Sussen was a town on a hill with walls like a castle, built of gray and brownish stone blocks weathered by time and the battery of those who tried to scale it when they failed to gain entry. They were visible long before we reached the end of the wide, overcrowded road leading to the gates, and they were so high I needed to lean my head back the closer we came to it to see the top. Charon twisted around and leaned over the side of the wagon, his mouth open and his eyes round as he, too, awed at the sight. He said he’d never been in Sussen before. There was never a good reason to stop, and too often he headed in a different direction with more important things to do. I assured him that he wasn’t missing out. Despite the impressive walls, the town was miserable and had a long history of sucking both life and hope for a better future out of anyone who ventured in and thought otherwise. Milo and Alin were quick to agree, adding their personal gripes about the homeless sectors and the vast wealth of the long-standing residents who’d inherited their little plots of land and houses they hadn’t worked a day to earn. I, like Charon, had nothing to add on the matter and gazed, bewildered, at the enormity of the fortress of a town. Gray-clad sentries stood guard between battlements along the top of the outermost wall. Below their stay was a long row of narrow slits a few feet apart, none big enough to be a proper window.
“They have archers,” Charon mused aloud, gesturing to the thin spaces. “I doubt they’ll ever need them.”
“They might,” I said, breathlessly.
“Do you think so?” He turned my way, but when I didn’t answer, he returned to the same slack-jawed wonder I had, taking in the ominous sight. Charon settled back into the wagon as the procession moved faster than I’d expected to a busy checkpoint outside the walls.
Uniformed guards saturated the areas ahead of the gatehouses of the massive front wall where the iron gate hung open by coils of thick, dark chains for those arriving through the only entry point into Sussen. Flames danced in giant bowls, at the tops of torches, at the corners of the towers, and in ornate baskets fastened to the walls like cages of fire. Long banners of pine green and sunflower yellow flapped in the breeze. The last time I came to Sussen was more than a year ago. It wasn’t as armed as it was now; it had become a citadel. They knew how close the Razen were and the threat they posed. Not even the people of Sussen feigned immunity to the wickedness that marched over the world. The threat was ever-present.
A guard held up his hand and approached the front of the wagon. Alin was all courteous and polite as the guard asked for papers. He handed over a thick wad of documents, partially crumpled and creased by haphazard folds. The guard opened them and turned them around and right side up. Alin glanced at Milo, who stiffened as he looked between Alin and the guard. Charon remained quiet and tense beside me. The guard took a step back and examined us, the wagon, and then us again. He clicked his tongue and pulled a pen from his evergreen uniform jacket. He asked in a soft voice, “How’s business faring? I heard there was a big event out toward Bairdsville a few weeks ago.”
“Business is booming,” Alin offered. "I had to bring some help this time, but I guess you can blame it on my old bones. I’m not lifting crates like I used to, but that’s what the help is for, am I right?”
The guard looked up; a flicker of an amused smile came across his face as he paced, examining the wagon, the horses, and us again. “Four of you, then? How long are you planning to stay?”
“I heard there’s a trade caravan going on...”
“That’s right.”
"Few days at most, unloading the last of what didn’t sell.”
“Five days,” the guard said, not as a question but as an affirmation of what he’d jotted on his papers. “That should be enough time to settle in, register, sell, and pack up.”
“Merchant’s week,” Alin bobbed his head and ran a hand over his face. “Any way I can get that extended to a full week?”
“I’m afraid not,” the guard replied, scribbling a signature. “Merchant passes have been on a quick rotation lately. The demand has been up since the Razen took a sharp eastern turn. We’ve seen a real influx of fur and tanners. It's good to have a blacksmith joining us for a change. Do you sharpen?”
“At a price, but for you I’ll make an exception,” Alin laughed, “after all you’re signing us in!”
“Appreciated,” he smiled, holding his clipboard in place for a moment, admiring the generosity. “Anyway, when you head in, follow the signs for the Merchant’s Corner. There’s a set up near the front where they’ll take your papers and get you registered with your ID and Merchant Cards. The cafe by the station offers a free cup of Joe to all registered Merchants with a card—and between you and me, if you want a good cup, make sure you ask for Yasmin. Anyway, they’ll get you set up with a packet of information about how to use your cards after you pick your lot and settle in.”
“I appreciate the advice,” Alin twisted back. “You hear that? Free coffee.”
