The wagon rattled down the increasingly well-paved road. Jubal had begrudgingly lifted the cart so that Qala and Telos could fit the wheel on the side. Ylia had fixed the hub band in place. Two days on the road, and it all seemed to be holding. Somehow, Ylia wasn’t reassured.

  The previous day’s travel had passed without event. They had spent the night sleeping in the wagon itself, lying under multiple silken blankets from Qala’s store. It had been decided staying at a House was a bad idea. Ylia feared another relapse. Telos feared being recognised. And Jubal was similarly hunted.

  A feeling of deep anxiety hung over all of them, a stormcloud of dire potential waiting to unleash its fury. The sense that something or someone tracked them on the road was so palpable she could taste it more bitterly than the sourness of ale on her tongue, the reminder of her weakness, her regret, her folly.

  She did not know why she was still here, other than she had nowhere else to go. She had few friends in Midnere, and none of the friendships deep enough that she might call on them for help. But equally, she did not know where this road with Telos and the others led—other than to prison, war, or death.

  She eyed Telos as the wagon rattled on. A layer of thin fuzz lay across his scalp like thinning carpet, and he at last possessed the shadows of eyebrows. He patted his head continuously, evidently proud of the tiny regrowth of hair. But for all his foolishness and fun she knew he was dangerously cunning.

  Telos had made some good points, but he had also outright manipulated them. It was all very well to speak of Balance and the Way, but he had talked to her about the gods quite differently when they were alone in her House. Firstly, the Gods cannot be very, well, godlike if they could not perceive that I had no intention of ever honouring my side of the bargain. And secondly, they are hardly paragons of virtue if they always demand service in exchange for their favours.

  She smiled to herself. It seemed the gods had Telos figured out, after all. He had not escaped their judgement, yet she saw no evidence of contrition from him, only more scheming. She wanted to ask him about the Nergal, whether he had reconsidered the quest he had been given, but not in front of the others. There were too many complications already, and Telos had been right about one thing: they all needed to get the hell out of Yarruk.

  There were more and more settlements visible from the road now: farmsteads, Houses, clusters of cottages, small villages. They had reached the outskirts of the capital. Ahead, Gorgosa loomed. They could smell it, even from here: the acerbic brine of sea-air, the fecund smoke of cooked fish and pork—the favoured delicacy of the city—and the effluence of a sewer-system overflowing its meagre bounds. She’d forgotten the filthy enormity of the city. It sprawled like a beached octopus over the wetlands where the River Nere, turning eastward, at last met the Sea of Golden Ghosts.

  But most impressive of all were the dragons.

  They were close enough to see them now, clinging to the high spires of the Dragonports, their wings making the skyline into a baroque masterpiece of sinew and claw. Like colossal gargoyles wrought in ruby, emerald, and sapphire, they reared upon the highest pinnacles of the city, great containers lashed to their bellies, and multi-seated saddles along their backs. Clouds of dragonlings swarmed the skies, like living thunderheads. Their screeches drowned all other sounds emanating from the city.

  That human beings had tamed such enormous, powerful creatures still boggled Ylia’s mind. The story went that early after the creation of Man, human beings had learned quickly, deciphered the Tablet of Mastery, and striven to create their own sky-ships. This greatly displeased the gods. But they also needed to keep humanity on side for the great labours the gods desired. So, as a compromise, the gods took away the sky-ships from the human race, but taught them instead how to break the dragons over generations. Now, dragonlings were used as messengers, and full-grown dragons were used to cross the globe.

  Of course, not all the dragons deigned to be broken. A few fled to Memory—or so the story went. Memory was the last place where wild dragons roamed.

  Before them, a high oak gate stood, set into the city’s fortress wall. The gate lay open and a thoroughfare of travellers, merchants, beggars, and noble convoys went to and fro through the opening, as though the city’s eastern entrance were a great mouth exhaling and inhaling, the city breathing the lifeblood of humanity in and out as fluidly as air. Guards bearing flags and spears patrolled the upper battlements.

  “Remember the plan,” Telos whispered.

  Ylia sighed. Why was she giving this man another chance? As Qala said, all her logical faculties dictated she put a knife in his gut and leave him by the roadside. But something told her it would be a mistake. Perhaps Qala was also right that it would be foolish to harm a cursed man, lest one become cursed oneself.

