Before Zaltys could leave, Alaia touched her arm, and drew in close. “Celebrate tonight, my daughter. But tomorrow, come and sit with me. There are some things you should know. Things it’s time you learned. That you deserve to know.”
“Family secrets?” Zaltys said, smiling.
“Something like that,” Alaia said.
After dressing in her new armor and slipping on her new ring-its blue glow was hidden by some properties of the shadowy armor-Zaltys strung her new bow by the archery butts Krailash had set up to keep the troops in practice. In truth, despite her boasting to Julen, the jungle was rough going for archers, since the trees were so dense and provided so many obstacles to a clear shot. But Zaltys had always turned that to her advantage, firing from concealment and from high in the branches of trees, excelling as a sniper and secret hunter. With her new armor and the bow, it almost felt unfair for her to have such advantages.
But she knew temple guardian apes and shambling mounds wouldn’t hesitate to use any advantage they could get over her, so why should she feel guilty?
Julen watched her try out her new bow, clapping and making appreciative noises as she tested its capabilities on the straw targets. Night was falling, though, and archery was less enjoyable by torchlight, especially for spectators, so she acceded to Julen’s suggestion that they sit and talk awhile.
They walked to the far northern edge of camp, just outside the perimeter of carts but well inside the shifting protective fence of guards out in the woods. They sat on a couple of mossy boulders, and Julen grinned. “Look what I have.” He drew a small bottle of wine from a bag, along with a pair of wooden cups.
“Did you steal that?” He was doubtless trained in a dozen forms of larceny, and it was a nice gesture, but pillaging caravan supplies was a bad idea.
“No, it was a gift from, ah …” he frowned. “Someone. She said a woman with all your responsibilities should be able to drink all the unwatered wine she wants, and that we should celebrate your new position. I wish I could remember who it was.”
“It’s okay, I think I know.” Zaltys took the bottle, uncorked it, and sniffed, flickering out her tongue as she did so. The liquid inside had a hint of spiciness, and she knew, even in the dimness, that it would be bright red, some of Glory’s tiefling fire-wine. Something best drunk in moderation, no doubt, but a nice gesture nonetheless. And Glory was right-Zaltys should celebrate. The work began tomorrow, but until then, it was the pure pleasure of achieving one of her dreams.
Zaltys poured her cousin a cup and then one for herself, and after their initial gasps at the strength of the wine, they sipped in eye-watering silence for a while. Finally Julen said, “I’m sorry my gift wasn’t as good as the others.”
She waved her hand. “Don’t be silly, Cousin. It was very generous and thoughtful of you, and it’s appreciated. I’ll be sure to send you something when you come of age in a couple of years.” He leaned back on a log. “So. Heir to the Travelers. The backbone of the family fortune, at least, according to the Travelers, though it’s funny, the Guardians say the same thing, and I bet the Traders do too. Still, that’s got to be a weight on your shoulders.”
“It’s what I’ve been training for my entire life,” she said seriously. “I learned how to supply a caravan before I learned to read. I was taught how to scout the jungle and lay false trails before I was taught multiplication. It will be an honor to serve my family.”
“Easy for the heir apparent to say.” Julen took a sip of wine and coughed, eyes watering, then grinned. “I’m so far down in the pecking order sometimes I think my father’s forgotten my name. Oh, they’ve taught me all sorts of things-lockpicking, poisoning, how to tell if someone’s lying, how to creep around. But no one’s grooming me for leadership.”
“I’m sure they’ll find a place for you,” Zaltys said. It was hard to think of Julen as an adult, though he was very nearly. They’d played together as children, and in part of her mind, he was still the laughing boy with jam smudged on his face, racing through the gardens.
Julen shrugged. “Probably. Everyone in the family has to pull their weight, and being a Guardian is a proud and noble thing, and so forth. There’s talk of apprenticing me to my eldest brother. He does business with dwarves and even drow sometimes. He’s always going down into caves and mines and tunnels.” He made a face. “Sounds even worse than living in the jungle, honestly. I was hoping for a posting to one of our trading partners across the gulf, some city where I can enjoy myself, out from under father’s thumb. But he keeps giving me scrolls and books to read about the Underdark lately, so I think they’re serious about apprenticing me. Sending me out here to the jungle is supposed to help me toughen up or get practical experience or something.” He belched.
“Practical experience in getting drunk, maybe,” Zaltys said with a laugh.
“I’m counting on you to be my teacher in this as in all things,” he said with a grin.
Chapter Seven
Zaltys woke up with a cottony tongue and a thudding head. She sat up by the fading ashes of the fire, moaned, and picked up a canteen, sloshing the water around in her mouth for a while before swallowing. The sun was barely up, but by the standards of the camp, she was running late. She needed to get to Krailash’s cart and see about those rotations.
One of the sentries posted by the barrier carts shouted in alarm, and Zaltys sprang to her feet and raced in his direction. (Her mother had commented often on her tendency to run toward danger.) “What’s happening here?” she said. Three sentries were crowded together, their backs to Zaltys. One of them, a young man new to the caravan, turned, and his eyes widened. “Ah, an intruder, he somehow made it past the men posted in the woods.”
“Let me see,” Zaltys said, clambering up on the back of the cart so she could look down on their prisoner, who was on his knees, his hands raised in a show of helplessness. The guards had their spears leveled at him, but the man hardly looked a threat-he resembled one of the homeless drunkards who slept in the alleys of Delzimmer, his clothes filthy rags, hair a long and tangled mass, beard like a ragged pelt clinging to his face. His pale hands trembled, and with red-rimmed eyes, he gazed up at Zaltys and babbled something. Half the sounds were guttural and harsh, but interspersed were recognizable words and phrases: “darkness,” “caves,” “slaves,” “cages,” “trapped,” “help me,”-and “Krailash.”
Zaltys narrowed her eyes. “You, new man. Go and get Krailash. And tell my mother someone has wandered in.”
“Yes, Krailash,” the prisoner said, and then put his head in his hands, and began to weep and sob and speak again in that strange guttural tongue.
Quelamia arrived suddenly in that soundless, subtle way she had, stepping up to the back of the cart to stand beside Zaltys. “Oh, my,” she said. “That’s Deep Speech.”
“What?” Zaltys said.
“Undercommon,” Quelamia said. “The trade language of the denizens of the Underdark.”
“He’s awfully pale to be a drow,” Zaltys said.
“Human,” Quelamia said. “I can always tell a human.”
Julen clambered up on the cart too. “Wow!” he said. “I heard they caught a spy!”
“You think he’s a spy?” Zaltys said. “He looks … crazy. Sick. Lost.”
“Good disguise for a spy,” Julen said, crunching an apple, chewing, and swallowing. “You know? Send someone in as a poor lost wanderer or jungle refugee in need of help, hoping we’ll take care of him, and give him a chance to see what we do in camp, learn our secrets, all that.”
Krailash arrived, axe in hand, and pushed through the barrier carts. “What’s this, then?”