Tuk doesn’t seem to hear that. “I’d owe you a debt of gratitude so large it would take me a lifetime to repay you.”
“If you want payment for your assistance, I have money.”
“I don’t need or want your money.” Tuk glances at the thief. “Here’s the thing, Yerezi prince—”
“I’m not really a prince, and you can call me Salo.”
“Look here, Salo. You can’t travel up the World’s Artery anymore. Not after this.” Tuk points out the empty streets. “In case you didn’t know, this town belongs to the Dark Sun, and the disciple responsible for it will be coming for you when he learns what you’ve done.”
Salo represses a nervous gulp. “I can protect myself.”
“From a warlord’s disciple and his militiamen?” Tuk smiles like he can see right through that lie. “I’ve heard Yerezi mystics are talented, but you must be newly awoken if you’re on your pilgrimage. Talent alone will not be enough to save you.”
“I doubt I’d be any safer with you around,” Salo quips.
Tuk lifts his gauntleted hand to show it off. “Know anyone else with this, do you?”
Salo eyes the weapon and is forced to admit its power. What he would give to analyze its charms with his talisman. “I suppose not.”
“And do you know another way to Yonte Saire?”
Salo sighs. “Not really.”
“Well then.” Tuk spreads his hands. “That’s why you need me, because I can take you. We’ll even visit a Primeval Spirit along the way if you want. And you don’t have to bless me until we reach your destination. In fact, I insist that you don’t. Not until you’re sure you can trust me.”
Salo stares at him ambivalently.
“Either this or you head back home, my friend,” Tuk says. “You go up the Artery, and you might as well chain yourself to that post over there and wait for the Dark Sun’s disciple to come flay you alive, because that’s what he’ll do when he catches you—if you’re lucky. And I’m not just saying this to scare you.”
“Well, it’s working.” Salo searches the empty streets of the meat market, feeling out of place. How the devil did he end up in this nightmare? He breathes out and makes a decision. “We get to Yonte Saire first.”
Tuk’s eyes turn very blue, and his face lights up with excitement, but he keeps it out of his voice. He extends a hand, and this time Salo takes it. “Your wish is my command.”
“And if you try anything funny, the deal’s off.”
They end the handshake, and Tuk raises his palms. “No funny business. I swear it on my life.”
Salo lets himself stare at the young man. Those eyes of his are terribly disarming, and despite himself, Salo finds that he is drawn to this stranger.
“I . . . guess we have a deal, then. But how are you traveling? Because I’m not walking.”
“I’ve traveled by wheelhouse thus far,” Tuk says, “but I can purchase a mount at the livery yard west of town. I have the money for it. We can go there right now.”
“Uh . . . all right.” A pang of sorrow cuts Salo deep as he takes another look at his surroundings: the Faraswa slaves in their cages, the slavers watching carefully, the thief trembling nearby. “But what about these people? Can I really just walk away?”
“There’s something you could do,” Tuk says, following his gaze, “but it’d depend on how much money you’re willing to part with. You’d have to act quickly, though.”
Salo flicks his tongue over his teeth in thought, weighing his choices. “Better to do something than nothing at all.” He nods at his new friend. “All right, Tuk. Tell me this idea of yours.”
24: Ilapara
Seresa, along the World’s Artery—Umadiland
Her lunch hour is fast approaching when the brewer from the shebeen next door hurries into the general dealer’s in a racket of clinking bangles.
“BaChando, didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what, Mama?” Behind his counter, BaChando’s eyes are already wide with alarm.
“A magic man attacked the town guards just minutes ago!”
“Oh, by the Blood Woman. Please tell me he serves the Dark Sun.”
“No, they say they’ve never seen this one before,” the brewer says, then adds in a panicked whisper, “What if the Cataract is moving to take back the town? I can’t afford to pay tribute again!”
At her post by the door, Ilapara curses under her breath. This is the last thing she needs right now. Another power struggle for the town will force BaChando to shut down his store, which means no work for her, which means no pay. She’s scraping by as it is.
BaChando moans, heaving himself up to his feet. “Thank you for telling me, Mama. I must . . . I must close immediately. Ilira!”
Ilapara sighs. “Coming, boss.”
They close up minutes later, and BaChando retreats upstairs, where he lives with his wife and two young daughters. Outside, Ilapara stares morosely at the handful of copper coins in her palm—her wages for the half day. It’ll be enough for her kudu’s daily livery fees. She’ll have to use her savings for food and rent. She exhales, leaning against the dealer’s mud-brick facade.
The Artery is quiet. Which isn’t strange for the time of day as such—caravans usually come and go at the extremities of daylight—but it’s a little too quiet. The stillness feels eerily deliberate rather than natural. Shops have closed down. Not a single hawker can be heard peddling her wares at the top of her voice.
Ilapara wouldn’t call herself jumpy, but seeing such a lively town frozen to stillness always perturbs some deep-rooted part of her, and it’s at times like these that she’s most tempted to just give up and go back home. Because this shouldn’t be the norm. No one should have to live in such a constant state of fear. She knows this in her bones and in the depths of her soul.
But she also knows the freedom of living her life the way she wants to, and that’s always enough to make her stay.
She starts pacing the length of the dealer’s facade, wondering why the Yerezi princeling hasn’t shown up already. It wouldn’t be wise for him to be traipsing the streets with a warlord making a move on the town.
After another five minutes of waiting, she decides that he’s not coming, so she heads to the river district, taking the shortcut through the meat market.
Most of the market is as dead as she expects, but as she walks round a bend, she comes upon a surprising flurry of activity centered on two wagons lined up on the street, ready to go.
She slows down, resisting the urge to grip her spear with both hands. No need to get defensive, no need to get noticed. Besides, these people don’t look like attacking militiamen—a group of slavers gathered next to a wagon still parked aslant by the wayside. Looks like they’re dividing money among themselves, payday smiles all around. Must be one mother of a payday. Armed mercenaries loading slaves onto the two wagons on the road. One buyer? But why so many slaves? Buyer must be one of the five figures standing next to the wagons. By Ama, is that the princeling?
Ilapara moves briskly, ignoring the mud making her boots squelch. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, she can still extricate him from it. Preferably without violence. Preferably, but it’s an option if it becomes necessary. No way her tribesman is getting into trouble in this town under her watch.