me in the oddest of ways."

Rosaliy wanted to ask questions, but she took a thoughtful bite of her sandwich instead, clearly respecting his privacy. That awoke two extreme reactions in him: the desire to tell her everything, and the need to bury his past so deep she would never find it. This whole trip was such a mistake. Rosaliy was a good person-used to helping on her parents' farm and guiding magical children to harness their potential. She would not understand.

"Rose, if you don't-" he stumbled forward. "If you'd rather I not be here-"

"Do you want to leave?" she asked, eyes widening in panic.

"No," was his too-quick answer. If he was being honest, the answer should have been yes and no, but why start honesty now? "But you don't really need me, and I've caused nothing but trouble, and if you'd rather I wasn't here..."

His awkward declaration brought nothing but confusion. "Is this about all of...that?" She waved in the direction of her house with her sandwich. "I'm sorry my mother is so nosy."

Rosaliy was lucky to have all those people who cared about her and were concerned about her well-being and wanted to jump in to rescue her from herself, but trying to convey any of that would not end well. There was no explaining to her how nice it would be to have people immediately assume he was worthy of rescue.

"It was ridiculous for me to think I wouldn't catch up to myself," he said instead. "Some things you can't hide from. So if you'd rather not be anywhere near me, I understand."

Rosaliy took another bite of her sandwich, absorbing his words. "You keep implying you're a bad person, like it's a thing everybody knows."

"It is a thing everybody knows," he pointed out.

"I don't know it," she argued.

That thought was comforting and beautiful, but it was completely ruined by the obvious fact-she would know it eventually.

"So, no, you don't get to escape," she said, crumpling up her sandwich wrapping and ducking around the horse to repack. "Besides, nobody else thinks I can do this on my own. Why do you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm more objective."

Rosaliy took a mirror, various pouches, and a half-full glass vial-probably magical equipment-out of the bag strapped to the decorated horse. She slipped the objects under the thin, draping robes she had donned. They were probably disappearing into the large pockets in her skirts underneath. Then she quickly withdrew what looked like a little book from her bag. Actually, it looked like the book, the one from Daniella's room. It disappeared onto her person in a flash. He wondered why, but he decided now was a bad time to ask.

"Give yourself a few days," she muttered, smoothing out the robes and pulling out more long, colorful scarves to complete her mystical ensemble. "You'll be rushing in to rescue me like everybody else."

Remembering his exploits of the night before, he admitted, "Coming from someone who broke into your room in a panic two nights ago, I'm already there."

"Broke in?"

"In my defense, you weren't there."

"That's a good defense." Her voice was tinged with laughter.

It was not luck at all, he realized, the flock of caring people in her life. It was her.

"It's just that you're an easy person to care about," he tried to explain.

Her eyes narrowed. "That's why people are always trying to tell me what to do and jump to my rescue? They care too much?"

"Yes?"

She gathered up her draping robes and eyed the horse. "Ok," she admitted. "There's no way I can make it up there on my own in all this. Maybe I do need some help."

That level of assistance was in his grasp. He cupped his hands together. She stepped, and he launched her onto the horse.

"I just wish I had that one thing I was better at than everybody else," she said as she pulled the billowing fabric back into place.

"You do," he assured her.

She looked down, bright blue eyes hopeful. "What is it?"

He should have had an answer, but he couldn't produce one fast enough.

"Hmph," she snorted.

He rifled through his own light bag, taking out a pair of knives. "Would you mind stashing these? Gate guards aren't usually too friendly to people trying to carry in an armory of weapons."

She stuffed the knives under her robes.

He pulled the small knife from his boot and the one in his belt.

"This is traveling light?" she teased, hiding those as well.

It was.

"Keep the sword," she advised. "You'd look odd in Kianne without one."

With that, they were off.

"What's yours?" she said out of nowhere.

"My what?"

"The thing you're better at than anyone else?" she clarified.

"You want a serious answer?"

She nodded. He was still being tugged by those two desires: honesty and crawling back into his hard shell. He decided to take a much less appealing middle path.

"Here's the deal," he offered. "You get two questions."

"Just two?" she considered. "But you have to answer them?"

"I will try to honor the spirit of the question," he promised.

"The moon is in the house of Rrrrrrabzith," she said in an ominous tone, pulling up the scarves so only her flashing eyes were visible, "and I might hex you if you're lying."

"The last thing I need is a moon hex," he agreed.

"Then two it is-a day," she tacked on.

