the sun. It was getting hotter and the air was thick and heavy. Sweat broke out all over me but didn’t evaporate, leaving me sticky and uncomfortable. We swatted at sprightly little mosquitoes that whined around our ears, drank from our forearms, and then hopped into nothingness. Little swine. Soon I could see the pinpricked pimples they left in their wake, and my temper declined. I began to mutter curses under my breath, and twice Orgos turned to me as if he thought I was talking to him. In the end, to occupy my mind, I did.
“So how did you get into this game?” I asked him.
“Another grim story,” he replied, “to be saved for another day.”
He stared ahead in silence and I let it go.
Since Orgos was about as entertaining as a juggler with no arms, I watched the vegetation grow still sparser and the ground more arid as the miles passed. It was pretty gripping stuff. It was also hotter than a swamp rat’s armpit, which didn’t help. I remember disinterestedly watching a finch tugging seeds from a thistle as we rattled past. After that, nothing.
It shouldn’t be boring, being an adventurer. I knew because I was, you might say, a bit of an expert on heroic stories. My portrayal of the princess in A King’s Vengeance had played a couple of times a month for a year and a half. There was nothing in the story about sitting around on a wagon for hours at a time.
Orgos woke me three hours later. Thanks to the quality of the road, for which I suppose we must thank the bloody Diamond Empire, we had put over thirty miles between us and Cresdon. We had passed only a couple of caravans thus far, but Orgos had woken me for a reason. Behind us was a mounted Empire patrol, closing fast.
“Get in the back,” he said. “There’s bolt of silk you can hide under—”
“I’m not hiding,” I said.
Orgos gave me a look.
“If they stop us, they’ll search the wagon, find me, and then we’re done.”
“You have a better idea?”
“Other than them leaving us alone? Not yet,” I said. “Give me a minute.”
I looked back: a full platoon of Empire troops, numbering about twenty-five with an officer riding hard. They pulled ahead of us and waved us to a halt. Then they formed a single line, circled the wagon and our outriders, and stopped, spears leveled at us.
Hiding in the back suddenly seemed like a good idea.
“We are looking for one William Hawthorne,” barked the officer, “a notorious rebel. Dismount and stand clear of the wagon.”
We did so, and eight soldiers climbed cautiously down from their mounts and held us at the tips of their spears while four others searched us and removed our weapons. Orgos gave me a reproachful look. No one spoke and I felt a wave of nausea washing over me. The officer, a large, tanned man with the hardened features of a soldier whose authority comes from experience in the thick of things, spoke to a younger man in the uniform of the town guard. There was a long silence and they just looked at us while someone opened the tailgate. A moment later one of the soldiers emerged from the back of the wagon and said, “Captain.” He held a heavy scale tunic in one hand and a battle-ax in the other. “The vehicle is laden with weaponry, sir.”
The officer turned back to me, and a thick smile spread slowly across his scarred leathery face. The Cherrati-merchant story wasn’t going to cut it this time.
“Which one of you is Hawthorne?” said the officer, pleased with himself. “Or would you rather identify yourself on the rack in Cresdon?”
SCENE X
Improvisation
It’s a curious thing, the way language works. You tend to presume that you form an idea and then put it into words, but this is often not the case. Words seem to have a life of their own. They start, and your brain follows like a schoolboy, trying to keep up. This was what happened here. The plan was unformed, the ideas completely undeveloped, but when I opened my mouth, words came out.
“I suggest, Captain, that you get back on your horse and return to the garrison before you make the kind of mistake that could end your career.”
The officer looked momentarily knocked off balance, but then he smirked.
“Identification papers, if you please, sir,” he said.
“I think that if anyone should be producing paperwork,” I said, “it’s you.”