The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Six

That amused scathing tone of his that she remembered from their first meeting had returned.

“Thank you,” she replied, in as chilly a manner as she could manage. “But I decline.”

He shrugged and sauntered on along his way as if he had not even offered in the first place. Ashne glanced back at the soldiers on guard, but if they had noticed, they gave no indication of it.

Then she turned to Phas, who was still staring at the apothecary’s retreating figure.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “There is something I must confirm.”

He too broke away from the crowd, striding away at a swift pace, not quite running.

Another woman might have followed them. Might have wondered at the strangeness of their behavior. But whatever they were up to now had nothing to do with her or her mission, so Ashne dismissed the incident from her mind entirely, accepting their abrupt departure as a suitable parting of ways. Part of her had long expected such a development, for a meeting as odd as theirs had been could surely only end in much the same manner. And she could not deny that their leaving made a great many things easier for her.

Meanwhile, the crowd crept forward.

By the time she reached the front of the line, the record-keeper had begun to string together his third set of names. She reached for her pack as a pair of soldiers stepped forward.

Then she stopped. Looked up with an alacrity that startled even herself. The soldiers pointed their blades at her, faces grim. Behind her, a murmur rippled across the crowd.

Though her fingers itched for her own blade, she held her arms visibly still at her side.

“What is the meaning of this?” she said in a low voice, utilizing official Court speech though these men were of the riverlands. Even as she spoke she was struck by a sudden irrational fear that the king’s men had caught up to her after all. That the queen’s promises had failed her, that soldiers of Tham had been alerted to the incident at the capital, and were on the lookout for her. That Zsaran —

But the men ignored her, whether because they did not understand her or because they chose not to, she could not know. The one on the right glanced at the record-keeper.

“Hey, Pig,” he said in the Turtle tongue. “How many is this now?”

To Ashne’s surprise, the official bristled and responded in kind. “Fourth.”

She had judged his origins too quickly.

“Think we’ve finally hit the bull’s-eye with this one?”

“How should I know? Ask the Magistrate yourself, why don’t you.”

Still in Turtle dialect, but with a pronounced accent she did not immediately recognize. She readjusted her assumptions again. Switched to her native tongue.

“I am here on official business from the lady consort.”

The guard who had spoken eyed her suspiciously. “Have you any proof?”

She tugged her mount forward and began to reach for the emblem, but was stopped by the insistent press of a blade against her neck.

“And how do I know you’re not just some common thief, eh?”

“I must speak with the Magistrate.”

“Aye, and I’m sure he’s just dying to speak with you. Poor rat’s far too busy for the likes of you these days.”

The more the men spoke, the more clearly Ashne began to understand the strangeness she had sensed since the start of the exchange.

These men were indeed from the riverlands — but not of her people. Former denizens of Khonua, perhaps mixed with western roots. For the record-keeper’s accent was that of Minister Muntong’s, only choppier, more defined, and it seemed to her obvious now too that the guard’s intonation was closer to the bandits she had encountered just earlier that week, though not quite the same, either.