“I heard,” Charon replied, less enthused than expected.
“He’s cranky from the ride,” Alin said to the guard.
“You traveled far?”
“A couple of hours, not too bad, but we've had a long morning prepping to come.”
“I see,” the guard said, bobbing his head as if he’d heard that same sentiment a thousand times before. “Anyway, good luck with your sales, and welcome to Sussen.” He handed the papers back, stepped aside, and waved us on to continue through the immense gates.
Charon breathed out, leaning his head against the wagon and staring up at the sky. Relief filled his face as a grin tugged at his lips. Milo slung an arm over the back of his seat. He craned his neck to bring his chin over his shoulder to address me. “It looks like they’re cracking down on the sort of people they let in. Everyone’s getting checked for papers this time.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Charon quipped. Milo glanced at him but didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. He looked at me, ignoring the sardonic man at my side, and breathed out a sigh before shaking his head and turning back around. Charon continued despite the dismissal. “You don’t want the wrong sort of people coming in and ruining a good thing.”
“We’re refugees.” The word was sour on my tongue. “They would have let us in.”
He raised an eyebrow. His slate-blue eyes sparkled with amusement at my declaration. “Is that what you are?”
I snorted and turned my attention to the crowds filling in around us. They were loud and busy, and everyone was doing something. They moved like waves of water, colors of clothes and skin blended into a vibrant blur as thousands of people pushed through one another, crammed together inside the walls. Shoulder to shoulder, there wasn’t enough room for a sneeze near the front gate, yet the savory scent of roasting pig, baked bread, and coffee wafted through the masses with ease. As the wagon slowed, the wail of a baby and a barking dog caught my attention. I hadn’t heard those sounds in years. Farther into town, our pace quickened, people dispersing to their designated places. Skeleton towers of scaffolding scaled many of the buildings. Children of all ages ran unattended in the streets, carefree and laughing. Some facades were bright with fresh paint and signs, while others were in familiar disrepair with long tendril vines creeping over old bricks and around dirty windows. Alin took a left at the town square following the signage as instructed. A long banner, strung between buildings, swayed back and forth on tight yellow ropes. Tall red lettering on a faded blue background designated the open field of the park as an area for merchants. Caravans of crafters and tradesmen packed the far corner of town. I folded my arms over the side of the wagon, watching row after row of makeshift stalls pass as we pulled through the park.
“We’ll find an empty lot and set up there. Hmm, looks like lot 565 is open, down near the end,” Alin said to no one in particular. “Miche, Ash, you’re more than welcome to stay with us as long as you need. I know you have that friend you’re looking for, Tucker. That’s his name, right?”
“Tristan,” Milo corrected incredulously, yet not bothering to issue a correction on his own name. “Tristan Cooper. His family used to come here to sell produce from the farm regularly when they could afford it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find him.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Do you remember that, Ash? He talked about it every time he dropped off food on the way.”
I shrugged. I remembered almost nothing about it. He talked to Milo more than he ever did to me. Most of the time, he offered little more than a friendly nod or wave as he and Milo exchanged boxes of produce for handfuls of letters. I couldn’t conjure up a single memory of him saying anything in particular about the market, though, and I didn’t deign to pretend that I did.
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“Well, if they used to come and sell here on a regular basis, then someone probably knows him. It’s just a matter of knowing who to ask. Not exactly like finding a piece of hay in a needle stack, that’s for sure.” Alin cackled. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate that,” Milo said, sounding grateful. I lifted an eyebrow in his direction, but he didn’t notice. Hearing him use polite manners was surprising, given how rarely he used them around me. Then again, he didn’t have a reason to be polite to me. We didn’t start off on polite terms.
It was an accident that led to our meeting in the first place. He found me knocked out in the middle of the road years ago. My horse, at the time, was a hundred feet away, gorging itself on the low-hanging fruit of an apple tree. Milo dragged my sorry ass off the road and bandaged my wounds. Embarrassed would have been an improvement to how I felt. Mortified was more accurate. I didn’t remember falling from my horse, but it happened. Milo said it was a hell of a sight. There, in the middle of the road, was a small, strange, silver-haired woman sprawled out, unconscious, and drooling. I don’t think I was drooling, but he was certain he remembered that part. He insisted I didn’t owe him anything, but I knew I did. If he hadn’t come along—I shivered at the thought of what could have happened. He could have done horrible things to me, but instead, he helped me. The least I could do was help him in return, even if I could only remember fragments of my past like a fleeting dream.
