Warcry

us,” Durst said. “Only two other lords and their men will fight on our behalf.”
    “That will suffice,” Lanfer said. “I’ve recruited enough of the Guard with coin and promises. Given the advantage of surprise and betrayal, we can win through.”
    “Very well.” Durst straightened. “It appears that drawn blades are the only recourse. Spread the word.”
    “It would suit me if the Archbishop were to perish as well,” Browdus said.
    “I’m sure it would,” Durst growled. “But our purpose is not to advance you within the church. Our purpose is to clear this taint from the Xyian throne.”
    “As you say.” Browdus nodded. “I will see to it that the Archbishop appears on time.” With that, he departed, slipping through the door.
    Durst waited until it was well closed before facing Lanfer. “It would not bother me if that bastard fell as well.”
    “In the confusion of the moment, who can say who will live or die?” Lanfer shrugged.
    “Just swear to me.” Durst locked his gaze with Lanfer’s. “Swear that Heath dies before his father’s eyes.”
    Lanfer smiled broadly. “Have no fear of that, my lord.”

    “SHOULD WE BE LEAVING?” ATIRA ASKED AS SHE swung up onto her horse.
    Heath was already in his saddle, signaling the guards to open the front gates. “It’s not far,” he said, urging his horse forward. “And it means a lot to Lara.”
    Atira urged her horse into a walk—
    —and nothing happened.
    “Eh?” She looked down at the horse’s head.
    The horse stood there, waiting.
    She urged him on again. This time, the horse turned to look at her, almost puzzled. Heath circled back, grinning at her. “What? A Firelander who cannot ride?”
    Atira growled.
    “Perhaps you should ride pillion behind me?” Heath offered. “Or we could walk, perhaps?”
    Before she drew her sword on the idiot, she remembered that this was a Xyian horse. She shifted in her seat, using her heels instead of her toes. The horse grunted in satisfaction and started off.
    Heath laughed, a strong ringing sound—the first real laugh she’d heard from him in some time. Atira threw him a scowl, but her heart wasn’t really in it. The tension was gone from his face, and his eyes danced.
    They passed through the doors at a trot and onto the cobbled street. Heath took the lead, and they passed swiftly down into the city proper.
    Here the streets were so crowded that they slowed their horses to a walk. Atira couldn’t help but gape at all the people, short and fat, tall and thin, carrying bundles and parcels, talking to merchants and to one another, walking and talking.
    The sounds bounced against the walls, confusing her with the echoes. Skies, it was loud. And the endless rows of buildings that lined the street cut off her sight, forcing her to lift her eyes to potential threats; there was always an up in this place.
    And the smells . . . skies above, it was enough to wish the winds would sweep through. One breath was the smell of baking, the next rotting meat.
    It seemed so strange, and yet in some ways it reminded her of the Heart in summer, when the tribes gathered. Crowded, noisy . . . For a moment she ached for the Plains.
    But then a man walked past, herding a gaggle of geese before him. Her horse shied, and Atira tightened up on the reins to let the creatures past.
    “Sorry, milady,” the lad cried as he shooed the geese along.
    “Is it always so?” Atira asked as Heath drew up beside her.
    “For the most part.” Heath nodded. “But this is a bit more frantic than usual. Word has spread of the wedding, and everyone who can will celebrate this night. So they gather food and drink, and try to get their work done before sunset.” Heath nodded down the street. “This way.”
    Atira followed, keeping a better eye on the path before her. The shops were all full of foodstuffs here, but the contents changed as they rode along, from livestock to herbs and then to cloth.
    Heath urged his horse over next to a strange contraption. An old lady was seated on a stool nearby. Atira pulled up next to him just as the woman cackled and pointed off one of the side streets with an old and crippled hand.
    “Down there, milord Heath. Just past the leather workers.”
    “My thanks, Kalisa,” Heath said. “How does your business?”
    “Fine, Lord, fine.” Kalisa looked up at him from an angle, her back hunched over. “Plenty of customers wanting my cheese. A slice for yourself, perhaps?” Kalisa looked at