quickly closed the distance between us. “I think we need to get out of town,” he said.
“No,” I answered. “Follow me.”
The big mare didn’t protest as we rode into the crowds just past the docks. Here we could barely move, but neither could our pursuers. Still, we stood out plainly against the mostly pedestrian traffic. People bounced off my uncertain mount like logs shooting down the swollen river. Some of our pursuers dismounted and shoved through the crowd toward us, but their progress on foot was no faster.
“We’ve gotta ditch the horses,” I said, and led us toward an alley.
“I don’t think so,” Anders protested. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to train this big guy?”
I didn’t have time to argue. I led us between two buildings and onto the next street, which was just as crowded. Worse, these people weren’t moving, but instead stood watching an open-air burlesque act. I saw the first pair of pursuers reach the far end of the alley. We were stuck, and if they started drawing swords in this crowd, innocent people would get hurt.
“Okay, now I’m open to suggestions,” I said over the show’s music and cheering.
Calmly, Anders pulled a small pouch from his saddlebag. He drew his crossbow, tied the pouch to the tip of the bolt and fired it at the pursuers. I was impressed; he shot one-handed, on a horse being jostled on all sides, and still managed to part the hair of the closest pursuer as he ran toward us. The bolt stuck hard in the wooden side of a refuse barrel, and the impact tore open the pouch. I heard the distinctive tinkle of coins hitting the ground.
The two men at the head of the gang immediately skidded to a stop, turned and ran toward the money. The men behind them converged on it at the same time, as did a bunch of bystanders.
“Damn, how much money was that?” I asked.
“Enough to keep them busy. Now you follow me for a while.”
He cut his horse in front of me and edged along between the crowd and the buildings. His mount was pretty impressive, picking carefully over fallen drunks and uncertain muddy spots, until the crowd began to thin and we reached the edge of town. The road became a highway that stretched north in the darkness. We continued on until we were far enough away we’d get plenty of warning if anyone pursued us. Then we stopped to let our horses rest a bit.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just doing my job,” he modestly replied.
“Want to tell me exactly what that job is?”
He reached for something inside his jacket. Instantly I had my sword out and at his throat again. “Slow, buddy,” I warned. “No hurry now.”
“Okay, okay,” he said easily. With two fingers, he withdrew a tightly rolled parchment, sealed with wax. “I’m just the messenger.”
I recognized the seal, and blood pounded in my ears as I broke it. I turned so that the glow from town gave me enough light to read. The message was short and, like all the best messages, left the reader with only one course of action. I rolled it up and stuck it in my bags. “I ought to say no,” I told the young soldier.
“He said you wouldn’t,” Anders replied with an easy grin.
“What else did he tell you?”
“That I could trust you. And not to lie to you.”
I nodded. “Good advice. So why did you follow me for so long without saying something?”
“I tried to find you in Neceda, but you left just as I got there. I saw you coming out of that tavern where your office is, actually, but didn’t know it was you until I talked to the barmaid.”
“Did she rat me out right away?”
“Sure. After I gave her five gold pieces and my best smile. And she lied about which way you went, but after she described you I knew I’d seen you and which way you’d really gone. I followed you to the river, but by then you were on the boat. I figured I’d keep following you and wait for a chance to talk privately.” He shrugged. “Things kept getting in my way, though.”
“Like those muggers?”
“Amateurs,” he snorted. “If they’d known when to quit, they’d still be alive.”
My full reaction to the message hadn’t hit me yet. “I guess we should get started, then.” I gestured toward the moonlit road ahead. “Lead on, then, Mr. Anders.”
“Sir Michael,” he corrected with another grin. “But you can call me Mike.”
We headed away from Pema toward a place a hundred miles away, and for me, twenty years back in time.
FOUR
We crossed the Gusay, which put us back in Muscodia, and headed north. We traveled the length of Casselward and, at last, entered Arentia in the middle of the night.
The Hornfisher River had been unaffected by the rains to the south. We used a small raft hidden beneath a well-built camouflaged shed that was also stocked with many other things a secret agent like Sir Mike might need.
All kings and queens employed people like him, and they all denied it publicly. But power wasn’t a gift for life, and to hang onto it, sometimes nasty things needed to be done. The best men (and often women) for these jobs never looked the part, and Anders certainly didn’t. He laughed easily, talked a lot, and seemed content to let me make decisions about things like places to camp. There was an iron quality to him, though, that I sensed would be quite willing to knock me over the head and bring me to Arentia trussed and thrown across my saddle if I gave him too much grief.
We guided the horses onto the raft and poled it across the Hornfisher. The looming shore had thick forest down to the waterline, and I wondered if there was room to land even this tiny vessel. The dock, when we touched it, was actually disguised as a pile of driftwood, and only when I stepped onto it did I realize it was solidly anchored to the river bottom.
I don’t know what I expected to happen when I set foot on Arentian soil again-maybe for it to burst into flames beneath my feet or something-but of course it was just dirt, like any other dirt.
We pulled the raft out of the water, tucked it into a depression dug for it and covered it with leaves. Then, leading our horses, we weaved through the trees until at last we hit a trail. I’d have had a hard time following the path in broad daylight, let alone at night, but Anders worked from memory and landmarks I didn’t bother to try to map out.
As we led our horses down the narrow trail through the woods, Anders asked, “Feel strange to be home?”
“This ain’t my home,” I muttered.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He seemed genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to bring up-”
“Do you hear that?” I snapped, and when he stopped to listen I pushed past him. He didn’t say anything else for a long time.
By sunrise we’d emerged from the woods onto a wide highway that led eventually to Arentia City. These roads were Arentia’s pride, layered with flat, smooth stone dredged from the Hornfisher and other rivers. Creating them had been a tedious process that almost led to a revolution against then-King Hugh II; his insistence on good infrastructure earned him the nickname “Highway Hugh,” and of course the roads themselves became “Hughways.” But once completed, everyone suddenly realized the advantage they gave: they didn’t become impassable muddy tracks after each heavy rain, and trade between towns became so easy that within a generation Arentia went from a cesspool not unlike Muscodia to the thriving center of commerce it was now.
At least, that’s what they taught us in school. What they left out, naturally, was that the roads were built by press gangs of Fechinians who, after they’d done their jobs, mysteriously died of a disease that left marks almost identical to sword wounds. This massacre was quietly swept under the tapestry, and when Hugh III ascended to the throne two centuries ago, all mention of it was expunged from the official history books. Only the diligence of the Society of Scribes, who made copies of everything, kept the memory alive in their hidden archives.
