Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(82)

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Erik, Hoa, and I fall back so that Blaise, Heron, and Artemisia can barter for horses without worrying about us being recognized. The unfortunate side of it is that we can only take three horses. I’m all right with the arrangement, since I can’t ride anyway, but Erik seems a bit miffed at the idea of sharing a horse with another rider.

“I haven’t ridden as a passenger since I was a child,” he says.

“If you’d rather lead the horse, it doesn’t matter to me,” Heron tells him, though he’s having trouble looking Erik in the eye as he says it. “I mean…if you want to ride with me. You could ride with Blaise, too, or Art, I suppose, though I doubt either of them would let you take the reins.”

Erik is surprised for a moment, looking at Heron like he’s not quite sure what to make of him. “All right,” he says finally. “Thank you.”

Heron shrugs and looks away again.

“I’ll take Theo, then,” Artemisia says in Astrean before Blaise can offer. “Blaise, you’ll take Hoa.”

Hoa looks confused, having understood only her name. I quickly translate for her.

Hoa considers this for a moment, sizing up Blaise before giving a decisive nod. “He will do,” she tells me.

“As much of a pain as it is, I think we’ll have to speak Kalovaxian so that everyone understands each other,” I say. “Otherwise we’ll have to keep translating for Erik and Hoa.”

Artemisia rolls her eyes. “I hate speaking in this language,” she says in harshly accented Kalovaxian, mispronouncing a few words. “It feels like yet another violation.”

Hoa looks at her like it’s the first time she’s seen her. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her Kalovaxian is more fluid but still uneven.

Artemisia is surprised at the apology and gets a bit flustered—a new look for her but one that I can’t help but take some pleasure in.

“It’s all right,” she tells Hoa after a moment. “I just meant…It was nothing against you. I was only complaining.”

“She does that a lot,” I tell Hoa. “You shouldn’t take it personally.”

Artemisia glowers at me but doesn’t protest, just pinches my arm.

“And for that,” she tells me, “I’m going to ride extra fast.”

My stomach churns in anticipation.

“Then I’ll vomit all over you,” I reply.

Hoa laughs, a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s a melodic laugh that reminds me of birdsong at the start of the day. It’s beautiful.





MY THREAT OF VOMIT SEEMS to have worked—the horse practically glides over the flat expanse of the desert with Artemisia at the reins. She leads the pack the whole way there, but I find I don’t mind the speed as much as I thought I would.

When we arrive, Heron, Blaise, and Erik unload the packs of food attached to each of our horses while Hoa, Artemisia, and I start for the gate. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at Blaise as we go, looking for signs of his outburst only hours earlier, but he’s just as he always is and there is something both comforting and disconcerting about that.

The guards outside are the same as last time, with the stone faces and the curved blades sheathed at their hips. When we approach, they barely spare us a look.

“We’re here to…” I start, but trail off. How was it phrased last time? “Look for labor. And we’ve brought payment for past labors,” I add, gesturing behind me at the boys carrying the food.

The guards exchange skeptical looks, but apparently they don’t care enough to call me out on the lie. With an annoyed sigh, one of them opens the single door, ushering us through.

Again it is like hitting a wall of hot, stale air that smells of disease and rot. I’m expecting it this time, so I don’t react, but Hoa is not prepared. Next to me, she coughs and gags, covering her nose and mouth with an arm to block out the stench. Her dark eyes dart around the decrepit camp—the small houses that are falling apart, the dirty streets, the people in their torn clothes, some of whom are so skinny that their bones jut out beneath their skin like they aren’t fully of this world.

For a moment, there’s horror and disgust and sadness in her expression, but just as quickly as it appeared, it seals itself away behind her mask of placid stoicism.

Suddenly, I see it—that other life she lived before I knew her, the emperor’s daughter she once was, raised to greet every situation with a level head and diplomacy. Never emotional, never vulnerable. I can’t believe I ever saw her as anything else.

“There are refugees from every country the Kalovaxians have conquered here,” I explain. “Some families have been here for generations. They speak a kind of mishmash language, words and phrases taken from one country or another. And there is a council of Elders who represent each community. That’s who we’ll be meeting with.”

A group of children—the same ones from our last visit—run up with their hands out, wide smiles stretched over crooked teeth. I can’t help but smile back, as much as the sight of them with their protruding ribs and grimy faces breaks my heart. I dig into my pockets and take a handful of jewels I picked off of the dresses left in my closet. One by one, I pass them out to the children who cling to my skirt and tug at my arms.