The Weight of Gold

By Xan Kaplan

Vallon Steere finds himself deep in a war-torn desert nation where danger lurks at every turn.

Charged with protecting two bickering princes, he must face both their enemies and his own, all while pursuing vengeance against a treacherous foe. Even as he tries to reconcile his duty to his country and his personal desires, Vallon is forced to confront his worst fears.

In a land ravaged by both monsters and war, Vallon’s companions know that time is running out to reach safety. Their destination - an isolated city where magicians use their powers to entertain wealthy visitors - is the key to Vallon’s long-awaited revenge on the man he believes to hold his sister captive. Along the way, a chance encounter with foreign slavers shows Vallon that there are other causes as worthy as his own.

But everything has a price. Caught between his integrity and his thirst for revenge, Vallon must decide what kind of man he really is. A deftly woven fantasy adventure with gripping characters and a compelling setting, ‘The Weight of Gold’ is the tale of a man who is about to learn exactly what he’s willing to give up to protect the ones he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Sep 7, 2023

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ifled through the streets of Veir Dasha on foot, hiding in alleyways and behind pillars while Dashski’s black-crow soldiers searched for his runaway daughter and her coconspirators. Looking back, I should probably have waited to leave Bruni until we were well away from the city. But this being a true accounting, I cannot tell the story in a way that makes my decision look sound. I was forced to cower like a thieving urchin, holding my breath to avoid coughing in the dust that the soldiers and loose horses churned up.

Eventually the Merchant-Lord Dashski himself stormed past me. His normally placid face was twisted in rage, and he shouted into the wind that he would give a fistful of gold to the man who found us. His words were loud enough to wake anyone who had managed to sleep through the initial wave of soldiers, and the streets became abuzz with activity as merchants, bakers, and beggars alike swarmed into the sandy roads to earn their gold. Dashski’s offer was not a well-considered one, for it was in this chaos that I joined the crowd and slipped my way out of the city gates, disappearing into the desert.

I should have packed more water.

I should have brought food.

I should have stayed with Bruni.

These thoughts and more were my constant refrain as I walked the dunes that surrounded Veir Dasha. Whether I traveled leagues or mere yards I do not know. A certain distance from the city, and the shimmering heat rising from the sand obscured all. I could have been within a mile, wandering in circles, or I could have traveled far into the desolate landscape. The only thing I knew regarding my location was that I was lost.

A horse ran past me, unridden, followed by another. I wondered if its master had fallen, and then remembered that Faffa had released horses into the desert to aid in our escape. Chasing them down turned into a pointless endeavor for they easily outpaced me. I ran behind them, finding that the shifting sand below my feet made me stumble. Exhausted after only a few paces, I stopped to catch my breath.

A third horse passed, slower. I eyed it hopefully before watching as it cantered off into the distance, following its companions. Did horses know where to find water? Or was that just birds? I had nowhere else to go, so I trudged in the direction they had run, following the rapidly fading trail of hoofprints they left in the sand.

It was another twenty minutes of fruitless chase before I gave up. If the horses were leading me to water, it was most likely their troughs at home in Veir Dasha. A place which surely was no longer safe for me. Not wanting to turn around and go back the way I had come, I paused to get my bearings.

A wise man might have followed the sun, but I’d begun my journey at night. And in the haze that hung above the whole desert, the precise angle of the sun was difficult to discern, even if one was properly prepared. I decided to just choose a direction and head that way. Small lizards and tiny birds seemed to survive in the desert. There must be water and shelter somewhere in the vast expanse, if not much of it.

I walked a whole day, and as night fell I began to shiver. After hours in the heat, even a slight dip in temperature would have made me cold. Now, I felt absolutely bone-chilled. I knew I had to take shelter, but that would mean losing my direction. I sighed, figuring I would sleep and in the morning begin to get lost anew. With any luck, I might somehow survive.

Of course, that would involve knowing where I was going. I had no intended destination. After fleeing Veir Dasha under cover of night, I had realized I didn’t know where else to turn. Back to Aker, my homeland? To the border that the Unowned Desert shared with Cabaral? Neither one got me any closer to my ultimate goal: revenge on the Merchant-Lord Edvar Dashski, who had killed my family and who currently kept my sister a captive.

