To help me move my cargo, I enlist the help of my only two friends in the world, Pansy and Lucienne. The three of us have always been outcasts, and we forged our friendship in that common ground.
Lucienne was born frail and feeble, and because of that, most folk assume her mind to be feeble as well. Not so. She is sharp as a tack, one of the smartest people I know in the maths and sciences, with a rare photographic memory that would serve her well in medicine or engineering or really any other field of study. But even the most open-minded apothecaries and architects are reluctant to take on a student who is bound to a wheelchair. So Lucienne, an orphan, has been living off the charity of the church, keeping their books and filing donation paperwork in exchange for room and board.
Pansy’s real name is Leonardo Gadaric Thudovarius. We first started calling him Pansy because everyone else called him that, him being the creature he was—tall, slender, and effeminate, with a soft, melodic voice and picturesque curls of scarlet hair. After we learned it was a derogatory name, we tried to call him Leo, but he confessed that he secretly prefers Pansy. So we kept it up. He is a little younger than Lucienne and I, being only sixteen; and his family holds a title and a respectable fortune, so he lives comfortably under their roof. Though he likely enjoys spending time with us more, seeing how often he simply refuses to go home.
Lucienne pitches the brilliant idea of loading the dozens of books in a wheelbarrow and, instead of Pansy or I leaning down awkwardly to push it, Lucienne pushes the handles from where she sits in her wheelchair. Then, in turn, one of us pushes her. This makes no sense to me, but pushing both Lucienne and the wheelbarrow is somehow easier than pushing only the wheelbarrow. I do not understand physics like she does, I suppose.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you, Luci?” I ask as we trundle down the street. “The priory is just down the block. I can drop any of these and lighten the load.”
“Nope. I’ve borrowed most of these before,” says Lucienne. “You really only need to read a book once, after all.”
“ You do,” Pansy snickers.
“Anyway, I thought you wanted to sell these for money?” Lucienne asks.
“I do,” I reply. “But one or two books won’t make a dent in the long run. I’m expecting… oh, eight hundred obols?”
“Eight hundred!” Pansy echoes. “Saints, El, are you serious?”
“That’s my low number. I’m aiming for upwards of a grand.”
Some merchants might be worried about announcing such lofty numbers in the impoverished alleys of Lavendel Road, infamous for its high crime rate. But Lavendel is my home. The people here know me, and I know them. It’s the “businesses” you don’t want to mess with, the shady figures who peddle illicit drugs, stolen jewels, and desperate people. They have their territories and operating hours, and I know better than most merchants how to avoid them. No, my worries lie further up the road, closer to what most people would consider the “safer” part of the capital city.
The toll gate. A huge brick wall, thirty feet high and capped with anti-siege artillery, separates the unwashed masses from the heart of commerce. As expected, there’s a line. By the time we reach the gate threshold, it’s been hours, and the midafternoon sun beats ruthlessly down upon us. Poor Lucienne, whose ghostly pale skin and white hair put her at so much risk from the sun, is suffering worst of all. Pansy has shed his coat to hold it over her head in a makeshift umbrella, but the exposure is gradually turning his neck and forearms a red to match his hair. I am regretting my choice in fashion. To be taken more seriously, I chose to wear my Sunday best, a green velveteen coat over a brown wool dress, with a high collar to hide the scar around my neck. I did not expect the autumn weather to turn so unseasonably warm. Now I am sweating buckets through my dress, and surely cannot expect to smell very pleasant by the time we reach the book bindery.
At last they call us up to the gate, and a swarm of lightly armored men in castle livery begin picking through the contents of the wheelbarrow. “Name and licensure?” asks the lieutenant. He is a rather angular looking young man who cannot be much older than I, and I stand tall as I respond.
“Eloise Rossach. Private citizen.”
He saunters to the load of books and takes one off the top, flipping through it. “All of these yours? I really doubt that. I’m going to need to see your tax form and merchant license.”
I am starting to get a bad feeling about this. “I’m sorry, but you don’t need those,” I tell him. “I have receipts of purchase for all the books, proving that they belong to me.”
“Mmm…no. Nice try, though. Tax form and merchant license, please.”
“Transport tax only needs to be paid up front for goods worth one thousand obols or more, and these books are only valued at eight hundred. I’m seeking to trade personal property to a single buyer, so I don’t need to provide a merchant’s license.”
The lieutenant’s eyes narrow. “Pretty sure you do. For the last time, show me your license, miss.”
“Ellie,” Pansy whispers, “take a breath.”
I do not want to take a breath. This huffy gate guard is wrong, and he knows it. I have seen this grift many times before, in a dozen countries and languages, and it never changes. The taxman singles out someone they think will cave to authority figures, make up some “problem” with the goods that require them to pay a higher tax, then pocket the excess. Sometimes the embezzling is done at the higher level, too; by a sergeant or captain who deliberately trains his underlings incorrectly and then changes the ledgers later. I sense this huffy gate guard might be suffering the latter issue, so I do what I do best. I escalate things.
“Get me your sergeant,” I tell him. “I request to speak with him.”