  “I am the elusive playwright, Davian Gellos,” Telos went on. “I have written a new and controversial masterpiece about the theront extermination. Jubal, here, is our lead actor in costume. A costume wrought by Qi’shathian artificers, hence why it is so good.” He gestured towards Qala, who nodded to show she understood. “And you are our leading lady, Ylia.”

  She scoffed at that.

  “I doubt anyone is going to believe that.”

  “You’re easily more beautiful than half the leading ladies of the city,” Telos said. “But remember, less is more when it comes to talking. Especially when lying.”

  Qala let out her strange, half-musical laugh.

  “Would that you would follow your own advice!”

  Telos grinned. Then he pulled out a black scarf from Qala’s supplies of goods and wrapped it about his face. At first, Ylia thought it would make him look ridiculous, but Telos managed to find an angle that rendered his features mysterious. He was clearly not a bad actor himself, because with the combination of the cloth covering the lower half of his face, and a new cast to his eyes, he did look like a completely different person. His posture was different, too. Unmistakably aristocratic. The air of a man who knew money would always come to him and did not need to work. She smiled to herself. She did not trust him, but she could learn a lot during their spell together.

  The cart rattled up to the entrance. Two guards in plate armour strode forward. Another two lingered near the gate. A fifth, who looked different to the rest, with crow-black hair, a proud bearing, and the emerald tabard of a ranking officer draped across his breastplate, watched carefully. Ylia’s hackles instantly raised when she saw the presence of the officer and the number of guards at the gate. Clearly, they were on high alert. It’s Telos, she thought. The Warden must have sent word to the city.

  It occurred to her at that moment she could turn them all in. Telos for being a criminal, Qala for being royalty, and Jubal for being a theront. There might even be a reward for Telos and Jubal.

  But the mere thought of it turned her guts. Someone had no doubt turned her father in. That was the only explanation she could think of as to how an innocent man had ended up in jail. Someone had been facing prison, and they had given her father’s name, and he had been taken instead. No, she did not trust all of her new companions, but she would not be the one to break trust first.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Qala reined in the horses and the wagon trundled to a halt. She held up a hand to the guards in greeting. Telos and Jubal sat in the back of the wagon, Jubal with his hood pulled low over his face, concealing even the lower part of his jaw, and Telos looking nonchalant in his strange mixture of effete garments cobbled together out of Qala’s stash.

  The guards surveyed the would-be troop. Urgal lifted his head and hissed. The guards eyed the huge felidae warily. Ylia placed a hand on the cat’s head and stroked; the great beast lay down again, soothed, if only for the moment.

  “What business?”

  “We are a troop of performers,” Qala answered, her voice never wavering. “And this is the Davian Gellos, playwright extraordinaire.”

  The guard on the right took one look at Telos and looked satisfied enough. The other, however, cast his eye over them again. His gaze lingered on the huge, bulky form of Jubal.

  “Is that your bodyguard?”

  “That is our leading man,” Qala replied. “He is in full costume, and we do not want to ruin the surprise for our audience.”

  She’s a natural, Ylia thought, grateful Qala was doing the talking. Ylia could socialise with patrons, suppliers, and high-level business owners all day and not feel a lick of fear, but now she was pretending to be someone else, suddenly she felt terrified. She tried to control her breathing.

  The guards exchanged a look.

  “Very well. All seems to be in order. A word of warning: the Smoke Quarter has recently fallen foul of a pox, so best stay clear.”

  Qala bowed.

  “Thank you.”

  The guards stepped back. Qala straightened and took hold of the reins.

  And then a wind blew through the gate. Funnelled through the narrow aperture, it grew into a gale. Jubal’s hood was tugged aside and then fully blown free. Gasps left people’s lips as they saw his gleaming head, the black hair, the beautiful horns.

  Telos was on his feet in less than a second.

  “Behold!” he cried. “The magic of Qi’shathian workmanship! A lifelike head! This noble actor shall play a theront character in our new drama, to be shown only at The Golden Lion theatre! Book your tickets now! Two Relics grants admission!”

  A smattering of applause burst from the onlookers. Jubal held himself together rather well, even bowing slightly as if to gratefully receive the applause. The stiffness in his movements only served to add to the illusion that he was wearing a costume. Ylia exhaled slowly with relief.

