Clermont made no move to take them. “Doesn’t day shift in the mines start in just a few hours?”
“That’s why we’re in a hurry,” Jenna said. “Elsewise, we won’t get any sleep at all.”
Clermont gave her a long, searching look, then released her shoulder, settling back into his saddle, frowning, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.
“What about you?” Clermont said to Byram. “Do you have anything to say?”
“Nossir,” Byram croaked.
Turning to the other blackbirds, Clermont said, “Search the wagon.”
That didn’t take long, because there wasn’t much to see except Mick, huddled in a corner, ready to piss himself. Still, it seemed like a lifetime to Jenna, who sat, shoulders hunched, waiting for the blast that would signal the end of the world.
Finally, the blackbirds jumped down from the wagon. “There’s nothing, sir,” one said.
Clermont rubbed his chin, squinting at her like he was fascinated. “Your eyes,” he said, “are an unusual color. Like old gold, or candlelight through honey.” The way he said it gave her the crawls. She didn’t like him noticing anything about her. It made her glad she was dressed as a boy.
“Sir?” one of the blackbirds said. “You want to bring them along, and see what the garrison commander says?”
Clermont hesitated, then shook his head. “No. We’ve wasted enough time here.” When Jenna still sat frozen, afraid to move, he snapped, “Are you deaf? Go on, then.” He waved them on down the road.
Jenna loosened the reins and slapped them across the broad backs of the horses, and they rattled into motion. Behind her, she heard one of the blackbirds make a rude joke, and the rest of them laughing.
Her ears were sharp as her hawk’s eyes. Her da claimed she could hear candy rattle into a jar from a mile away.
She heard the horses moving, slowly at first, accelerating into a drumbeat that dwindled as the distance between them grew.
“Scummer,” Mick whispered.
Beside her, Byram let out a long, shuddering sigh. All of his cockiness had drained away.
As they mounted a small rise, Jenna reined in the horses and looked back. The moon had risen yet higher, and the riders cast long shadows behind them as they reached the bridge. Even at that distance, Jenna could hear the faint clatter of hooves as they hit the decking.
Byram stirred beside her. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That was a close call. Guess it’s just as well it didn’t work. If that bridge had blown, we’d be on our way to gaol.”
“Hang on.” Jenna watched as the last of the blackbirds rode onto the bridge. She saw a glare of light, oddly silent, followed by a distant boom, and then another right on its heels. The bridge crumbled, pitching men and horses into the gorge, leaving a jagged hole where the span had been. A plume of dust rose, glittering. On the far side of the bridge, a small cluster of survivors spurred forward, collecting at the edge of the cliff.
A primitive joy filled the void inside Jenna that had opened when Maggi and Riley died. Jenna tried not to think too hard about why she liked to blow things up and watch them burn.
Byram hooted and pounded Jenna on the back, his skepticism forgotten. “Did ya see that, Flamecaster? Did ya see it?” Even Mick was grinning broadly.
Jenna was glad the surviving blackbirds were on the far side of the bridge. She couldn’t tell whether Clermont was among them, but she had a feeling he was. He’d seen them—he’d seen all three of them, and now he’d be looking for them.
With any luck, though, he’d be looking for a boy named Munroe.
7
ODEN’S FORD
“You never come to see me these days unless you’re on your way to kill someone,” Taliesin said.
That was close enough to the truth that Ash didn’t dispute it.
The Voyageur had her back to him, had not so much as looked at him, but she always seemed to know him by his step, or the smell of him, or because he was so simple and she so clever that she could tell what he was likely to do on any given day.
“I’m a second-year at Mystwerk now,” Ash said. “There’s much more work than last year. The masters and the deans keep us busy.”
“I see,” Taliesin said. She squatted barefoot between the rows of carrots, expertly lifting them with her digging fork and sliding them into her carry bag. Taliesin Beaugarde might be dean of Spiritas, but she never put on airs. The contrast between the healer and the humblest master at Mystwerk was striking. Wizards were arrogant by nature, and Taliesin had her feet planted firmly in the earth.