I silently cursed. I had been close—well, not that close—but I had been closer than this. Now here I was, walking through the sand, completely lost, and with no idea where to go. Not an improvement in any way. I kicked at the sand, allowing myself a childish display of anger. No one was here to watch. Except…

There was a flash of sand-colored movement. How I discerned it from the rest of the sand-colored landscape I do not know, but for a moment, something was out of place. The desert settled back into a silent stillness, but the hackles on the back of my neck were raised. I stayed perfectly still, only my eyes moving as I scanned my surroundings.

There.

Another sand-colored shape moved closer. Sweat began to drip down my back, chill in the evening breeze. Nomads. They wore clothing that helped them blend into the desert, and I’d already seen firsthand how well they could hide when they wanted to. Prince Saffira had told me they ate human flesh. Though I didn’t exactly trust his word, neither was I keen to find out for myself. Now that I knew what I was looking at, I was surprised I’d missed them. Nonchalantly, I turned, trying to pretend I was still unaware.

There were more. I was surrounded. Frozen now by apprehension rather than indecision, I considered my options. Run and be caught. Stay still and be caught. For the first time, I understood how a fish feels when he realizes he’s already in the net.

As they came closer, I tried a third option, one which I had not considered until it was already happening. Oh, hello there! I said brightly. This did not give the nomads pause, although they did abandon their creeping approach and stand to walk towards me openly. When several were within a few yards of me, I turned to scan their group. Ages were impossible to guess, because their skin was leather-thick from the sun and the same colorless shade as the earth around them. I kept turning. As I was encircled, I always had a group at my back. Infuriatingly, they did nothing. It was awful, having someone behind me, knowing they were about to attack and them not doing so. Just get on with it already, I said in exasperation. One of them replied, a language I did not understand. Sorry, I responded, a reflexive politeness and not an expression of true remorse.

He held out a rope. I thought he was handing it to me, and reached for it in confusion, but one of the other nomads behind me was faster. He grabbed the rope and wrenched my arm behind my back. I wasn’t fighting, and I doubt it would have done any good if I had been. Even in a case where I was not surrounded, I could tell by the nomad’s stature that his fighting prowess far outstripped my own. Soon I was thoroughly restrained. I still did not understand the nomad’s language, but from their gestures and harsh tones I understood their intention. Walk.

I followed them through the darkness, heading vaguely towards the setting sun. They walked. I stumbled. Traveling across the sand was hard for me at the best of times. With my hands tied behind my back, it was near impossible. I tried to imitate the careful steps the nomads took, to find that it didn’t actually help much. A misplaced foot sent me sprawling to the ground. Behind me, one of the nomads gave a sharp word. I couldn’t understand him, but, again, the sentiment was clear. Stop screwing around.

If only I could. I was barely on my feet before the nomads set off again, and once more I struggled to keep pace. I was relieved when we crested a sand dune to see a small scattering of tents around a fire. The only other nomad camp I’d seen was entirely monochromatic, every tent near-indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Here, though, a few tents were decorated in brightly colored silk. Perhaps they were not trying to blend in. Perhaps the trends among the nomadic cultures of the Unowned Desert differed from those in Cabaral. That seemed less likely. It was the same desert after all, regardless of where the border was.

Most of the group scattered, going into various tents or heading towards the fire. Two men remained with me. Wriggling my shoulders, I tested the strength of my bonds while the pair began an animated conversation. The ropes held firm.

Both nomads fell silent and after a moment I realized they were trying to speak to me. I’m sorry, I don’t understand you, I said.

One looked startled and turned to say something to the other. He must have been translating for me, because in a moment the other one’s face had the same surprised expression. You can’t speak like a nomad? the first one asked slowly. He shook his head in wonder, as though I was the only person he had ever met who didn’t know their language. I fought the urge to apologize again. I just stared mutely until he sighed and pointed towards the campfire. Go sit by the fire. The desert is too cold for outsiders.

Thank you, I said, surprised. I made my way to the fire and awkwardly knelt. With my hands tied behind my back, throwing off my balance, it was difficult to maneuver myself into a seated position. Though both nomads watched me go, they did not walk with me. Perhaps they knew it would be futile for me to run away, arms bound, into the desert at night. It would have been a funny sight, though. I laughed just imagining it, and earned myself some odd stares from the nomads. They must have thought I was insane.

A few moments later, a young boy made his way over to the fire with a canteen of water. He held it to my mouth and I took several grateful gulps. I would have preferred to have my hands free to drink by myself, but any water was a relief after all day in the desert.

