Then they parted. A full squadron could never escape undetected, but a lone boy could slip through. Chism’s plan was to double back into the Province, sweep around one of the mountain ranges, and cross into the interior from there.
Chism spent the night climbing into the mountain, searching for a point that gave him the best view of the gap. It wasn’t possible to travel between the mountain ranges without entering the gap itself, but Chism made it far enough to gain an acceptable outlook.
Below him in the gap, a second group of Militia was sent to examine the Elites. But even someone who had never glimpsed Chism could see immediately that he wasn’t among them. A few Elites had dark hair, but none the color of a moonless midnight, with eyes to match. And while Chism never had the need of a razor, every other member of the squadron had significant stubble to show for the five days with limited supplies.
Once it was clear that his squadron was in no danger, the scene amused Chism. A third, and eventually a fourth, contingent of the Militia proceeded to inspect their prisoners. One zealous soldier even looked in saddlebags and under cloaks. Satisfied that the boy they sought had truly deserted Quicksilver Squadron, the dark-cloaked Militia led the Elites up the gap toward Portal City. Duke Jaryn would have words for Lieutenant Fahrr.
Hopefully just words
, thought Chism.
A group of forty eight militia detached themselves from the main group and walked down the pass tracing the path the Elites had taken. They wouldn’t find him. Even if they had the best trackers in kingdom, the ground was too rocky to track anyone trying to hide a trail.
As soon as his squadron was out of view, Chism saw Duke Jaryn’s soldiers enter the Gap and meet up with the Militiamen from the ambush. Even from the distance the Duke’s flailing arms and outraged behavior was apparent. With a smile, Chism settled into his craggy hiding place. Eventually, his uniform would be a beacon as he tried to slip out of Far West Province, but for the first couple of days it would blend perfectly with the dark granite.
When Chism awoke from his nap there was just enough light left to survey Serpent Gap. Other than the six Militiamen guarding the lower entry, the pass was clear. He used the remaining light to plan an approximate route of escape. The dark Antidiniss Mountains offered good cover but he didn’t want to risk moving during the day. The night would have to be his camouflage.
He ate while waiting for night to fall in full. If he stretched his rations, they would probably last a week. Living off the land was not an option—he had no skill at foraging and carried only Thirsty and his throwing knives. The leg injury would make traveling fast impossible, and he didn’t have enough food to travel slowly. At most he had seven days until he had to find another resource.
No. Eight days. I’m sure I can make it eight.
One thing was sure—Duke Jaryn wouldn’t give up the hunt. He had to know Chism was somewhere in the Province and had proven that he would spare no resource in pursuit. Within days Chism would be the most infamous fifteen year old in Far West history.
Moving slowly, he emerged from the nook where he’d rested. Sentries could appear anywhere, and Chism wanted to avoid killing any hapless soldiers. The duke would not fare as well if they ever met again, but Chism had no desire to shed innocent blood.
The barren landscape was perfectly still. Occasional sounds from the men that guarded the pass carried across the countryside. A single rock rolling or falling against the stony ground would be as good as an alarm for the soldiers.
Hour after painstaking hour Chism worked his way west. Both of his legs burned – the right from his injury and the left from compensating as he marked a ponderous, controlled pace. Somehow he sweated, despite chilled extremities and his clothes dampened with sweat, which only made the cold more bitter.
All of the sneaking could have been avoided by heading south when he split from Quicksilver, but witnessing Jaryn’s frustration was so fulfilling he didn’t regret his decision. And there was always the chance of traveling Serpent Gap without an ambush, in which case Chism would have joined his squadron immediately.
The ground flattened out eventually, but it took almost the entire night to reach the foothills. He found another crevice to shield him during the day. The erratic snowfall had been insufficient to whiten the ground, and Chism hoped it would stay sparse. He could deal with the cold, but all of his clothes were dark and he knew of no way to hide footprints in the snow.
Dawn was still an hour away and he was too energized to sleep, so he ate a bit of food. Whittling was a bad idea, even if he could find wood in the inhospitable terrain. He took his leather from the pouch at his waist and stroked it with his right thumb one hundred times then passed it to his left hand. One hundred times and back again. The leather was the only thing that kept him sane.
By the time the first rays of the sun shone into the fissure where he was sheltering, he had switched hands thirty-two times. His thumbs were both raw, but not bloody. Yet. He finally felt calm enough to sleep.
It was hard to get comfortable in the narrow crevice, but Chism slept as long as possible. It was better than rubbing his thumbs raw, and he didn’t dare venture out until night had fallen. Luckily, winter afforded him hours of extra traveling time.
As soon as the sun fell below the horizon, Chism poked his head out. The guards at the pass, now south and east of him, were out of his view. Nothing stirred and he was tempted to start the next part of his journey. But he had waited all day, and could wait another half hour.
When full dark fell, Chism ventured from his self-imprisonment. Cloud cover hid the stars and half moon; there was no way he would be seen tonight. In less than a quarter mile Chism reached flat ground and increased his speed. He wanted to jog, but knew it would be impossible to hear anything if he did, so he contented himself with a quick walk.
After a mile to the west, Chism turned south. Less than a mile later he crossed the road that led to Serpent Gap. After waiting to ensure no eyes were on the road, Chism crossed it slowly. He didn’t know if it would fool trackers, but he walked backward when he crossed it and continued south in the same manner.
He was less than a dozen paces from the road when he noticed what looked and felt like cold moths all around him in the still, shadowy night. In horror he realized they weren’t moths, or any other kind of insect. Fat snowflakes fell in excess and immediately began to gather on the ground.