  “Well, the cat is out of the bag now,” Qala said, to the beleaguered guards. “But perhaps that is no bad thing. Well all enjoy an appetiser before the main meal.”

  “It is very lifelike indeed,” one of the guards grunted. “Now, move—”

  A voice cut across the jabbering crowd, Telos, and the guards. It was a cold voice of command, a voice hard as a steel edge.

  “Wait one moment!”

  With a sinking feeling like her guts were being hooked out of her belly, Ylia turned and saw the captain with the emerald tabard walking towards them, a hand on the sword at his hip, his eyes flashing dangerously. He was not an unhandsome man, his face framed by a coal-black beard, and the hair on his head wiry and curled, like a garden rebelling against the hands that tamed it. Yet, there was something about the cast of his features, as though he were permanently sneering, that froze her blood. He reminded her of the Wagemaster.

  The captain swaggered up to the cart. He looked at Jubal, then at Telos.

  “I have seen many Qi’shathian parlour tricks, but nothing quite so seamless as this,” the captain said. “Might I ask him to remove his costume, so that I might see the workings of such a wonder?”

  Urgal growled. The captain looked unfazed.

  “A magician never reveals their trick,” Telos replied. “It ruins the experience for the audience.”

  That’s going to get old very quickly, Ylia thought.

  The captain drew his sword.

  “I’ll ask once more politely: take off the headpiece to prove it’s a costume, and you’ll be on your way. It’s not so unreasonable, is it?”

  The crowd had fallen silent. All eyes were turned to the four unlikely performers on the wagon and the Captain of the Guard who barred their way, sword-drawn. He might have looked like a hero, were it not for the shit-eating grin on his face. He knows already, Ylia thought. He’s not fooled by force of personality.

  To Ylia’s surprise, Telos nodded and said, “Very well. Tirvus, if you would…” It took Ylia a moment to realise who Telos was talking to, but then she realised it was Jubal. The theront had gone rigid, every muscle taut as a rope. “Tirvus,” Telos repeated, and Ylia heard beneath the theatrical intonation that Telos was trying to communicate with Jubal, trying to tell him to have faith, that there was a plan. “We should not keep the good Captain waiting.”

  The captain’s eyes had narrowed.

  Jubal stood. He climbed slowly out of the cart. Telos leapt down lightly behind him.

  “Now, Captain,” Telos went on. “Can you see here, where the neck joins the spine? A seam…”

  The captain stepped forward, frowning. He squinted.

  “There’s no—”

  Telos had the man’s sword in his hands before the Captain could finish his sentence. Telos reversed the grip and slammed the hard pommel into the captain’s eye. The captain yelped and staggered back.

  “Run!” Telos shrieked.

  Jubal clambered back onto the wagon as Qala snapped the reins. The horse—already skittish—bolted forward and the wagon started moving. The two guards who had questioned them first ran to the side, trying to grab the reins off Qala. Ylia hesitated, weighing the options. Whatever choice she made now, she was committed to that path.

  Then she remembered Qala taking her from Midnere, advising her, helping her. She couldn’t blame Qala for her relapse, that was her own responsibility. Qala had been there for her, had helped a stranger with no expectation of reward—other than spiritual satisfaction.

  Ylia stood and placed a solid kick into a guard’s face. He flew backward and landed in the mud. Urgal followed her lead, lashing out with a clawed paw at the second guard, who fell back shrieking, clutching a gouge across his cheek. Urgal had only grazed him, in truth. He was lucky to still have eyes and a nose.

  The two guards on the other side had charged to aid their captain, but the annoyingly agile Telos somersaulted onto the moving cart, out of their reach.

  “Don’t moon these ones unless you want a sword up your arse!” Ylia yelled.

  Telos grinned.

  “It was sorely tempting.”

  The captain had picked himself up from the dirt. He reached for his sword then swore loudly when he saw Telos waving it from the wagon, which had already lurched through the gate and onto the cobblestone streets beyond. Soldiers on the battlements were bellowing orders. Arrows whizzed but went wide of the mark—the wagon was picking up tremendous speed, hurtling down a narrow road lined with alehouses, emporiums, and crowds of gaggling citizens.

  “Qala, book it to the Dragonport!” Telos said. He turned to Ylia. “We just have to hope your contact Gryll is in a friendly mood.”

  Ylia gulped.

  Was now a good time to mention Gryll hated Qi’shathians?