The Tribesmen exchange an uneasy glance and one disappears into the tent. I want to warn Elias about Afya, about what Spiro said. But the other guard watches us so carefully that I cannot do it without him seeing.
After only a minute, the Tribesman waves us into the tent. Elias turns to me, as if he’s adjusting my manacles, but instead he palms me the key. He strides through the tent flaps as if he owns the encampment. Izzi, Keenan, and I hurry to follow.
The inside of the tent is strewn with handwoven rugs. A dozen colored lamps cast geometric patterns over silk-encased pillows. Afya Ara-Nur, exquisite and dark-skinned, with black-and-red braids spilling down her shoulders, sits behind a rough-hewn desk. It is heavy and out of place amid the dazzling wealth around her. Her fingers click the beads of a counting frame, and she inks her findings into a book in front of her. A bored-looking boy about Izzi’s age, and with Afya’s same sharp beauty, sits beside her.
“I only allowed you inside, slaver,” Afya says without looking at us, “so I could personally tell you that if you ever step foot in my camp again, I’ll gut you myself.”
“I’m hurt, Afya,” Elias says as something small spins from his hand and into Afya’s lap. “You’re not nearly as friendly as the first time we met.” Elias’s voice is smooth, suggestive, and my face heats.
Afya snatches the coin. Her jaw drops when Elias removes his face scarf.
“Gibran—” she says to the boy, but quick as flame, Elias draws his scims from across his back and steps forward. He has a blade at each of their throats, his eyes calm and terrifyingly flat.
“You owe me a favor, Afya Ara-Nur,” he says. “I’m here to collect.”
The boy—Gibran—looks uncertainly at Afya.
“Let Gibran sit outside.” Afya’s tone is reasonable, even gentle. But her hands curl into fists atop her desk. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“We need a witness from your Tribe when you grant my favor,” Elias says. “Gibran will do nicely.” Afya opens her mouth but says nothing, apparently flabbergasted, and Elias goes on. “You’re honor bound to hear my request, Afya Ara-Nur. And honor bound to grant it.”
“Honor be damned—”
“Fascinating,” Elias says. “How would your council of elders feel about that? The only Zaldara in the Tribal lands—the youngest ever chosen—casting away her honor like bad grain.” He nods at the elaborate geometric tattoo peeking out of her sleeve—an indication of her rank, no doubt. “A half hour in a tavern this morning told me all I needed to know about Tribe Nur, Afya. Your position isn’t secure.” Afya’s lips thin to a hard line. Elias has hit a nerve.
“The elders would understand that it was for the good of the Tribe.”
“No,” Elias says. “They’d say you’re not fit to lead if you make errors in judgment that threaten the Tribe. Errors like giving a favor coin to a Martial.”
“That favor was for the future Emperor!” Afya’s anger propels her to her feet. Elias digs his blade deeper into her neck. The Tribeswoman doesn’t appear to notice. “Not a traitor fugitive who, apparently, has become a slaver.”
“They’re not slaves.”
I take out the key and unlock my manacles, and then Izzi’s and Keenan’s, to drive home Elias’s point. “They’re companions,” he says. “They’re part of my favor.”
“She won’t agree,” Keenan whispers to me under his breath. “She’s going to sell us out to the bleeding Martials.”
I’ve never felt so exposed. Afya could shout a word, and within minutes there would be soldiers all over us.
Beside me, Izzi tenses. I grab her hand and squeeze. “We have to trust Elias,” I whisper, trying to reassure her as much as myself. “He knows what he’s doing.” All the same, I feel for my dagger, hidden beneath my cloak. If Afya does betray us, I will not go down without a fight.
“Afya.” Gibran swallows nervously, eyeing the blade at his throat. “Perhaps we should hear him out?”
“Perhaps,” Afya says through clenched teeth, “you should keep your mouth shut about things you don’t understand and stick to seducing Zaldars’ daughters.” She turns to Elias. “Drop your blades and tell me what you want—and why. No explanation from you means no favor from me. I don’t care what you threaten me with.”
Elias ignores the first order. “I want you to personally escort my companions and me safely out of Nur and to Kauf Prison before the winter snows and, once there, aid us in our attempt to break Laia’s brother, Darin, out of the prison.”
What in the skies? Just days ago, he told Keenan we didn’t need anyone else. Now he’s trying to pull in Afya? Even if we did reach the prison intact, she’d turn us over the second we arrived, and we’d disappear into Kauf forever.
“That’s about three hundred favors in one, you bastard.”
“A favor coin is whatever can be requested in a breath.”
“I know what a bleeding favor coin is.” Afya drums her fingers on her desk and turns to me, as if noticing me for the first time.
“Spiro Teluman’s little friend,” she says. “I know who your brother is, girl. Spiro told me—and a few others too, from the way the rumors have spread. Everyone whispers of the Scholar who knows the secrets of Serric steel.”
“Spiro started the rumors?”
Afya sighs and speaks slowly, as if dealing with a small, irritating child. “Spiro wanted the Empire to believe your brother passed his knowledge to other Scholars. Until the Martials get names from Darin, they’ll keep him alive. Besides, Spiro always was one for foolish tales of heroism. He’s probably hoping that this stirs up the Scholars—gives them a bit of backbone.”
“Even your ally is helping us,” Elias says. “More reason for you to do the same.”
“My ally has disappeared,” Afya says. “No one’s seen him for weeks. I’m certain the Martials have him—and I have no wish to share the same fate.” She lifts her chin to Elias. “If I reject your offer?”
“You didn’t get to where you are by breaking promises.” Elias drops his scims. “Grant my favor, Afya. Fighting it is a waste of time.”
“I cannot decide this alone,” Afya says. “I need to speak with some of my Tribe. We’d need at least a few others with us, for appearances’ sake.”
“In that case, your brother stays here,” Elias says. “As does the coin.”
Gibran opens his mouth to protest, but Afya just shakes her head. “Get them food and drink, brother.” She sniffs. “And baths. Don’t take your eyes off them.” She glides past us and through the tent flaps, saying something in Sadhese to the guards outside, and we are left to wait.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Elias
Hours later, with evening deepening into night, Afya finally pushes through the tent flaps. Gibran, his feet up on his sister’s desk as he flirts shamelessly with both Izzi and Laia, jumps up when she enters, like a soldier frightened of a superior officer’s censure.
Afya eyes Izzi and Laia, scrubbed clean and clad in flowing green Tribal dresses. They sit close to each other in a corner, Izzi’s head on Laia’s shoulder as they whisper back and forth. The blonde girl’s bandage is gone, but she blinks gingerly, her eye still red from the scouring it got in the storm. Keenan and I wear the dark pants and sleeveless hooded vests common in the Tribal lands, and Afya nods approvingly.
“At least you don’t look—or smell—like Barbarians anymore. You have been given food? Drink?”
“We got everything we needed, thank you,” I say. Other than the one thing we need most, of course, which is the reassurance that she won’t turn us over to the Martials. You’re her guest, Elias. Don’t irritate her. “Well,” I amend, “almost everything.”
Afya’s smile is a flash of light, blinding as the sun glinting off a cheaply gilded Tribal wagon.
“I grant your favor, Elias Veturius,” she says. “I will escort you safely to Kauf Prison before the winter snows and, once there, aid you in your attempt to break Laia’s brother Darin out of the prison in any way you require.”
I eye her warily. “But …”