The nomad man who had spoken before walked over and joined me by the fire. He was eating from a bowl of steaming stew. Do you need food? he offered.

I shook my head. Despite my hunger, I found myself afraid of nomad cuisine. Whether or not they really were man-eaters, the thought alone made me ill enough to quell any growling in my stomach. Besides, without the use of my hands I would have to shove my face into the bowl and eat like a dog, which would not make the best impression.

Did impressions matter? Perhaps they were going to eat me. Or sell me into slavery, like the nomads who had captured Saffira and I several months ago. That was preferable to cannibalism, though still far from ideal.

Saffira had been lucky he wasn’t recognized that last time. He would have been worth more ransomed back to the king than sold as chattel, and the king’s plans for him were likely worse than whatever had awaited us in Daydura, where slavery was legal. But no one had been aware of his real identity. That meant his face wasn’t known. I could attest to the same fact, having spoken to him, while being paid to look for him, and not realized who he was. I was done feeling foolish about that. Few would have recognized him. Though their number seemed to dwindle frequently, there were enough Cabarallian princes that people tended not to know their faces—which gave me an idea.

My father is the king, I said. Perhaps not the most believable lie, as I was dressed in common clothing and had already shown that I could neither walk on sand nor speak the local nomad language. But anyone good enough with disguises knows that style of clothing is barely important, if you know how to act. And though I had not known many of the princes long, they left an impression. They behaved like sulky, petulant children, and that was an easy act to imitate. Slightly reproachful eyes, a lip barely pouting, and anyone could pass for one of the royal whelps.

The nomad next to me looked intrigued. You’re prince of Cabaral?

One of them. I tried to sound vaguely irritated at having to acknowledge my brothers’ existence. Luckily I did not have to keep up the pretense long, because the nomad got up and walked over to a tent where a group of his companions were sitting. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and wouldn’t have understood if I could. However, I couldn’t bring myself to spend too much energy worrying whether he believed my ploy. As the fire warmed me, I realized how exhausted I was.

Whatever fate awaited me, I would learn it soon enough. In that moment, I could do nothing more. I slept.

Awakening to the sound of the camp being packed up, I found with a start that I couldn’t feel my arms. I tried desperately to move my fingers, but there was no response. It probably wasn’t healthy to sleep with your hands tied behind your back, I realized. There was no use panicking, though, so I tried to calm my racing heart. The nomads would untie me eventually.

Hopefully.

The thought of traipsing all the way to Zyr Cavala with my arms numb was not a pleasant one.

Please! My hands, I called frantically to a nomad walking by. He ignored me. Perhaps he did not understand. I hadn’t spoken to him—in fact, I hadn’t seen him at all the night before. This man’s hair was black, his skin a golden dark hue. Not the colorless shade of sand at all. I blinked, looking around, and saw that no one in the camp blended into the desert. Had I imagined that they did? Was it a hallucination from heat exhaustion?

A young boy was carrying a bucket towards the center of camp. As he walked, he tipped the bucket and left a trail of water behind him. An auburn-curled woman knelt and gathered some of the dusty mixture, smoothing it across her face and head. I watched in amazement as she transformed her skin into the drab color of the earth. Pulling her hood up over her hair, the change was complete.

The other nomads were following suit, covering themselves in the sandy paste until they were as colorless as the world around them. Before they did so, I noticed people of all races. Perhaps nomads were not family-based tribes, as I had expected, but groups of strangers that came together. We had roving camps of bandits in Aker, after all. The nomadic groups might be their equivalent.

Pondering this thought did not help me regain feeling in my arms, so when someone grabbed me by the elbow I didn’t feel it. Until he pulled me up, that is. I let out a startled yelp and turned to see the man who had spoken to me the night before.

What’s your name?

I considered what I ought to say, or if I should refuse to answer. I didn’t know where any of the princes currently were, so identity theft would be risky. In the end I decided to be Saffira, because if the nomads did send a ransom note, at least I could be sure he wasn’t going to be in the same room as the king when it was received. The downside was that I didn’t look a thing like him. Hopefully this man wouldn’t know the difference.

Saffira Caba, I said after a moment. The nomad just nodded, and I felt a sense of relief flooding me. And what’s yours? I asked politely.

