Bailey Baz's Arc

Chapter 29 of 44

Rufus knew the loyalists' road. On the barge deck, he pointed east with a bruised hand. "They travel by land now," his cousin said. "The marsh road, past the old orphan house. They won't leave the water for the capital till dawn." Bailey looked at the black trees. He still had one advantage. Out here, the swamp answered him. Cora tapped her cracked wand against her palm. "We can't outrun them on the road," his sister said. "They have a head start." Bailey shook his head. "We don't chase them. We wait where the swamp is deepest." He remembered the wayhouse that loomed over the marsh road, its many windows dark, its wood soft with rot. "There. We take the book before it leaves the water." Crane frowned at the plan. The old officer had served the dead King and knew his men. "Six of them, at least," he said. "Armed. We are tired and few." Bailey stepped to the rail. "We won't fight them straight." He raised his arm and called into the fog. He had led lost things through this swamp for a hundred years. Something in it still listened. Wings answered. A fen owl dropped from the dark, wide as a cloak, and landed on the broken rail. Its yellow eyes fixed on Bailey. He didn't command it with words. He pointed east, toward the road, and the bird understood. It lifted and vanished into the mist ahead of them. They reached the wayhouse before the loyalists. Bailey climbed to a high window and watched the road below. Cora and Tyrek waited in the dark stairwell. Rufus held a lantern low, shielding its light. Near dawn, six men came up the marsh road on foot. One carried a leather satchel against his chest. The owl struck first. It fell out of the fog without a sound and raked the lead man's face. He screamed and dropped his torch in the mud. The others turned, blades out, swinging at empty air. In that panic Tyrek moved. He had guarded Bailey since the swamp and killed without noise. Two loyalists fell before the rest knew he was among them. Cora's wand cracked green light across the road. The satchel-man ran. Bailey dropped from the window and cut him off. The loyalist swung a knife. Bailey turned it aside with his father's sword and put the man down in the mud. He knelt and tore the satchel open. Inside lay pages in his mother's hand. Her ink. Her marks. Bailey pressed them to his chest. The truth of his blood had not reached the throne. It was here, in the swamp, in his own hands. Crane checked the fallen men and lifted a bone pendant from one throat. His face went hard. "This one carried orders," he said. He held out a folded note. "They weren't taking the book to the capital, boy. Someone in your palace sent for it."