It was clear Milo was some sort of traveler, either homeless or a refugee. All his worldly possessions he had packed into a bag on his back, and he and his belongings smelled musty, if not moldy. Dirt stains covered his clothes, and his shoes were more holey than righteous. He kept his matted hair tied back with what looked like a piece of parcel string. To make matters worse, his unkempt beard was weeks old. The entirety of his face hung drawn and tired. If there was anything he could use, it was a place to clean up, and I offered him that much. He refused at first, but I insisted. In truth, I did more than insist. Milo was bent on rejecting the offer and tried to walk away. It was a foolish effort on his part. I followed him halfway through town, barking at him about how wasteful he was for turning me down. Much to his chagrin, he conceded after a mile and a half. Though he never owned up to it, I knew he was grateful for the shower and meal that night.
It was a shock to my system when I heard the door down the hall. Milo was a different person when he stepped out of the bathroom that day. I looked up from scrubbing dishes and barely recognized him. His hair was a dripping mess of dark, wet waves that clung to his face and curled low around his neck. Clean-shaven, he looked younger than I expected. The angled lines of his jaw complemented the sleek contour of his cheekbones. He wasn’t much older than me, as far as I could tell. His green eyes glowed, and I found myself unable to look away. He laughed at me for the way I stared, but I couldn’t help it. One minute, I was making dinner for a rugged traveler, and the next, I was staring at one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. My face heated so much that my ears burned. He didn’t notice that as much as I did, and our first dinner together was quiet. Milo wasn’t one to talk about where he came from or his past, and I didn’t push him about it. He stayed for a few days and then grabbed his bag and left. It was strange how big and empty the house felt when he was gone. I didn’t expect him to return, and the house became lonely. Then, one day, he showed up with a fat wallet full of money and he dropped it on the front porch at my feet. He said it was more than he owed for my hospitality. I refused to accept it. We went back and forth over it for the better part of the day. I didn’t want the money, and he insisted he owed it to me. I made dinner. We argued as we ate, and by the end of the night, he settled into the room he used before as though it was always his.
For the days and weeks that followed, we argued about damn near everything. At some point, we realized it was nothing more than an excuse for him to stay. The arguing waned, and we came to accept each other’s company. It was comfortable, if not a bit strained. Still, beneath the surface, lurked a strange, unexplainable bitterness. I wanted to know where it came from. I wanted to know why he woke in the middle of the night screaming, then walked through the house and checked every lock. One night, he told me a little about his nightmares. He sat on the floor with his head in his hands and a cold sheen of sweat coating his bare skin. Every word he spoke rattled with fear as he told me about the drumming in his head. He rasped about the ominous and steady beat of footsteps that haunted him. Hundreds, thousands of footsteps marched forward, unrelenting. The fires, he recalled, were everywhere. And there was so much blood… He couldn’t look up from where he stared at the floor. He trembled and shook his head to clear the images from his mind. That was the last he’d spoken of it. From time to time after that, he shared little stories of his family. He mentioned his parents, a brother, and a few friends. As far as I could gather, his brother was younger, but they were close. It seemed he was only about ten or twelve when he died, and Milo carried a great deal of guilt about it.
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As the wagon came to a stop, the horse whinnied in gratitude for the break. Alin and Charon wasted no time as they started unloading. Milo climbed over the back of his seat and into the wagon bed. He picked up a box from beside me and hauled it over to Alin. I stood and dusted myself off, looking around for my backpack. Charon nudged it with his foot in my direction. I snatched it and slung it over my shoulders. He laughed to himself and shook his head as he went back to unloading. Passersby gawked at the bulky cargo in the wagon as we worked. Alin unlocked a box, and then another. A couple of men stopped and poked around the contents before moving on.
“That’s a good sign,” Alin said cheerfully. “Don’t you think, Miguel?”
“If you say so,” Milo grunted, once more ignoring the folly and straining to lift a heavy crate. I caught the front end of it and helped him ease it over the side into Alin’s waiting arms.
“Friendly people like to spend money,” he took the crate and dropped it to the ground, then clapped his hands together, “and they like to talk. That’s how you find things out. You learn a lot when you get them talking, like that guard. They’ll tell you just about anything if you let them, and who knows what free stuff you can get along the way.”