He shook his head at me. I’m not making introductions. I need your name for payment. Ah. Then it was definitely good I had answered. Unless, of course, the king just asked for my head. His feelings toward Saffira were not exactly those of fatherly affection.

There was also the issue of what I would do when we arrived in Zyr Cavala. The king would probably be disappointed that any ransom he paid had not been for the return of his son, but for a near-stranger. I would likely have a while to mull it over, while we walked to Cabaral.

Once the encampment was torn down everyone began to trudge in the same direction and I followed, obediently, like a trained dog. What else was I to do? Even as I walked, I considered whether there were any other options. I was heading to a fate unknown, and I couldn’t feel my arms. Not my proudest moment. Yet, I could think of no way out.

On the evening of the first day, the nomads untied my bonds, and still I did not have a chance to run. A group of men was always around me, probably to ensure their bounty didn’t escape. They needn’t have bothered. I didn’t know where we were, and fleeing into the desert again only would have ended with me being lost again. I resigned myself to whatever plans the nomads had for me.

We walked for several days, setting up a makeshift camp each night. The large, colorful tents remained in a wooden contraption something between a wagon and a cart that the nomads took turns pulling. People slept on the sand or in smaller, stopgap shelters propped up against rocks or between the wagons. Most nights I chose to lie down by the fire, where warmth and exhaustion soon dragged me into a restless sleep.

In another climate I would have called the weather pleasant, sunny with a gentle breeze. Here, however, the gentle breeze picked up enough sand to sting your eyes, ankles, and any other parts that were exposed. Eventually, we came to a small valley between sand dunes that was sheltered from the wind. The majority of the group stopped in the gorge with the equipment and began taking out the poles that supported their bigger tents.

I looked back at them in confusion as the nomads escorting me kept walking. Aren’t we going to stop? Most of them ignored me, but one shook his head. He was the same one—the only one—who had spoken to me before. I had heard the other nomads calling him Tur, so that’s how I thought of him. I was beginning to recognize more of their language than I would expect, having had only a few days in their company. Many words were similar to those we used in Aker, though some were entirely foreign. I could understand the shape of whole conversations already, but not their subtleties. Tur! I called.

Tur shot me a very confused look. Yes? he asked slowly. He always spoke slowly, I noticed, both in his own language and in mine.

Why aren’t we stopping? I asked. Everyone else is stopping.

Tur looked up at the sun. It’s not night yet.

Then why did everyone else stop?

They’re not coming. He turned away as though to leave me, and I jogged after him. I was getting better at keeping my feet on the sand, though it cost me much more effort than it cost the nomads.

We’re just leaving? We don’t have any supplies, I pointed out. None of the nomads walking with me were carrying anything beyond a day’s rations.

We are almost there, Tur said.

What? We are? I spun around, seeing nothing but desert in all directions. Zyr Cavala had been built around an oasis and was somewhat remote, as most desert cities were, but the surrounding land had roads, at least, with some inns and outposts. Though it was far from a sprawling metropolis, it was not as isolated as this. Besides, we hadn’t come across any soldiers. If we had crossed from the Unowned Desert into Cabaral, surely we would have seen at least a few. Word was that the border was heavily patrolled. Then it occurred to me we hadn’t traveled nearly long enough to be in Cabaral. Where are we going? I asked, my blood running cold. It struck me that Dashski may also be willing to pay for Saffira’s return. The little prince had a knack for making enemies. I want to go to Cabaral, I said, trying to sound both haughty and afraid. My father will pay—

No, Tur said. This is closer. And that was that.

Though I protested, he did not respond. I considered running. Being brought back to Veir Dasha would not go well for me. Though, I could wait until the city was in sight and then make an escape. I was unbound, and would do better at running in the streets than on the slippery sand that I had not yet acclimated to. Resolved, I decided to follow the nomads at least to the city limits, and then disappear in the familiar streets of Veir Dasha.

But when the city came into view, it was not Veir Dasha.

The place we approached had large, ornate walls that stretched so far into the sky that I had to crane my neck to see their tops. Doing so as I walked made me stumble. Beside me, Tur made an exasperated noise and grabbed my elbow. Where are we? I asked.

Here, Tur said.

I don’t know this place. Does it have a name?

Tur just looked at me. I don’t know what names you call cities. Follow. I did so, as I had no idea what else to do. Maybe we were in Cabaral, but somewhere other than Zyr Cavala. The walls were tall enough to surround some isolated fort near the border, though they didn’t appear to be manned. There were no weapons that I could see, anyway.

