Cenzi did not punish her for her learning. If anything, she found that she could reach the Second World easier than before.
On the fourth day, after First Call prayers and the necessary ablutions, Ana, Karl, and Mahri broke their fast with stale bread and weak tea. “There’s nothing else here to eat,” Mahri said. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go to Oldtown Center and the market there.”
“All of us?” Karl asked. “The streets aren’t safe, not for us. Ana should stay here. We know they’re looking for her, especially after the fire.”
Ana scoffed. “If anything, Karl, you should be the one staying here.
Wouldn’t the conscription squads love to get hold of you? I should go; they’re not grabbing women off the street.”
“We can all go,” Mahri answered. “The air will do us all good, and no one will notice you who does not need to see you-I promise that.”
Ana nodded emphatically, putting down the crust on which she’d been gnawing. “I’m tired of hiding away and not seeing the sun. I’ll go mad if I have to stay in here much longer.”
Karl frowned, but Mahri chuckled. “There’s your answer. I’m told the farmers have brought in fresh produce; I’ve had one of them set some aside for us. And one of the bakers has promised me new-made loaves-without the sawdust: he lives close to the old rooms over the tavern, and he’s grateful for what you did, Ana. And I know of a farmer who has brought in fresh butter to go with the bread.”
Ana’s mouth was already watering involuntarily at the thought.
The depression that bound her lifted slightly. “Then let’s go now,” she said, “before they sell everything.”
They were quickly out of the rooms and moving through the early morning streets. The number of people on the streets steadily increased as they approached Oldtown Center and the market set around the open square, but the crowd was different than the crowds of months past. There were few males out, and those Ana saw were mostly elderly or visibly crippled. Mahri had kept his promise: Karl leaned heavily on a crutch Mahri had given him, and when Ana looked at his face, it was the lined visage of an elderly great-vatarh, with wisps of white hair like faint clouds above an age-spotted scalp. She wondered whether Mahri had done something similar to her face, as no one seemed to pay her any attention at all, the gazes of those they passed sliding away from her without curiosity.
The market bustled with activity, loud with haggling as buyers examined the offerings with critical eyes. The tables in front of the sellers were rather bare, and the produce on display looked either too early-harvested or limp and old. Still, the city was hungry, bargains were few, and Ana knew that everything offered would be sold. The sight of the market and the desperation she could feel there, dissipated any of the joy she felt at being outside again. Despite the sun, despite the warmth, she felt cold and ill, and she knew that the hunger that gnawed at her stomach was shared by most of those here.
“The bread, Mahri,” she said. “Let’s get the bread first. But one loaf only. The rest. . let the baker sell it to them.” She gestured with her chin at the people. “They need it as much as we do. More.”
Mahri grunted. His single eye stared at her. “This way, then,” he said, and they followed him across the square toward the buildings on the other side. As they approached the stalls and storefront there, Karl slowed down, his hand grasping for Ana’s and pulling her back slightly.
“Look,” he husked.
Ahead of them was a squad of Garde Kralji, well-armed and obviously looking their way. An o’offizier, his uniform displaying the dragon-skull insignia of the Bastida, led the gardai. “Mahri,” Ana said warningly, as quietly as she could.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “I told you that you’d be safe. Do nothing to arouse suspicion. Nothing.”
He continued walking directly toward them. Reluctantly, Ana followed. She smiled in their direction, as if wishing them a good day. The o’offizier smiled back. His hand made a short waving motion, and the gardai with him spread out, letting the trio pass. They moved between the gardai, Ana keeping her head down. She glanced over at Karl-and his face was Karl’s again, the spell-mask gone. “Mahri-” she said in alarm, but it was already too late. Hands grabbed her, grabbed Karl, and though she tried to begin a chant, they held her too closely. She heard Karl speak a release word, and one of the gardai went down with a cry, but then the others bore him down to the ground, forcing a gag into his mouth. His eyes were wide and furious, and one of the gardai clubbed him with the pommel of his sword.
“Mahri!” Ana shouted in the grasp of the gardai, struggling as they held her arms, as they tried to shove a gag into her mouth as well.
“What have you done?”
But Mahri wasn’t there. He had vanished.
Retreats
Sergei ca’Rudka
The battle of Passe a’Fiume began slowly. The same day that the Kraljiki quietly departed the town to return to Nessantico, the Hirzg broke from his encampment on the mountainside, leading his army to the parley field. There, in full view of those watching from the city walls, they erected their tents: thousands of them, like thick mushrooms clustered in the grass. A force of a few dozen Firenzcian chevarittai, dressed in gilded armor and seated on black destriers, rode forward to the far end of the bridge, led by Starkkapitan ca’Linnett.
Sergei, watching from the wall, saw one of the chevarittai ride forward from the group, his spear tipped with a white kerchief. He cantered his horse across the bridge until he was directly underneath Sergei. He brandished a scroll before dropping it in the dust of the road before the gate. The man saluted Sergei with clasped hands, then turned his horse and rode back across the bridge.
Sergei knew what it would say, even before it was delivered to him.
The scroll called for an individual challenge: for the Kraljiki (who could not answer), and for Sergei, who could. “Do we ride out, Commandant?” Sergei could hear the eagerness in Elia ca’Montmorte’s voice.
“Or, if you don’t wish to accept the challenge, I will go in your stead; I owe ca’Linnett for what he did to us at Ville Colhelm. It would give me nothing but pleasure to see the grass of Nessantico grow tall with his blood.”
“You can’t answer the challenge, Commandant.” Bahik cu’Garret, A’Offizier of the Garde Civile in Passe a’Fiume-but only a vajiki, not a chevaritt-was shaking his head, as was U’Teni cu’Bachiga. “You can’t let the fate of Passe a’Fiume rest on a duel between chevarittai.”
“Why not?” ca’Montmorte snorted. “There’s honor in it. And Passe a’Fiume will still be standing afterward, and with the banner of Nessantico flying over it.”
“The chevarittai code has been abandoned for generations,”
cu’Bachiga answered. “Look at Jablunkov, or the Battle of the Wastes, or the Riven Fields-there are a dozen or more examples. Why should this be any different? It’s posturing, and nothing more, and the Hirzg knows it. It’s the chevarittai playing at war, and even should you happen to prevail, Chevaritt ca’Montmorte, the Hirzg won’t take his army away.”
“Then he dishonors himself as a chevaritt,” ca’Montmorte retorted.
“He is Hirzg, and he wants to be Kraljiki,” cu’Garret scoffed. “You think your ‘dishonor’ worries him even slightly?”
Sergei listened to the men argue, rubbing the smooth metal of his nose. “Enough!’ he said sharply. “Elia, I’m afraid I agree with A’Offizier cu’Garret: no matter the outcome of this challenge, the Hirzg isn’t likely to pull back his army after coming this far. I think it’s more likely a ruse.
Our task here is to delay the Hirzg’s advance to give the Kraljiki time to prepare the defense of Nessantico- would you have me swing open the gates of Passe a’Fiume because a chevarittai champion lost their challenge?” Ca’Montmorte scowled but didn’t answer. “I can’t do that. Chevaritt, I would love to ride out across the bridge with you and answer this ca’Linnett’s challenge in the name of the Kraljiki, but I can’t. I won’t.”