The lieutenant scowls. “Whoa, okay, lady,” he puts up his hands, “it isn’t that big of a deal. Just three obols and six pence.”
“Three obols! A day’s whole wage for an incompetent fool who forgets the tax code. I am a private citizen trading personal property, sir , and I am prepared to pay four pence for my travel tax, but that is all you will get from me without your sergeant present to explain himself…”
There is a tug at my sleeve. “El, listen,” Lucienne hisses.
I ignore her. I refuse to be taken advantage of like this. I have been known to allow it if the grift is particularly interesting, just to see how it plays out, but this is the easiest trick in the book and it’s not even being done well!
“Mark my words, sir,” I continue, jabbing a finger into the lieutenant’s face. “The day will come when you scam the wrong person. And when that day comes—”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough out of you,” the lieutenant snaps. “Men, arrest her.”
My eyes widen as two gate guards close in on me, grabbing both of my arms. “You’re arresting me? On what charge?” I yell. Lucienne and Pansy cry my name, but the guards are already snapping shackles around my wrists. “On knowing my rights? On resisting this—this highway robbery?! Unhand me at once!”
What happens next happens in a blur. To my utter shock, they do let me go. As soon as I demand it, the guards release my arms and scramble back. I watch them scurry away from the road as if they’ve seen a ghost.
Then a horse whinnies— deafeningly close to my ear.
Something smashes into my skull in an explosion of pain.
And I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
I come to while the dust is still clearing. A blurry silhouette looms above me, warped by the glaring sun. Over his shoulder, I can see the bucking horse that undoubtedly caused all of this ruckus, as several other people attempt to calm or restrain it. Slowly I begin to make out details of the man above me. A young man’s face, but bearing the scars of a much older war veteran. Stormy gray eyes and tousled sandy hair. He is somehow…familiar, but I cannot place from where.
As soon as I catch this glimpse, though, he moves slightly and the full force of the sun blinds me again. Pain lances through my skull. I squeeze my eyes shut. A concussion, for sure. Through the pounding ache, the only thing I can make out is Lucienne’s voice, reassuring me, “Eloise—don’t panic—he’s carrying you to safety. I think.”
So I don’t panic. When someone reaches under my body to pick me up, I let him, and just bury my face into the fur of his cloak.
Eventually, I find myself lying on a bench in what seems to be some city park, under a shady grove of trees. The buildings in the distance are much nicer, so we must be inside the mercantile district, past the gate guards. Lucienne is treating me with a damp handkerchief on my forehead, wiping blood from a scrape on my cheek, and occasionally trickling water into my mouth. I can tell by the quick, analytical glances around my face and body that she is in “doctor mode,” comparing my symptoms to every one of the medical textbooks she has absorbed. Pansy isn’t helping, and is just sitting next to me holding my hand, but I appreciate his support just as much. Fuck, my head hurts.
“What happened?” I murmur.
Pansy explains it once. I don’t understand the first time, still woozy and disoriented. I ask him to repeat it and he does, but I get distracted by a throb of pain in my head. The third time Pansy repeats the explanation, I piece together that a foreign embassy was trying to get through the gates. They were in a hurry, wanting to convey time-sensitive information to the royal palace. The riders had called out ahead to clear the road, but with me and the gate lieutenant in such a heated argument, neither of us realized that we were standing in the path of galloping horses until far too late. The riders tried to stop a collision to no avail. Spooked, one horse broke free of the others. Then it trampled me underfoot.
“You should be fine,” says Lucienne. “It actually looks like the heat stroke would have gotten you soon, if not for the concussion…we’ll stay here in the shade for a few minutes, keep you drinking some water, then we’ll see how you feel, alright?”
“Mmph.” I manage a nod. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You should really be thanking the Northman,” Lucienne jerks her head to the left. “He saved your life. And, well, almost ended it too. But mostly saved it.”
I frown. I squint to focus my vision over Lucienne’s shoulder, where I can see several men and their horses on the side of the road. One of the men is directing rapid orders to the others, who quickly hop back on their horses and ride away.
Strangely enough, it is the shape of the horses that identifies the riders. The animals are not tall and slender like the favored breeds in Saol Eile. Rather, their forms are squatter, more muscular, with thicker coats to endure the harsh winters of their homeland and stout legs like that of a mountain lion’s. If not for my travels in my past life, I would not recognize them as horses belonging to the Northern barbarians. But I had every reason to become familiar with them—despite what we in Saol Eile call them, “barbarians,” the Northmen are every bit as sophisticated in the art of war as their civilized neighbors. They are ruthlessly effective mercenaries and a frequent sight in countries on the brink of war. To see one of their delegations traipsing through a capital city is such ill portent that I am shocked no passerby pay them any mind, besides raising an eyebrow at the unseasonably thick furs they wear about their necks.
Though I have all the more reason to call their presence an ill portent. The Northman who remains, after sending off the others in his delegation, is the same who knelt over me when I fell. He has led his horse to a water pump and is tending to it. From where I lie on the bench, I have a clear and unbroken view of the Northman’s belongings strapped to the saddle—including, sheathed in black leather, the executioner’s axe.