VI. THE LEGATE

Titus Crassus Clavo peered one bloodshot eye into the crate and scoffed. “You are gone three weeks, and all you bring me is coin?”

Nia had more than coin. But then the crates had flown from Ajaxi’s back from Peddler’s disappearance. She had spent half the morning bidding with one hand up and down the hillside, only to recover nothing. So, with only the lamp and dagger, neither of which Nia had any plan on turning over to the Legate, she had been forced to return empty handed. And then dig into her personal stash to pay off the Legate.

“Not every dig is a cave of wonders.”

“I don’t need lip from you, Uro.” Clavo’s pale blue iris darted up. “Might I remind you that the Triumph is quickly approaching.”

How could she forget? “Surely there is enough here to pay the tribute.” Nia waved her right arm around the storeroom and its meticulously categorized piles. Chariots, armor, weapons, furniture, gold, coin, statues; the crates were stacked to the vaulted ceilings. The storerooms held more tribute than the Conqueror and his legion could ever haul back to Aegtrys.

Clavo held up a golden shra. “The Conqueror is a god among men. His taste is not,” he rolled the coin between his fingers. “Of this earth.”

The Legate dropped the coin and pulled a scroll from his side. He held it out, pointedly ignoring her lacerated hand. Nia’s right hand tightened around the expensive paper, gut clenching as she pried against the wax falcon with her nail. She rolled open the demand, eyes adjusting to the blocky sheni script. “What does this even mean?”

“The lot of you are illiterate swine.” Clavo snatched back the papyrus. “This is the Conqueror’s official demands. Nothing I did not anticipate. More enlistment for the legion, further restrictions on the kerai laborers. Parades, feasts, ceremonies for his impending arrival. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the city’s tribute—” Clavo shot her a filthy glare. Nia remised, just for a moment, the grave goods in Peddler’s tomb. “The Conqueror has additionally requested the region’s Houses to assemble in De-Asha.”

“Why would he not want to go to Ash-Kai?” Nia asked, startled the Conqueror would opt out of holding court in the territory’s capital.

“I am not privy to the mind of the Emperor.” Clavo hissed. “I’ve asked my father but I’ve gotten no response.” Ah yes, Clavo’s father, Crassus Ferro Clavo, was the Conqueror’s ambassador to Ker and even crueler than his son. If that was even possible. “The Conqueror,” Clavo read on. “Has ordered a chariot race to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his conquest. Each House will produce two champions—”

“Wait? What?”

Clavo looked up from the papyrus. “Each House,” he drawled. “Will produce two champions. The Conqueror, meanwhile, will supply his own.”

Nia couldn’t help it. She was exhausted and angry at the Peddler. Angry at returning empty handed. Furious that she had spent a week being duped by a spirit, only for her one chance of freedom to slip through her fingers. Indignant at Clavo speaking to her as if she was a dull child. Her palm and body ached. Nia’s temper flared dangerously hot. “Well what’s your brilliant plan? Shall you strap little Titus to a basket, or should you select my sister?”

“My wife could not stay atop a pack mule to save her life.” Clavo grunted. “And as Legate, it would be inappropriate for me to do so. You and your brother will represent this House before the Emperor.”

“Oh, what an honor.” Nia muttered sarcastically under her breath.

“It is.”

Nia sighed. “And if I refuse?”

Clavo reached up past his square jaw and twice broken nose. He used his ringed fingers to flick up the patch. His dead eye twitched. “We both know you can’t.” He sneered. “Now get out.”

Nia stormed out from the underground storerooms. She shook with poorly repressed rage. Of course Clavo wouldn’t select some of his lieutenants for the race? Of course her family would be shamed further publicly. She shouldn’t have come back. She should have taken her chances and fled north with Ajaxi. The Peddler’s face flashed in her mind as Nia sidestepped a legionnaire entering the compound.

At one point, the impressive limestone halls had been the House of the Doorway’s seat of power. It had hosted travelers, foreigners,diplomats and royalty from all corners of the known world. It had been a beacon for navigators and merchants alike. The fortress had been a stronghold for the Kingdom of Ker. Now, it was home to the Ninth Legion.

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Her family was housed in the eastern wing of the main house. Tired, Nia did not bother knocking as she slid into Baset-Uro’s rooms. Baset’s head swung up from her reading. Her lips pursed. “I was told you lived.”

“I had to talk to the Legate.” Nia said tiredly.