As we approached the gate, I saw a bored-looking man in brown robes lounging against the doorway. He did not wear a soldier’s livery, but had some rough leather armor. It was the type of thing a guard would wear at home. Someone who wanted to give off an air of toughness but did not actually expect a fight. We drew to a stop in front of him.

Business? he asked.

Selling wares, Tur said. I supposed I might be the wares.

Do you have a permit? the man began. Tur produced the paper before he could complete his question. Thank you. All seems to be in order. You may be on your way. Tur gestured to the rest of us and the other nomads filed through the gate.

One shoved me from behind when I balked. Meever, he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was insulting me or telling me to move. I glared at him but followed his directions. The guard at the gate did not seem the type to leap into heroic action if he saw the pair of us scuffle. Even if he did, we’d soon be outnumbered. I placidly followed my captors as we wound through a few quiet alleyways. As we moved, I tried to get my bearings. This did not look like any kind of fort. It was definitely a city, yet its inhabitants were nowhere to be seen. Likely asleep, though it was past midmorning. The laundry hanging on the lines led me to believe that we were in the part of town where most of the primary business happened at night.

Sure enough, a doorway opened and a young woman walked out. She was dripping in jewels and little else. "Can I interest you gentlemen in any of our experiences?" she asked, tossing her wheat-colored hair behind her. The movement shook the stones she wore, giving tantalizing glimpses of the bare flesh below.

One of the nomads hesitated, but Tur’s voice was firm. No, thank you, milady, he said, looking around at the rest of us as though daring us to protest.

"If you change your mind, you know where to find us! The Virtuous Vixen, off of Emerald Street! We’ll be anyone for you. Your wife, your wife’s younger sister, your wife’s best friend. Anyone you can think of, we can be!" She winked.

I was agog. What does that mean? I asked. No one answered me. Tur caught hold of my arm and dragged me away. The woman in the door gave me a mock pout of sympathy, then darted back inside.

It’s just a magic game, Tur said.

They can turn into different people?

They have someone who… Tur hesitated, then waved his hand as though swatting a fly. I stared at him. They have a… Zabberin? he tried. When I still did not understand he made an exasperated noise. Someone who points and makes things.

It slowly dawned on me. A mage? I asked. In a brothel? The surprise was enough to leave me speechless for a long moment.

Every building here is brothel, Tur said, sounding rather disgusted. And, just like that, I could guess where we were.

Bruni’s descriptions had not done Tala Rama justice. To be fair, no mere words could have done so. The seedy alleyways opened out into a main promenade, filled with splendor I had never imagined.

If I’d thought the explosion of color in Zyr Cavala had been ostentatious, this was that times a thousand. The trees that lined the main streets flowered in a multitude of shades, growing florae that didn’t naturally exist. Pink roses bloomed on one branch, intertwining with white daisies on another. Whether either of those grew on trees was beyond me, but how they both grew on the same was a mystery. Several of the nomads looked down at their feet, as though annoyed by the flashy scene. Perhaps, after so much time in the monochromatic desert, the rainbow hurt their eyes. Then, I saw what they were looking at.

Even the ground was lovely. The streets were paved with shiny rocks. Not true jewels, surely, but bright imitations. I laughed as I understood what the brothel-girl had been talking about when she referred to Emerald Street. The stones beneath our feet were a deep, forest-leaf green, until we turned onto another road where the cobbles shone like silver. I could not decide whether to look down or up, until a voice caught my attention.

Cures! A flamboyantly dressed young man leaned performatively against one of the flowering trees in front of us. He wore some approximation of an Akeran nobleman’s formal garb, though the colors were much gaudier and the cut far too tight. I noticed that his hands were dark—a deeper shade than a mage mark, but that must have been the look he was going for with short gloves of shimmering black satin. As we approached he reached up to gently shake one branch of the tree so that a shower of petals rained down around him. Magical cures, he called out. Come heal what ails you! Seek out my mistress Tawna on Golden Path. Cures for overindulgence, impotence, infirmity, impoliteness…

Got anything for impending doom? I asked wryly as we walked past.

The man’s speech faltered and he frowned in confusion. I suppose you’d have to ask her yourself. He started to give me the address when Tur got between us, shepherding me away as he apologized to the young man.

When we were beyond earshot Tur glared at me. Don’t talk to any of them.

