"What have we here?" one of the guards said as they rode toward Carina and Kiara. Without turning, Tris and Carroway slowed their mounts to narrow the gap between them and the women. When neither of Tris's companions replied the guard captain drew closer, matching the women's pace.
"A pretty lady," another soldier said, sidestepping his horse to block Carina's path.
Tris steeled himself not to turn. He let his mount slow further so that he could catch every word. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Carroway gripped his reins white-knuckled, anticipating a fight. "I'm a healer," Carina returned haughtily. "I've been summoned by a merchant in the city and I must not delay. Please move aside."
"You've strange tastes in escorts, if you pick a beardless one like that," the third soldier said, still blocking the road.
"We've been on duty for a long time," the captain said, moving closer to Carina. "The company of a lovely lady would be very much appreciated."
"Move aside," Carina repeated, but the guards now blocked their way completely.
"That's no soldier with her," one said suspiciously. "They're both wenches."
The captain chuckled. "There's a clearing over there. Let's go." He drew his sword.
Kiara's draw was lightning quick, blocking the captain's sword. Jae, on his way back from hunting, descended with a shriek, raking his talons across the soldier's face. At the sound of drawn steel, Tris and Carroway wheeled their horses. Vahanian galloped in from the rear, standing in his stirrups, sword aloft.
"Ambush!" the captain cried, turning to deflect Tris's advance. Kiara battled the first soldier, and Vahanian drove at another hard enough to topple him from his horse as he struggled to parry. Carina pulled free her stave and went after Kiara's opponent from behind, beating at his head and shoulders. Carroway sank a throwing knife hilt deep into a guard's chest. Vahanian ran his opponent through and dispatched him with a slash across the throat.
Vahanian made short work of a fifth guard just as Kiara's attacker was thrown from his panicked mount, trampling the downed soldier in its hurry to escape. Tris's opponent bore down on him with single-minded focus, fighting for his life now that his companions had fallen. With a two-handed swing, Tris maneuvered past the soldier's parry, scoring a blow that cleaved through the soldier's neck. The last guard launched himself at Tris with a wild cry. Tris barely got his blade up in time to block the strike. Tris knocked the blade aside and swung into a clean Eastmark kick, sending the guard stumbling into the path of Vahanian's sword.
"Someone's bound to be by soon," Carroway hissed. "Let's get this mess cleaned up."
Kiara was already dragging a body into the thicket at the edge of the road. Tris sent Carina to watch the road for danger as he and the others dragged the remaining bodies out of sight.
"Not a bad kick," Vahanian commented as he wiped blood from his hands. "Not bad at all."
Winded and sweating, Tris calmed his nervous horse. "A little too much practice lately, but thanks."
Carina, shaken and pale, drove off the guardsmen's horses. Kiara, her expression grim, cleaned her sword and resheathed it. Carroway cut down a tree branch and began obscuring the blood on the road, masking the signs of struggle.
"Those bodies won't stay hidden long," Vahanian said, resting his hands on his hips.
"If we strip off the uniforms and take their purses, no one may think much of it," Carina said practically. "There're always bandits on the road when there's festival traffic."
Vahanian looked at her and grinned. "You're starting to think like a cutpurse. I like that in a woman."
Carina ignored the jibe and began pulling off the dead guards' livery. Kiara and Tris joined her as Vahanian and Carroway stood guard. Within a few minutes, nothing remained to identify the dead men as soldiers.
"That might buy us a little time," Carroway said. Carina stuffed the torn tunics into one of her saddlebags.
"It would be a shame to hang for killing a soldier when we came to kill a king," Vahanian said dryly. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
The group grew quiet as the day passed. They ran into no more problems as they neared the palace, doing their best to blend in among the crowds headed for the feast day. Tris's mood swung between anger and sadness as they rode. Under Bricen's rule, Margolan had been prosperous. Margolan boasted a large population of trades-people and merchants whose industry and income lifted them—if not up to noble standards of living—then well above the means of their counterparts in Isencroft, Trevath, and Nargi. Most of Margolan's farmers were freemen, taking pride in the small plots of lands and healthy herds they owned for themselves. Margolan had fewer sharecroppers and indentured servants than in either Trevath or Nargi, where such arrangements were often corrupt and indistinguishable from slavery. That meant that the debtors' prisons were relatively empty; those unfortunates who landed in jail could work their way free if they had the will and health to do so. Margolan's prosperity had also meant that its roads were generally safe from brigands and free of beggars. Bricen's disciplined troops had weeded out the highwaymen and cutpurses, while the acolytes of the Mother and Childe tended to the mendicants, taking in those who had nowhere else to go.
For as long as Tris could remember, the closer one got to Shekerishet, the more prosperous the surroundings had looked. The city was full of wealthy merchants and tradesmen who did a thriving business. Their homes and shops reflected their prosperity. The city had bustled with taverns, shops, and theaters, offering tempting diversions and trinkets for wealthy and poor alike.
All that had changed. As the roads grew more familiar, Tris grieved at the differences he saw. Once-thriving inns were empty. Broken windows went unmended. Farm fields stood abandoned, either burned or still in the remnants of the last season's crops, when they should have been plowed and well into new growth. Some villages were populated only by ghosts, old people, and cripples, those who could not or would not flee.
Beggars lined the roads. Even more disturbing were the reasons for their begging. Before, the beggars might have been old blind men or cagy urchins looking for a few coins. Now the beggars were men and women of every age, bearing the scars of war and violence. Children missing limbs, their faces marred by fire. Disheveled women with small children at their skirts, clutching their tattered shawls around them like the remnants of their dignity as they begged for food. War-crippled men whose eyes reflected horrors of which they could not speak, discarded by an army that took them by force, and then sent back to villages that no longer existed. Tris felt the beggars' eyes on them as they passed. While he knew that the ragged villagers did not recognize him for who he was, he felt the responsibility of the crown more heavily than before. Tris's gambit was the only hope these wretched souls had; he was well aware of how uncertain the chance of success remained.
The city, when they reached it, was even worse.
The palace city had been well known for its welcoming, easy feel. Travelers came from all over the Winter Kingdoms to experience its theaters, music gardens, and the taverns that sold Margolan's famous dark, rich ale. Trade flowed from all corners of the realm, with festivals and caravans stopping on the green outside the city's edge. Before the coup, the city had been filled with languages from every kingdom, from across the Northern Sea or the far-away realms of the Southern Kingdoms, below Trevath's borders. Acolytes and pilgrims came from throughout Margolan to make homage at the Childe's sacred grove and the great shrine to the Mother Aspect.