“Report to him more like.” Cythe muttered, bouncing Titus on her lap. “That’s right. Had to go report to Baba.” Nia scrunched her nose at her half-sister. Cythe shrugged and released the toddler. He squirmed away from her, taking unbalanced steps across the rug towards Baset. Cythe stood. “It’s been three weeks Nia.” Her almond eyes softened. “I nearly went after you.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cythe meant well, but her sister hardly ever left the compound, much less had gone into the Dunelands. Nia doubted her sister had ever left the city alone. “You know I was fine.” Nia offered a grim smile as Cythe embraced her. Her sister was all soft skin and wide curves, beautiful and poised in all the ways Nia wasn’t. Besides the shared amber eyes of their father, they looked nothing alike. Nia was all hard edged and lean, her body honed from long hours in the saddle.

“And?” Baset insisted. Her stepmother leaned forward. While Baset’s skin was unmarked and free from the strain of a laborious life, her face was constantly pinched in worry.

“The Triumph demands arrived.”

“Of course they did.” Baset bit her lip.

The door opened and the three woman swiveled their heads. It was only Lero. Nia’s half-brother may had only been two years older, but the gap between them had always seemed wider. He entered the room back straight, his black hair cropped short to his scalp just like the Ashenians kept it. Nia was struck by just how much he looked like their father. Expect their father did not wear Ashenian armor.”

“The Legate’s in a mood.” Lero greeted. He was a good head taller than Nia, and he stared down at her now, crossing his arms. “What did you do? Did you get him nothing?”

Nia massaged her neck. “Gold shras are not nothing.”

“You were gone for a month and you brought him coin!” Cythe’s mouth formed into a small ‘o’ at their brother’s ire. “Were you trying to incur his wrath?”

“Of course not.” Nia said.

“His rage should not be trifled with. I thought of all people you would understand that.”

“Quiet, brother.” Cythe interjected. Their sister was always the peacekeeper. Cythe grabbed Nia’s wrist and held it up, examining her bandaged palm. “This is what we should be concerned with.” Cythe peeled back the bloodied bandage. Her eyebrows rose into her braided hair. “Nia! What did you do?”

Nia’s cheeks grew in as Baset and Lero leaned in. “I fell.”

Lero huffed at the obvious lie. Cythe shot him a look of annoyance. “Lero, please.”

“She didn’t fall.” Lero said, pointing to her palm. “She was cut. Were you robbed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There is no one else out there.”

“Except for the laborers, and the slavers, and the odd mercenary.” Lero’s hand rested at the khoshep at his side. “Any one of those people could hurt you.”

“And no one does.” Nia said. She was in no mood to tell her brother how she incurred the wrath of a tomb spirit. “But it does hurt horribly.”

“We need to get it cleaned up before you lose the hand.” Cythe said. “Come on, you can tell us who robbed you when you are good and ready.”

It was well past midnight when Cythe packed up her kit and bid her goodnight. Nia cradled her stitched palm, freshly bandaged and slathered with salve, close to her chest. She let out a huff, leaning back on her narrow bed. Her bedroom was intentionally bare. Her bed rested against one wall, closest to the window overlooking the central courtyard. A chest filled with nothing important but her garments and perfumes sat at its feet. A frayed rug covered the stone floor, the only note of color in the otherwise beige space.

Nia stood, moving towards her satchel. Time to unpack before the legionnaires found another reason to search her rooms. She checked the hallway for the odd guard before easing her bedroom door closed. Moving her heavy bed was a struggle with one hand. She had an even harder time releasing the stone tile beneath the rug. She pried off the lid to the shallow cubby. It was now home to her three most headache inducing possessions; the dagger; the Peddler’s lamp, and her map.

She grabbed the master map and unfurled it across the floor. The map was one of the few remaining that had survived the Conqueror’s plundering. De-Asha’s libraries had gone up in smoke. All letters or maps that could have led back to Aker-San had been confiscated or destroyed. The navigator guilds who had been paid to guide travelers on the treacherous journey across the Dunelands had been rounded up and slaughtered in the streets.

The map was on ancient vellum and took up half the length of her bed. Nia pressed down on the corners of the map to prevent them from rolling inward. Over the next hour she transferred the additions from her trip onto the master map. She estimated where the old trade route she had been following died. She approximated the location of the Peddler’s tomb.

Nia sat back on her haunches and evaluated her work. A scar of ugly ‘X’s crossed off lost villages, burnt guard towers, and sunken wells. All the hazards across an ocean of sand. Her fingers extended to a small dot nearest to the Skytops, northwest past the necropolis. The smudge indicated it was a structure. “I’ll go during my next dig.” She reasoned.

Curse the Peddler, she would find her way to freedom.