Fine, I said and walked stoically onwards. At least, I tried to look stoic. I probably looked somewhere between a child about to get the belt, and one seeing the county fair for the first time. For despite my trepidation, I was enthralled with the wondrous happenings in Tala Rama. Every street corner was something from a fairy tale, glittering or colorful in a way I could never have dreamed.

Tur just seemed annoyed by it, for the most part. Despite his apparent distaste for the city, he knew his way around. We cut across a shimmering ruby avenue, then into another alleyway, this route as dark and drab as the ones we’d been in before. Perhaps all the magic was reserved for the main roads. Here, the ground was simply sand-colored stone, and the buildings plain gray. Tur led us to a small doorway on the side of a simple building, and said something to the others. From what I could understand of their language, he was telling them to stay put. Then he nodded to me and opened the door.

Inside was a dimly lit staircase, narrow and rickety. As Tur walked in and began to climb, the other nomads crowded around, pushing me in behind him. The entranceway was barely wide enough to walk through. I briefly considered running before abandoning that plan. I couldn’t get past my captors, and running into this house seemed riskier than just following Tur up the stairs, which was what I ended up doing. Behind me, I heard the door slam shut.

The second-floor landing was slightly larger, but no more ornate. A few wooden chairs were arranged near the staircase, and the opposite wall had only a single door. Tur pointed to me, and then to one of the chairs. Once I sat, he opened the other door and disappeared.

I was alone.

Again I wondered about my chances if I ran. I could sprint down the stairs to where the other nomads doubtless still waited. I could follow Tur through the door, to parts unknown and potentially an even greater number of even stronger men. Or, I could wait. A veritable multitude of options. Before I had made up my mind, I heard a muffled conversation on the other side of the door, the sound of footsteps approaching.

"I said any of the princes except for Saffira, said a voice that was somehow familiar. Saffira works for me, you dolt."

You said a tall prince with golden hair, came Tur’s voice.

If he’s tall with golden hair, then he’s not Saffira. The door swung open, and I saw the Merchant-Lord Rodland’s face twist with surprise. "Vashon?" he asked. I had nearly forgotten about the false names that Bruni and I had recently used. I couldn’t believe Lord Rodland remembered. Honestly, I was shocked he recognized me at all. We’d had one conversation and neither one of us had been entirely sober.

Good morning, my lord, I said, not knowing what else to say. Rodland smoothed his dark brows, then he smoothed his pointed beard. Perhaps it was a nervous tic. Every hair on him was already perfectly placed, as were the other aspects of his appearance. His expensive silk tunic strained at his girth, but it was cut well, firmly tucked into his jeweled belt and dyed a deep blue that matched his eyes. I stood and gave him a sketchy bow. My apologies that we must meet again under these circumstances.

You said a weight of gold for any of the princes, Tur interjected.

This isn’t a prince, Rodland said offhandedly. He reached into his pocket and took out three gold pieces. Not a weight, by any means, but I imagined it was an extravagant fee nonetheless. After all, as he’d said, I wasn’t a prince. Tur, however, had been expecting more. He turned and glared at me before heading down the narrow stairs. When the sound of the door slamming made its way up the stairwell, Rodland looked over at me.

I hear you are no longer employed by Lord Dashski? he inquired.

Who would say something like that? I asked in a musing tone, as though I was responding to a piece of gossip.

Neen.

My heart skipped a beat. If Dashski’s errant daughter was here, then so was Bruni. I badly owed her an apology. I looked around, as if I may have missed them in the tiny space. Is Neen here?

Rodland shook his head. "She’s somewhere safe. As much as I am sympathetic to her plight, her presence in this city would bring every last one of her father’s soldiers here, and we can’t have that, can we? People come to Tala Rama to forget there’s a war brewing. I doubt they’d much enjoy an invasion. His lip curled. No. She sheltered here with her companions for one night and then set off. Even I don’t know where she is. So, I couldn’t tell you, no matter how you may ply your arts to try to get it out of me. He raised a suggestive eyebrow for a moment and waited. No?" he asked, after a beat.

Umm. No. I felt a blush heat my cheeks.

I have paid three gold pieces for your freedom. I am not the sort to expect any type of repayment, of course. Rodland gave me a searching look. However, I must be sure you are trustworthy. Who do you serve?

No one, currently. I wasn’t sure how my trustworthiness would be determined by a question that I could easily answer with a lie.