“That’s the best part, isn’t it?” Charon’s dry comment earned a glower.
“Don’t act like you don’t soak up the attention, pretty boy.” Alin grappled with a stack of small boxes. “I know you enjoy it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t go looking for it.”
“I never said I didn’t.” His bandaged hands coiled along the edge of the wagon as he leaned over the side. “Set up the daggers and the small hatchets first. We’ll sell more of those.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Why is what?” Charon whipped around to face me. The way his eyes searched me over, it was as though he didn’t expect me to still be there. He pushed off the side of the wagon to his full height. Swinging one foot ahead of the other, he sauntered over much like a model moving down a runway. My fingers tightened around the corners of the box in my arms. Charon stopped in front of me, blocking my path. He lifted a brow as he awaited my answer. My jaw tightened. For a man who claimed to have endless wells of charm and sociability, he too often came across as intimidating, or at least he tried. I wasn’t that easily shaken. He was unnerving, but he didn’t scare me. If anything, he carried himself like he thought he was some sort of royalty among commoners; and at most, he annoyed me.
“Why will you sell more daggers?” I said, clarifying the question, and stared up at him as if I could burn holes clean through his pretty head. A rim of dark pink, almost red, edged his lower lids, and his pupils constricted. The shadows under his eyes were deeper than they had been earlier in the day. My skin prickled with little bumps.
Charon pressed an open palm down on the top of my box. I lurched forward from the added weight. He waved a lazy hand toward the people around us. “It’s close quarters. It’s practical. No one’s going to buy a full-length sword here. Well, the guards might if they’re desperate enough. If they needed a sword right then and there that could kill Razen soldiers that managed to infiltrate their stronghold right under their noses, they might; but in case you didn’t notice the wall,” he nodded toward the crowd, “look at the guards all over the damn place. There’s enough of them for a small army. I have a feeling they’re not that desperate. At least, not yet.” He lifted his hand from my box, took a step back, and reaffirmed, “Daggers go out first. Or do you still have a problem with that?”
“You sound pretty confident that they’ll need all these.” I shifted the weight in my arms.
“Sussen’s not known for their hospitality. When you have something to sell, you have to pander to your audience. You get more that way.”
“You tell them what you need to, is what you’re saying? You keep them afraid enough to spend whatever money they have on overpriced knives.” I set the box down atop another and glared at him. It was an underhanded tactic, the sort of thing the big companies of the city used to squash out competitors.
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“You’re a snake.”
“Leave him alone, Ash, and get back to work. We have other things to do today,” Milo said as he shoved between us. He shot Charon a dark look. I’d never been so grateful for a reminder to keep working. I tore my attention from the blond and recollected the heavy box.
Charon raised his eyebrows at Milo as he passed. He aimed a smirk at me, then he leaned forward and lowered to my height. I reeled back and his upturned lips spread into a viperous grin. His voice dropped low in a singsong, “Better get moving before your little boyfriend gets mad.”
Heat flared in my cheeks, and I gritted my teeth. There was more than a little something about Charon that picked at me. I scowled at him and clenched my jaw till it ached. He rolled his head and chuckled. Unbothered by my scowl, he moved away. I didn’t know, and I didn’t particularly care to find out what he found so amusing. Quick and swift, I sidestepped from the shortest path to the wagon’s edge and made it a point to throw my elbow out wide and jab it into his ribs. I took great satisfaction in the sound of surprise he made and ignored his following gaze. He coughed in astonishment at my audacity in a way that made me think perhaps he was trying not to laugh. The silence that followed was one I relished. Someone needed to put him back in his place. His arrogance pissed me off—he was a worker, laboring the same as me, and wasn’t so much as a half step above. If anything, I was above him. I escaped the Razen’s fire, and for my size, I’d managed to haul some of the heavier crates without anyone’s help. He didn’t do that. Instead, he’d taken his time tending to the scratches and scrapes on his palms and face, too delicate to put in an honest day’s work. I grunted and lowered the box over the back of the wagon. Charon was a pain in the ass, and nothing else. I had to stay focused. The sooner we finished unloading, the sooner Milo and I could find Tristan, and the sooner we would leave Charon and Alin behind as nothing more than strangers.