She counted to five under her breath and then swept her gaze over the other travelers. It was not difficult to spot the men. The dual swords hanging from their waists meant even on a crowded thoroughfare, no one got too close. While jostling a warrior’s sword no longer carried a penalty of death, few cared to risk the insult.
Warriors served in many roles. This trio was clearly not in the army. While uniforms were worn only for tournaments, processions, and imperial events, there was a standard of dress required at all times. Simple, well-made, but generally somber garb. The outfits on these three were ornate, colorful, and not particularly well-made. Their clothing reminded her of the bandits, yet those men had clearly not been warrior caste – their bearing, their grooming, and their overall demeanor had given them away. These three were clean-shaven, with gleaming hair, white teeth, and no jewels. Men who understood the warrior way. Men who followed it, though?
She moved her horse closer to Ronan. “I don’t think they’re regular warriors. Their manner of dress is ostentatious.”
He frowned at her, puzzled. He was literate and intelligent, but not quite as book-learned as she was. No one is as book-learned as you, Ash, Moria would say. Which wasn’t true – Simeon had been her superior in that area.
Moria. Simeon.
Moria was fine. She didn’t know about Simeon. She prayed for his safety. But her sister was fine. Daigo would know otherwise.
“It’s not proper warrior attire,” she said. “Wealthy warriors may show it in their garb, but they would buy proper fabrics and hire proper tailors. These three look like…”
“Whores trying to dress as court ladies?” He caught her blush. “Sorry.”
“Not the analogy I’d use, but yes. Perhaps they’re mercenaries?”
“I’m more concerned with what they’re doing.”
What they were doing was watching Tyrus – not with the simple curiosity of men who think they’ve seen a face before, but with the hawkish stare of predators.
Ronan’s hand went to his blade hilt. “You ride back here with Guin and Tova. I’m going to speak to them.”
Ashyn reached to lay her hand on his. “I’ll speak to them and distract their attention while you ride ahead and warn Tyrus.”
“I’d rather —”
“Yes, I’m sure you would. But I have this.”
Ashyn reined her horse toward the three men. She came up behind them, but they didn’t notice her even when she said, “Excuse me.” Or perhaps they were simply ignoring anyone impertinent enough to hail warriors.
“Excuse me,” she said louder. “I’m very sorry to bother you but —”
The youngest glanced her way. His eyes widened. He reined his horse in so quickly that hers nearly bumped it. The other two stopped as well, and looked at her with varying expressions of surprise. They hadn’t noticed Tova, who’d slipped into the crowd and now had come out on the other side of them, standing watch.
When the men turned, she noted that each wore his forelock in a braid with red, blue, and white beads. The beads likely signified membership in some criminal group, though that was hardly her area of expertise.
“My sincerest apologies for interrupting your travels,” she said, her voice soft and her gaze lowered. “I… I fear I didn’t know where else to turn. My father is Lord Vernay of Coldwall, and I’m hoping that forgives some of my impudence in speaking to you.”
The youngest of the three straightened in his saddle. “Of course, my lady.” He looked over her shoulder. “Where is your escort?”
Ashyn’s gaze dropped further. “That is the problem. I have not been long out of the North, and the sights of the empire are so new and exciting. My maidservant” – she waved to Guin, who had stopped on the other side of the road – “and I rode on ahead. We could clearly see my father’s wagons, but then the road became more congested, and we rode farther still and… and I fear we rode quite far, perhaps past a branching road that my father may have taken. We’ve gone back and forth but there is no sign of him.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ronan speaking to Tyrus. Get him moving. Quickly. While their backs —
The oldest warrior glanced over his shoulder, as if remembering their target. He saw Ronan, and Ashyn tensed, but only nodded as if relieved that some random traveler was slowing Tyrus’s progress.
He turned back to Ashyn. “We would be happy to assist you, my lady, but I fear our own lord expects us, and we are already late.”
“Oh? Who is your warlord?”
The man hesitated. One of the others jumped in. “Asano Bakenko.”
“Truly?” Ashyn leaned forward, her eyes wide. “My father knows Lord Bakenko. In fact, we’re due to visit him next moon. This is quite fortuitous. Your lord and my father were boon companions in their youth. Their fathers fought at the Battle of Dahuran, alongside the emperor himself. But, of course, you know that.”
They nodded, but their blank expressions said they had no idea what she was talking about. As they struggled to follow her blathering – and not give themselves away – none thought to check on their target, who was leaving the road quickly, Ronan guarding his rear.
“I’m so glad we’ve met,” she continued. “Your lord will certainly understand if you are delayed on my account. My father will reward you most handsomely. Now, we’re looking for a retinue of two wagons and —”