Are you still loyal to Lord Dashski? Rodland asked.

No, I said, more quickly this time.

Then you’re not here chasing after his girl? When I shook my head, Rodland asked again. Answer out loud, he said.

No, I told him, somewhat disquieted.

Very good. Next, do you believe King Caba should remain on the throne of Cabaral?

I don’t really care what happens in Cabaral, I said. Rodland paused for a moment, then let out a hearty laugh. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, realizing how exhausted I was. How many more questions do you have?

Only one more, Rodland replied. Just then a high-pitched whining sound filled the room. I gasped and covered my ears. Lord Rodland did the same, letting out a string of muffled curses that were still audible with my hands over my ears. After a span of ten seconds, the noise stopped. Alright, I have… ouch. Rodland brought his palms back and forth over his ears, as though testing his hearing. I had several more questions.

What was that? I demanded, looking around wildly.

Just a little alarm I got from a dear fellow down the street. It’s terribly expensive and it only works once. He looked annoyed. Quite handy in my business to know when someone’s lying to you, though. In your business too, I expect.

I gaped. It knows when someone is lying? How?

Don’t ask me. I just bought the thing, I’m not the one who made it. Rodland sighed. And now I have to buy another.

I didn’t tell any lies, though, I said. I assure you, I spoke only the truth.

It was me, saying I only had one more question, Rodland replied.

Oh. I frowned. What were the questions?

Well, never mind now. If you’re not working for that traitor Dashski, anything else can wait. You must be starving! Nomad food is—I hope you didn’t eat much of it. He shuddered, and I was suddenly relieved that the nomads had given me little more than a few scrawny rabbits and some dried fruits. "Over a meal you can tell me how you came to be here. And, I broke this alarm, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have more hidden around here," he said meaningfully.

Thank you, my lord. I would appreciate food and I doubt I will ever be able to lie to you without first flinching and covering my ears.

Rodland smiled. Good. Now let me get us something to eat. He opened the door he’d come through earlier—there was nowhere else to go—and revealed a small, unassuming office. There was a desk, piled high with various ledgers, a few wooden chairs around a rickety table, and little else. Rodland clapped his hands loudly. Food! he called out, and a door at the far end of the room, which I had initially mistaken for a closet, opened. A few plainly dressed servants entered carrying trays. They set the trays on the table and left, as quietly as they’d come. Now, Rodland said, smiling at me. I bid you join me for a meal.

Chapter 2

I ’m interested to know what Dashski did, to warrant losing both his Inquisitors, Rodland said through a mouthful of blackberry pastry. I chewed my own slowly, to give myself an excuse to think. I couldn’t lie outright, in case there was another one of those alarms lying around. But I also couldn’t tell Lord Rodland that I had been on a mission of personal revenge and used my position as an Inquisitor to get closer to Dashski. Such a thing was definitely frowned upon. Perhaps a half-truth. I’d been chewing too long.

I don’t want him to be a king, I said eventually. It was true, at least.

I thought you didn’t care about what happened in Cabaral, Rodland pointed out.

I don’t, as long as it’s not Dashski. Another truth.

There you and I are in agreement. Rodland frowned. Though, I have a reason for it. I doubt yours is the same.

He killed someone I liked. This was not a lie, but an understatement so vast it may as well have been.

Huh. Rodland eyed me appraisingly. You know, I didn’t think Inquisitors were allowed to do that. Quit and steal away with their employer’s daughter in the night.

We probably aren’t, but I would have to ask someone more knowledgeable than I if I wanted to be sure. I shrugged. Besides, Dashski and I did not have a real contract.

Well, then I’d like to hire you. And I don’t have any daughters, so if I offend you then feel free to fuck off in the night and that will be the end of it.

I blinked. Alright. I don’t know why I agreed. Pure shock, maybe, or the fact that despite his words Rodland had a jovial expression and several pastry crumbs on his face.

Good. Rodland nodded, brushing away the crumbs. They fell onto his lap. First, tell me. How well do you like the princes of Cabaral?

Saffira’s starting to grow on me, I said warily. I don’t much know the rest.

I will pay you a weight of gold for any one of the others. Two weights for the heir. Rodland leaned forward, his blue eyes gleaming. Alive, ideally.

What are you going to do to them? I asked before I could stop myself.