It couldn’t have happened at a worse time, this close to the road. Abandoning his backward strategy, Chism turned and fled at a full run, ignoring the tearing pain in his leg. He had to get as far from the road as possible before the snow was thick enough to take tracks. His pack was tucked under one arm while the other held Thirsty’s scabbard so he didn’t trip. The snow at his back would hide his tracks at first, but in snow more than a few inches deep the depressions of his footfalls would be seen for hundreds of paces.
The stitches in his leg pulled with every stride. Reaching down he felt warm moisture on his pant leg. If his footsteps didn’t give him away a trail of blood certainly would. Even if the Militia was color blind like him, the dark line would be obvious.
Into the cold night Chism ran, cursing the feathery snow. Too worried even to count the steps he took.
Chapter 11
Swylin
The capital city seethed like a thousand swarms of bees competing for the same hive. Everywhere Hatta turned, crowds of people pushed and chided and cursed and rebuffed. The mule and cart seemed as unwieldy as a full team and wagon. His traveling hat was already as low as possible on his brow, and he tried as hard as possible to be invisible. It wasn’t working.
The few people he dared talk to pointed him in the direction of the craftsman’s market, but it was impossible to find. Every time he coaxed the mule into the street someone yelled at him to move faster or decide where he was going or get out of the way. Hatta tried to do as he was told, but conflicting commands sent him in varying directions and often onto the wrong streets.
Enough of cities and crowds, and enough of surly traveling companions. Hatta was ready to be with his mirrors.
By the time he reached the craftsman’s section of the huge market, he was almost ready to find a quiet corner and curl into a ball. He spied a narrow street with very little traffic and directed his mule toward it. Small shops lined the street—a woodcarver, a candlestick maker, two painters, and a shop that sold wall mounts and torches.
Continuing down the alley, Hatta discovered a dead end to the left. The only merchant open for business was a tailor. Next door stood a locked shop that had a sign with a goblet and platter. It didn’t appear to have seen use for some time.
The tailor, an old man with dark brown eyes that somehow seemed bright, came out of his shop and greeted Hatta. “Those are remarkable vestments, young man.”
“What? Oh, I thank you.” He glanced down at his outfit and silently agreed with the old man. The maroon coat and apricot pants made an extraordinary pair.
“I especially admire your hat. What an exceptional pattern.”
“And craftsmanship,” said Hatta. “The hatter in Frenala is the best I’ve met.”
“He must be a master indeed to fashion such a superior piece. I myself have never had skill with hats.”
“I do,” said Hatta. “Not skill perhaps, but knowledge at least. The hatter in Frenala, he taught me.”
“So you’re Frenalan then?”
Hatta shook his head.
“Might I ask from whence you originate?”
“If you did ask, I’d say T’lai and Frenala and Shey’s Orchard. I’m a mirror maker, most recently.”
“And you’ve brought your wares to Palassiren to secure your fortune,” said the old man, with a twinkle in his eye.
“No, I’ve come to sell my mirrors.”
The old man had such an inviting air that Hatta wanted to tell him about his destiny, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. The tailor was a warm yellow, and yellow people were often garrulous. He might tell someone that shouldn’t know the truth about him and his mirrors. But he did care for the old man a great deal and wanted to stay near him.
An idea struck him. “Would that shop be rented?” He motioned to the closed up store.
“It’s available, but it’s no place for a young craftsman such as yourself.”
Hatta couldn’t disagree with him more. What could be more fitting than a quiet street and an agreeable neighbor?
As if he knew Hatta’s thoughts, the old man said, “There’s scant foot traffic in this back alley.”
“How do
you
find who to sell to? If it’s not a rude question.”
The old man chuckled and his eyes brightened even more. “I’ve been here as long as the city itself, and this wasn’t always a dead end. My customers know where to find me, and my needs are small.”
Hatta was undaunted. “Where might the landlord be found?”
“I see you’ve decided already, but I still advise against it.”
He seemed to be waiting for Hatta to reconsider but the more Hatta thought about the location the more perfect it became.
Hatta offered a crooked smile.
The old man shrugged and said, “If that’s how it is to be. The landlord is in the habit of calling on Fridays in the afternoon.”
Hatta furrowed his brow. “I don’t keep days, when would Friday be?”
“Why, today is Friday.”
“Wonderful!” The evening was not far off. “And what shall we discuss in the meantime?”
“I need to attend to a stew I put on.” The man turned to enter his store. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“Stew would be a fine dinner after a day such as this,” said Hatta. He tied the mule to a post and followed the tailor into his shop. True to his word the old man had an aromatic stew over a pile of coals.
The tailor’s prediction regarding the visit of the landlord also proved accurate. A couple hours after their meal, he arrived. A tall man who filled his coat, the landlord appeared strong but soft; as if he could work and work, but avoided it whenever possible.
Most likely a shade of green. Olive
, Hatta decided.
Despite his quick smile and offered hand, he intimidated Hatta. But the allure of the secluded shop gave him the courage to inquire.
“How much rent can I buy with this?” He offered his coin pouch to the man.
“Anxious, aren’t you?” As he greedily counted the money, Hatta saw that the man deepen in color. More of an asparagus color.
“One silver and nine coppers. Almost enough for two months rent.”
“And the mule and cart?” asked Hatta.
The landlord looked behind him at the animal and small cart. “What about them?”
“Are they worth two months?” Hatta smiled hopefully.
“For them plus the coins I’ll give you three months.”
Hatta nodded anxiously. “Yes, I’ll buy three months.” They struck hands and Hatta breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have to venture back into the market in search of an open shop.