Lamentation

smiling despite the weariness that pulled at him. “Though I’m not sure they will hear it.”

He’d seen the note declaring the Exercise of Holiness and had crumpled it into a ball when he saw that Sethbert had been deputized by the new King of Windwir.

That pompous cesspool carp had sent him a note three days before the Papal decree. Rudolfo should have expected this sudden setback.

You will pay for what you have done, the note read, and Rudolfo knew that though on the surface it could be read in many ways, it was about the Lady Jin Li Tam. It had taken some time for the spies to take word back to the Overseer-largely because the one Physician of Penitent Torture Rudolfo had brought along had not yet finished redeeming them, turning them to Rudolfo’s cause. Rudolfo was pleased to send those spies back to Sethbert with news of his betrothal to Jin Li Tam.

Perhaps, he thought, that had been an error in judgment.

The forests and grasslands stretched out before them now and they raced north, stopping only when they had to. The narrow road-more a track really-passed through a few scattered settlements, but the riders stayed low on their horses, their eyes fixed on the line of mountains.

They rounded a corner and a white bird dropped from the sky into Rudolfo’s net. He held up his hand and they halted. They waited, and Lieutenant Alyn, the lead scout, made his way back to them ten or fifteen minutes later.

“There’s an Androfrancine caravan yonder,” he said, pointing to a point where the road disap {thes Npeared around a slight rise. “Mostly on foot. A few with carts or wagons.”

Rudolfo stroked his beard. “Are they armed?”

The scout nodded. “A few guards-none in gray. They look to be up from Pylos or Turam.”

Making their way to the Palace, he realized, compelled to obey their Pope. “Very well,” Rudolfo said. “I will ride forward. You will accompany me.” The others looked uncomfortable but unsurprised. “The rest of you-follow at a distance.”

Rudolfo rode ahead and Lieutenant Alyn fell in just behind. He reached beneath his cloak and loosened his sword in its scabbard as he went.

As he cantered around the bend, Rudolfo raised his hand in greeting. He quickly scanned the collection of carts and old men in tattered robes, sized up the handful of guards, and whistled a tune from the Hymnal of the Wandering Army low enough for Alyn to hear it. The lieutenant nodded once, slowly.

“These are dark days for pilgrimage,” he said to the guard who approached him. “I’ve a half-squad of scouts and would offer you escort if you ride to heed the Pope’s homecoming call.”

The guard, riding a tired old paint, scratched his head, pushing his steel cap back as he did. “You bear the coloring of the Gypsy Scouts,” he said.

Rudolfo nodded. “We do.”

“You’d do best to ride on then. There is no longer any kin-clave for the Foresters.” He waved to the Androfrancines, some of whom were now standing and looking in their direction. “Especially with this lot.”

Rudolfo studied them. “Really?”

The guard lowered his voice. “Me, I’m a Turam Bookhouse guard on half-rations and half-pay to see these oldsters back to their new home. I care little for the politics of kin-clave. The rumor birds say Sethbert brought down Windwir with a spell.”

“It’s true,” Rudolfo said. “I’ve seen it.”

“Yet the Writ of Shunning is to the Foresters and their Gypsy King… that damned Rudolfo.”

Rudolfo shrugged. “Who can know what to believe?” He watched the other guards as they also approached now. “Still,” he said, “you are short a few blades for the work ahead.”

The look on the guard’s face brought a smile to Rudolfo’s lips. “What work do you speak of?”

Rudolfo stretched high in the saddle and pointed north and east. “That line of scrub there marks the bank of the First River. You’ll pass within two leagues of it, and those are Marsher lands.”

The guard nodded. “Aye. We planned to slip past the Marsh King’s skirmishers in the night.”

Rudolfo sat back down in the saddle. “Perhaps you will succeed,” he said. “Perhaps you will not.” He shrugged. “I’m offering myself and my half-squad of Gypsy Scouts. If the Writ of Shunning is your concern, we’ll ride apart from your charges and watch out from afar.”

An old Androfrancine broke from the group and approached. “What is the concern here, Hamik?” he asked. True, he wore a simple, tattered robe, but Rudolfo saw the ring upon his finger.

“You’re the arch-scholar of this concern,” Rudolfo observed.

The old man nodded. “I’m Cyril. Of the Turam Francine House. You’ve the look of a Forester about you.”

Rudolfo nodded and bowed slightly with a flourish. “I’m sure I must.”

“He’s offered his blades to ours. He claims a half-squad of Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts.”

He watched at least three emotions wash over the arch-scholar’s face. At first, surprise. Then anger. Then weariness. These are the only currency our hearts can spend now, Rudolfo thought. He added his own voice to that of the guard’s. “I am also bound for the Papal Summer Palace to parley with Pope Resolute regarding the Desolation of Windwir. I am aware of his Writ of Shunning but remain confident that the matter shall be resolved peaceably in its own time and manner.” He patted the pommel of his sword. “Meanwhile, my blade and the blade of my men for the true children of P’Andro Whym. We will keep our distance if it pleases you.”

A hard look crossed the arch-scholar’s face. “And you want nothing for this?”

He smiled. “Only the chance to restore faith in my questionable name.”

Both the guard and the arch-scholar’s eyes widened a bit, and Rudolfo savored their silence as if it were a fine, chilled wine.

Finally, the arch-scholar nodded and spoke. “Very well, then.” He paused and Rudolfo could see the question he wanted to ask next forming on his face before forming on his tongue. “An {guepaud what is your name?”

Rudolfo threw back his head and laughed. “But of course I am Rudolfo, Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses, General of the Wandering Army.” He inclined his head, doing his best to bow from the saddle. “And I am at your service.”

Neb

Neb stood at the river’s edge and watched the setting sun. They’d made their camp the day before, setting the tents up carefully outside the place where the city’s walls had once stood, near the river. Petronus-Petros, he reminded himself-was a crafty old fox. He’d studied very little Androfrancine Law in the Orphan School but he’d read enough of the codices and Council of Findings volumes to know that it was more complex than a Whymer Maze.

He wasn’t sure it would work, but he hoped it would.

They’d spent the day digging trenches in the charred earth, long shallow trenches.

“We start with those who fell outside the city,” the old man had told them when they gathered up that morning. “We’ll work in the daylight, and should anyone approach, I will deal with them.”

They worked all day digging the trenches, but no one approached. At one point, Neb thought he’d seen a rider at a distance, but the rider turned south and vanished.

Now, he stood by the river and stripped out of his clothes. They were black with soot, along with the rest of him.

Neb could’ve bathed in camp. There were tubs of heated water that a few of the women had put on for the diggers. But the day had worn into him like a wagon wheel on a familiar road and he’d needed to slip away from the others to recollect himself.

He waded into the cold waters, and jumped when his foot moved across something round and slippery. The skull floated to the top, pulled downriver by the slow current. He watched it go and realized suddenly that he felt nothing at all.

“This is my life now,” he said to the skull as it bobbed away.

Wind he could not feel caught at the ashy ground and put up a small cloud of gray. “Hail, boy,” a voice said from the cloud.

Neb looked, seeing nothing, silently cursing himself for not bringing a knife. He crouched in the water, his hand feeling for a rock. But knife or rock, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he could bring himself to wield either, it would do nothing against an enemy he couldn’t see.