At bedtime, I still felt shaken by Abdo’s blithe suggestion and how much it upset me. However many years in the past Jannoula lay, her shadow seemed to lurk below the surface like some dread behemoth.
I went to my room, hoping my bedtime routines would settle me. I washed and oiled the wide band of scales around my waist and the narrower one winding around my left forearm. I flopped onto the four-poster bed, breathed myself calm, and descended into my garden of grotesques.
Ever since Abdo had described my garden as a gatehouse, its surfaces had taken on an odd flatness when I arrived, as if the trees and statuary were a painted backdrop for a play. His suggestion had made me too aware that none of this was real, like a sleeper realizing she’s dreaming. It’s hard to stay asleep once you know.
I stood still a moment with my eyes closed, quietly breathing life back into my construct. When I opened my eyes, everything had righted itself: the sun warmed my face again; the grass individuated into blades, dewy and ticklish between my toes; I smelled roses and rosemary on the wafting breeze.
I checked Jannoula’s cottage first, making sure the padlock on the door still held, as if I might have summoned her just by thinking about her. I said good night to all the denizens I passed, and when I reached his golden nest, I patted Finch—Nedouard—upon his bald head, pleased to have found him, whatever his flaws. I blew kisses toward Bluey, the painter, in her stream of swirling colors and Glimmerghost, the hermit, in her butterfly garden; I was coming for them next.
Settling the garden settled me somewhat. I returned to myself in Dame Okra’s green guest room. I had one last task to attend to before I could sleep. I pulled the silver necklace out of my shirt and felt for the sweetheart knot thnik.
I flipped the little switch. Upon Glisselda’s desk in the study, an ornamented box would be chirping like a cricket. Mine was not the only device connected to that receiver. Comonot had one, as did some of his generals, Count Pesavolta, the Regent of Samsam, and the knights training at Fort Oversea. A page sat at the desk all day, waiting to take calls.
“Castle Orison, identify yourself, if you please,” droned a bored young voice.
“Seraphina Dombegh,” I said.
I thought the boy had made a rude sound, but it was his chair scraping back as he stood, and then there was the thump of the door closing. He knew whom he was to fetch if I called. I settled down to wait. When two dear familiar voices cried, “Phina!” in crackling unison over my quigutl device, I could not help smiling.
Josquin had been serious about the early start. He met Abdo and me at Dame Okra’s door before dawn, put us on horses, and led us through the dewy streets. Shopkeepers swept their stoops, the smell of first bread wafted enticingly, and traffic was light.
“All according to plan,” Josquin said proudly. “Santi Wilibaio’s market begins today. By noon the streets will be full of calves and capering kids.”
Santi Wilibaio was our St. Willibald, called St. Villibaltus in Samsam. Whatever our differences, we Southlanders share the Saints.
At the city gates we met our escort, eight soldiers, half sporting blond beards, all with white plumes bobbing ostentatiously above their soup-bowl helmets. Their breastplates were engraved with martial scenes; their puffed sleeves, in Count Pesavolta’s colors, were like great gold and orange cabbages. Their horses’ harnesses—and those of our own mounts, I noticed—were studded with brass ornaments and tiny bells. Clearly, we weren’t intending to sneak up on anyone.
Josquin hailed the leader, a man with broad shoulders, a big stomach, and a yellow beard like the blade of a shovel. He had no mustache; suddenly Josquin’s chin beard seemed less idiosyncratic. This was some Ninysh fashion.
“Captain Moy,” said Josquin. Moy bowed in the saddle, removing his helmet with a flourish. His blond hair was thinning on top; I guessed him to be about forty-five years old.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, using up all my Ninysh in one go and experiencing an anxious flutter at meeting an armed stranger who already knew what I was. It wasn’t my secret anymore; that was out of my hands. It was still unsettling.
“The honor is ours,” said Captain Moy in decent Goreddi. He flashed me a crooked smile full of square teeth, which I found oddly reassuring. “Our troop is called Des Osho—the Eight. We accompany visiting dignitaries.”
Ha ha, we’re dignitaries, said Abdo, watching Moy’s plumes the way a cat watches a ball of wool.
Captain Moy barked an order, and the others rode into formation around us. None of them stared at Abdo or me; they were professionals. We left the city together, passing the growing line of carts coming to market. Farmers and teamsters gaped at our escort; we didn’t look like the sort the Eight usually accompanied. Abdo waved at the farmers and grinned.
The nearest baronet’s estate was Palasho do Lire, a day’s ride away; we would stay the night there. The Ninysh countryside opened up into rolling pastureland, interspersed with acre strips of winter wheat; this early in spring, the stalks were a vibrant green, patches of black soil occasionally visible amid the thick growth.
The road cut straight for the horizon, running between low stone walls or hedgerows, curving around a village or vineyard; it bridged more than one river, swollen with spring runoff. Windmills, triangular sails spread to the brisk breeze, stood watch on distant rises; peasants looked up from mucky onion patches to gawp at us. Abdo blew them kisses.
Our escort started six ahead and two behind, but things soon shifted. Abdo, bored with the temperate pace, spurred himself to the front. Captain Moy dropped back and rode to my right; Josquin stayed on my left.
“We’ve all been looking forward to this assignment,” said Moy jovially. “An interesting mission is worth its weight in gold.”
“Are we interesting?” I asked, feeling my face go hot.
“Don’t misunderstand me, maidy,” said the captain, observing me sidelong. “It’s not because of what you are, but what we are to do. Escorting fussy nobles gets old quickly, but searching for persons unknown? This is a challenge. We must discuss in more detail the women you seek. Josquin knows almost nothing.”
Ahead of us, Abdo was engaged in elaborate hand signaling, holding his splayed hands above his head like a bird’s crest. The soldier beside him removed his helmet—or her helmet, I should say. Bareheaded, she was clearly a woman, apple-cheeked and laughing, two golden braids wrapped around her scalp. She crowned Abdo with her plumed headgear, exclaiming delightedly.
“Excuse me,” said Moy, spurring his horse. “I have some discipline to maintain.”
“His daughter, Nan,” Josquin muttered to me, indicating the woman. “They try each other’s patience, but they’re a good team. This honor guard isn’t where they stick the lazy and incapable; it’s a true honor for those who have earned it.”
I wondered how they’d earned it; Ninys had seldom helped Goredd in wartime. I decided it would be rude to ask.