The renegotiation was not too alarming. Letting tomorrow worry about itself was easy. He might be dead by tomorrow, for example. No questions then. He waved his hand for her to begin.

"Ok," she decided after a moment of thought, "what are the Escorpias?"

"That was a lovely r," he complimented.

"Are you stalling?"

He was.

"The Scorps were...are an organization started by Meena to smuggle illegal goods in and out of Bayselle. She built up a network of smugglers, bandits, pirates, merchants, and muscle that controlled all the imports and exports in Via Mar and eventually most of the coast."

He could already see her second question. "I've done all of those things at one point or another, some simultaneously."

"I didn't ask," she pointed out.

"That was free."

"Then I'm saving my second for something really important," she said, or threatened, from where he was standing.

They lapsed into silence when the bustle of the main road was visible through the trees ahead. Rosaliy wrapped the draping scarves around her face and pulled them so only her eyes were visible. He had to admit, Ana had concocted a brilliant plan. The Kianne guard would be sure to let through an old foreign fortune teller without much trouble. The women of the Old Coast had a respect and mystery about them nobody wanted to challenge. Not even bandits would touch them.

"Make sure to hunch over," he coached her. "And disagree with me, no matter what I ask you."

"Nol," she practiced. "Norca."

"Very nice," he approved.

They joined the traffic on the main road. Rosaliy garnered more than a few stares, mostly from wide-eyed children in wagons traveling with their families to the festival. The adults would have liked to stare, but they had to satisfy themselves with furtive side-glances.

They queued up behind a row of four children, dust-covered legs dangling over the back of a wagon, all staring at Rosaliy with fascination. Drake caught their eyes. The older three pretended to be very interested in other things, but the youngest waved at him. Their wagon bumped along when they were admitted through the gate.

Drake walked the horse forward to meet the Kianne guard in his scarlet cloak, holding a scroll and a charcoal pencil.

"Greetings," said the guard, holding out his arm. Drake grasped it. "Names?"

"Senira Esmeranda," Rosaliy rasped out from under her headscarves.

"Drake."

The guard scribbled their names on a list. His eyes flicked between them. "From Bayselle?" he asked.

Drake nodded curtly.

"What region?"

"Old Coast," Drake answered, exaggerating his own accent.

"Purpose for visiting," the guard continued, scrawling that down.

"Here for the festival."

"You and the rest of the world," the guard joked. "Bags."

Drake flipped open his bag.

"The other one," requested the guard, nodding his head to the bag Rosaliy was clutching.

Drake explained the situation to the fake Senira in his rusty version of Old Baysellian. Unless the guard was a linguist in his spare time, he wouldn't be able to tell.

"Nol," Rosaliy barked in disagreement.

"Give me a second," Drake begged the guard, turning to "Esmeranda."

He argued with her, which was really arguing with himself, and he held out his arms for the bag. She growled convincingly and dropped the bag in his hands as if under duress.

"Sorry," apologized the guard. "I have to check."

"Of course you do," Drake agreed. "She's just being stubborn."

The guard pawed through the bag. "And you," he requested.

Drake spread his arms, and the guard patted his sides and boots. "Oh, good-nothing concealed. I swear I was beginning to think Baysellians must sell boots with weapons stashed inside."

That was indeed a common cobbling request, but Drake just smiled pleasantly. Last, the guard withdrew his sword to examine it. He frowned, and Drake tensed.

"Bane can sharpen that for you. Best prices in town," the guard assured him. He eyed Rosaliy-an ominous, hunched figure buried in scarves. She glared back at him. "Does she have to wear the-"

"She does," Drake interrupted. "Trust me, you'll have a scene on your hands if you try to take those off during Razdon."

The guard's eyes lit up. "Is she one of those fortune tellers?"

Drake nodded.

The guard rolled back on the balls of his feet, ignoring the growing line beginning to stack up behind them. "Can she really tell people about their futures?"

"Esmeranda has a sliver of Flifary blood in her veins," Drake whispered. "She can predict anything. When she's in the mood."

The guard looked left and right. His fellow soldiers were busy tending to their own visitors. "So, could you ask her if Kesmona and I have a future together?"

Drake basically conveyed the message. He may have switched "future" for "fate," but since Rosaliy didn't speak the language, accuracy was irrelevant.

"Nol," Rosaliy barked. "Norca."

Drake turned back to the guard.

"Prospects look great," Drake answered him cheerfully. "I'm sure you two will be very happy."

