The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Six

He seemed to be addressing himself more than Ashne, and so she did not reply.

After all, it was a question she herself had no answers for.

* * *

No more incidents troubled them after that, and they were able to make good time. The Slez glimmered as they approached, silvery and calm. At the crossing, Ashne looked across to the opposite bank, the water whispering old dark fears to her heart.

She made the mistake then of looking down. Ripples distorted her reflection, playing with light and shadow against her face and the depths beyond. The longer she stared, the gentler the waves seemed to become, seductive and playful as the fish that glinted beneath their surface. A waving tangle of rivergrass sifted mud and dust from the flow of water. A dark mass flitted into sight, and then away again. The water swelled with its passing.

She breathed in slowly, fighting a surge of queasiness, and tugged the kammrae forward, following Phas and the apothecary to where the ferryman awaited.

The ferryman arose from the shade of the tree where he had been napping. His eyes opened wide at their bedraggled state, but he did not question them as Phas paid for their passage. Out of fear, Ashne thought.

Perhaps he thought they were bandits. They certainly looked the part.

Phas questioned the man quietly as he rowed them across, seeking news of the border, but the man avoided eye contact, answering only in brief, gruff sentences. Though untattooed, from his speech and dress he was clearly a southerner. Ashne briefly considered the possibility that language served as the primary barrier in their communication. Phas did not seem fluent in the southern dialects, despite his stint in the court of Khonua. And the apothecary was an anomaly no matter where they went. But when she lifted her hat and addressed the ferryman in their shared tongue, his only response was to spit out into the water, pretending he had not heard her.

Another man of Khonua, then, rather than of Awat. Or was it her attire that caused his scorn?

A trifling matter. She would not dwell on such things. Instead, she settled down and tilted her head back to watch the passing clouds.

* * *

The gates of Tham had already opened for the day when they arrived. Clumps of travelers dispersed and trickled down the lane toward the entrance, where a handful of tattooed soldiers stood on guard, accompanied by a plump Dragon official busily recording each passerby’s name, occupation, and origins on a pile of bamboo slips. Though they had managed to wash out most of the blood from their clothing, they received more than a few glances as they mingled into the crowd. Still, Ashne did not expect much trouble. So close to the border, stranger personages were a common enough sight that they did not stand out, and Tham was a city of soldiers. A bit of grime was hardly unusual. The Speaker-Consort’s emblem in her pack would be sufficient to serve as her pass, though she was uncertain whether it were safe or wise to reveal it in the presence of her companions and the other travelers.

She was still fretting — needlessly, for Phas, at least, had no doubt long ago guessed who she served based on the evidence of her mount and skills — when her decision was made for her. Beside her, Phas stiffened, and she saw that Braksya had begun to walk away from the line, back in the direction they had come from.

Despite herself, Ashne called out. “Master Apothecary.”

“I appear to have forgotten something quite important,” he called back. Then he stopped. “Would you perhaps care for a special ointment of mine, by the way? It would do that injury of yours some good, I believe. And for you, only half price!”