Moving Again

The first wagon entered Fang Pass beneath the stones that should have crushed it.

Broken rock covered half the bend. Darran’s lead driver kept the left wheels close to the inner wall and brought the team through at a walk. Above them, the burned ridge stood black against the morning.

No smoke rose from the giant camp.

No one spoke until the last wagon cleared the bend.

Then harness chains resumed their rhythm. Wheels creaked. Fang Pass fell behind them one slow mile at a time.

Darran had put the wounded inside the wagons, braced between rolled blankets and cargo that would not shift. The guards walked stiffly. Rishi moved up and down the line to check bandages while Maeril watched the ridges until the mountains released them.

The pass had not welcomed the caravan.

It had allowed them through.

Beyond it, the road returned to ordinary cruelties: mud, chafed harness, rain that came and went, and meals burned on one side while remaining cold on the other.

For the first day, the guards said little. On the second, they began arguing about blankets, watch order, and whose turn it had been to ruin supper.

Kora kept them moving.

When one guard began telling a passing muleteer how close the tree trunk had come, she turned on him.

“Road first. Stories after supper.”

By the third day, the slopes eased. Stone gave way to wider track, and the air warmed. Mule trains met them from the south. Wagons passed in both directions, driven by drovers with opinions and guarded by people who watched every bend before committing their weight to it.

Crimmor reached them first as noise.

Warehouse calls carried beyond the walls. Harness bells answered. Merchants disputed prices at a volume meant to alter arithmetic. Wet canvas, hay, horse sweat, and river water thickened the air.

Maeril lifted her head. “Civilization.”

Darran rode past her. “Welcome to Crimmor.”

The caravan yard swallowed all five wagons. Oxen leaned against the reins while drivers shouted them into position. Clerks waited at open warehouses with slates ready. Beyond the roofs, sunlight flashed on the river.

Darran set everyone to work separating goods for storage from those awaiting delivery.

Near the rear wagon, the mother and grandmother gathered both children between them. All four had reached Crimmor.

They thanked every guard within reach. Before someone led them from the yard, the children turned and gave Maeril a solemn wave.

She returned it with equal gravity.

Kora approached with her spear across one shoulder.

“You,” she said to Maeril.

Maeril looked behind her. “Me?”

“You read weather, fire, and fools faster than most people read road signs.”

For once, Maeril found no answer.

Kora seemed satisfied. She faced Rishi.

“And you.”

He inclined his head.

Kora considered the Staff of Warding. “Less useless with that stick than I expected.”

Maeril’s mouth opened again.

Rishi accepted the judgment with complete seriousness. “Then I shall endeavor to improve.”

“You do that.”

Kora tapped two fingers against her spear and walked away.

Darran found them before they left the yard. Deliveries had pulled his coat crooked, and three different people were already calling his name. He held a folded slip of paper between two fingers.

“I sent word ahead.”

Maeril looked at the paper. “Please tell me that concerns a bath.”

His mouth moved at one corner. “Among other things.”

“Other things are acceptable if bathing remains involved.”

“Good rooms. Real food. Hot water. People who treat rest as a serious profession.” Darran offered her the slip. “The Golden Orchid.”

Maeril took it before Rishi could.

“The Golden Orchid.” She tried the name. “That sounds clean.”

“It is.”

She looked at Rishi. “A great man.”

His eyes softened.

Darran glanced between them.

“You both look as if the road has been taking payment in bone. Hand them the note. Let someone else be responsible for comfort tonight.”

Maeril folded the paper with care. “That may be the most wonderful sentence anyone has ever spoken to me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Rishi bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Someone shouted for Darran across the yard. He nodded once to Rishi, raised a hand toward the voice, and returned to his wagons.

Maeril watched him go. “Rest as a serious profession. What does that mean?”

“It sounds lazy,” Rishi said.

She stared at him. “It sounds sacred.”

He laughed softly.

They left the caravan quarter on foot.

Crimmor changed around them. Animal smells gave way to lamp oil and cooking smoke. Mud disappeared beneath swept paving. Painted signs hung above warm windows, and somewhere ahead, strings and a hand drum carried a tune through the evening streets.

Maeril tightened one of her pack straps.

“The Golden Orchid,” she said again. “It sounds elegant.”

Rishi did not answer.

She looked at him.

He had not stopped walking, but his steps had shortened. His shoulders held very still beneath the weight of his pack.

“What?”

Rishi pointed.

Amber light washed the entrance where two streets met. A gold-leaf orchid curved across the dark sign above the door. Fine lattice screened the windows without hiding the warm shapes moving behind them.

A woman in a fitted red gown stood at the threshold with one hand on the arm of a man dressed in merchant silk. She said something that made him lower his voice. Then she smiled and guided him inside.

Maeril looked at Rishi.

He seemed to have stopped breathing.

“Oh,” she said.

The note from Darran crackled between her careful fingers.

Maeril looked back at the golden door. “He sent us to a pleasure house.”