"I don't know much old Baysellian," the guard grumbled, "but I know that much."

"Sorry." Drake shrugged, leaning closer to talk softly. "Between you and me, we've been traveling for days, and she might just be cranky."

The guard grinned and waved them on. "Enjoy the festival!" he called. "Try Boone's in the steel district for the best ale in town!"

Drake intended to keep his head down and associate with as few people as possible, but the gesture of being welcomed into a town was a nice change.

The crowds flowed through the side gate and met up with an even larger stream from the main gate before depositing them on the sprawling fringes of the festival. He helped Rosaliy slide off the horse in a sheltered area between buildings. She untwisted the scarves, but left them still partially concealing her.

"The way things are going, I expect Emilia to be right around the corner," she said, checking the crowd flowing past.

"Easily explained," he assured her. "We're at the festival shopping to purchase wedding clothes."

She laughed. "Only if you want all of Kianne to know I'm here!"

"Good point."

She pulled his knives from under her robes.

"I'll take that one," he said, sticking the short knife back in his boot because it was comforting, "but you might as well stash the rest. You'll get in less trouble than I would for weaponry, and I don't expect any physical altercations with the former queen." She nestled two knives in her bag and stuck the remaining one in her belt. She moved most of the magical odds and ends on her person back to her bag, except for the book. That particular object he never saw. His chronic criminal senses were on high alert. What was special about that book?

"My brother could be finishing up the stage." She pointed in the distance. "Or done for the day and off enjoying the festival."

"You know the kinds of things your brother enjoys," he reasoned, "so you should head off toward the festival." And all the people. "I'll take the stage." He was much more likely to run into someone he knew carousing at a festival, and much less likely to run into someone he knew doing reputable work for the city of Kianne.

"We'll meet at the stage either way," she agreed, giving a few helpful directions before nudging the horse to join the streaming crowd.

Once he had distanced himself from the noise of chattering people and clodding horses, the sound of hammering drew Drake to a massive wooden stage raised above the brick floor of a massive square. A dozen workers rested in the grass after a long morning of work, but a few were still busy hammering beams onto the nearly completed platform.

"Cade working today?" he asked a huddle of men eating lunch in the shade of a building.

They pointed Drake across the stage, and he hurried over, waiting until a flurry of hammer blows had subsided.

"Cade?" he asked while the man reached for another nail.

The man who looked a lot like Darrow wiped his forehead with the arm of his shirt and set aside his hammer.

"What good fortune," Drake said, relieved. "I'm a friend of Rosaliy's and-"

"Stop there!" a voice barked out.

Somebody really needed to explain to guards and soldiers that the very phrase "stop there" was a clear call to flee in the criminal world.

However, Drake ignored the resulting urge to flee, because there was no way the order was directed toward him.

"Rosaliy's looking for-" he tried again.

"Drake," the voice interrupted. "I'd know you anywhere."

Well, this was no good.

He spun to the voice. A guard stalked toward him. Despite the guard's cocoa Baysellian complexion and tell-tale white blond hair, he was wrapped in the cloak of the Kianne soldiers. It was quite common for those who enjoyed enforcing laws as a life's pursuit to flee Bayselle, as the soldiering ranks were more rife with corruption than the criminals. This guard looked vaguely familiar, but Drake could not quite place him. More importantly, the scarlet-cloaked man was scarlet-faced right now.

"I don't know who you think I am," Drake said, sure he knew exactly who Drake was, "but if-"

The guard had reached him by then, grabbed his arm with one hand and slugged him in the stomach with the other.

The breath evacuated Drake's lungs, and he gaped like a fish.

"Hey, now," argued Cade. "You can't just-"

"Are you two working together?" exclaimed the furious guard. "Round them both up!"

"What?" said an incredulous Cade as he was chained and pushed onto a wagon. "What's going on?"

He looked to Drake for answers. Considering the situation, those answers would not be forthcoming.

"Not a word out of you," the guard threatened, yanking his chains tight and shoving him onto the bed of the wagon after Cade. "Or I dole out the punishment you really deserve right here."

Well, that sounded ominous. Drake remembered the man now. He may have gotten this man framed for corruption in order to take the fall for one of the Scorp's military contacts. He may have been the reason the man had to leave Bayselle and make a new life elsewhere. This grudge may have been a reasonable one, all things considered.

On the plus side, Drake was headed straight for Kianne Castle. On the negative side-well, the chains on his wrists were a good illustration of the negative side.