Rodland settled back in his chair, noticing the crumbs on his lap. He stood, shaking them from his trousers. I just want a conversation, he assured me. His tone was deliberately casual.

That’s a rather expensive conversation, I pointed out. Surely, there’s more.

Nothing’s expensive if you’re rich enough, Rodland explained as he sat back down. However, no one can ever be rich enough. I assure you, my primary goal is simply to speak with the boys.

Then I will bring you a prince. Err, I will try, I rapidly amended, looking around for the alarm.

The look on Rodland’s face was priceless. I think bravado is different from purposeful mistruth, he said after a moment when his face returned to normal.

Then my earlier statement stands.

Excellent! Rodland clapped his hands. The door at the far end of the room opened a crack, then immediately closed. But what a dreadful host I would be if I sent you off on business right away. First, you must explore the city. Artusa! He clapped his hands again, twice this time, and the door opened again, almost hesitantly. Call Artusa, please, Rodland said to whoever waited on the other side.

Nearly before he had finished speaking, a somber-looking young man entered the room and approached us. Yes, my lord? he asked. He eyed me accusingly, like he knew that he was going to be saddled with me and did not like the prospect.

Artusa, meet Vashon, Rodland said. Vashon is not fortunate enough to be from our great city, and I would like you to show him around.

A brief flash of annoyance crossed Artusa’s face, lingering enough to be obvious but fleeting enough to be deniable. After it had passed he smiled, an expression more like gritted teeth. Why certainly, my lord. I will show him all the splendor that Tala Rama has to offer. His tone was not that of one who considered his work splendid. He sounded like someone who had just been told that he must teach the pig-keeper how to wash behind his ears.

Rodland didn’t appear to notice. Good. Perhaps you should show Vashon to the guest chambers first, that he might get some rest? he suggested. I was tired. I also wanted to see Tala Rama. The reluctance on my face must have been obvious. You won’t miss anything, lad, Rodland assured me. Most people around here are probably still abed. You can have a few hours to gather yourself before setting out.

Thank you, my lord. But first… I trailed off, unsure what to say. Unsure whether I wanted an answer. I had come this far, though, so I may as well see what Rodland knew about my sister. There was an Akeran girl. Cabarallian by birth. Do you know what Dashski wanted with her? Artusa, poised at the door, looked frustrated by this delay.

Rodland seemed intrigued. An Akeran girl? Can’t say I know…wait! Are you talking about the blonde?

Yes, I replied, hardly able to keep the trepidation from my face.

Apparently she was royalty, of some sort. Dashski tried to return her to the king, and in exchange demanded a title for himself. His face soured. He meant to abandon our plans and cut the rest of us out. Good thing old Caba doesn’t care about doxies he’s never met.

I swallowed hard. If the king had rejected Dashski’s proposal, then Varille’s safety was of little value. And what use has she now? I asked. Dashski keeps her in his manor.

Oh, is she still around? Rodland just shrugged. Then I haven’t a clue. I suppose Edvar never did like to let go of anything that might prove useful.

Artusa cleared his throat. If you’re ready? he asked, his tone bordering on rudeness.

Yes, yes, Rodland answered for me, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. I longed to stay, and press him for further information about Varille. But he had already risen from his place and turned away.

Thus dismissed, I followed Artusa through the narrow door and emerged into a dark hallway. Some servants passed by carrying linens. We had to flatten ourselves against the wall to give them space to pass. I realized this must be where Rodland lived, as well as worked. In a city of splendor, his own lodgings were bare. It surprised me, as did the sight of the guest chambers when Artusa showed me in.

The room was furnished like any room in a cheap, homey inn might be. Everything was clean, though simple, and had clearly been repaired several times over. The chairs at the small table were mismatched, the bedding a dull, many-washed shade of white, and the bed itself plain and sturdy. I had assumed Lord Rodland would be ostentatious, living in a grand palace like King Caba or an expensive manor like Lord Dashski. Instead, this place reminded me of somewhere a poor, happy family might make their home.

It reminded me of Lyekeep.

I swallowed back a lump in my throat as I walked past Artusa into the room. I will have some water sent up for you, the somber young man said. Is there anything else you need? Before I could answer, he was already turning to go.

Thank you, I called after him. He turned, shot me a strange look, and then gave half a smile as he closed the door behind him.

For the first time in days, I was alone. The first thing I did was remove my robes, leaving only enough clothing on to protect