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Daddy comes back down the ladder maybe three hours after he went to sleep, and not long after that my mum follows. They don’t make racket, exactly, but they get to cooking and organizing a few things, and it’s enough that my granddad wakes. He comes down and nods at me, looking all grog-washed, but then he flashes those crooked teeth of his in that crooked smile and I feel glad he woke to see me off. He doesn’t say a word, though, before he steps out into the mist-covered morning of ours. It’s still that twilight haze that bleeds the color straight out of everything, turns it all to gray. It’s a peaceful hour, really.
When Granddad comes back in you can tell he’s got something lodged in that long leather jacket of his, though I’ll be damned if I know just what. He comes over to my table, shoves me by the shoulder, playful but hard. “Move your ivory seat-bonnet, you skrag. Respect your elder’s need to rest his brittle bones.” I guess I had been lounging, legs out on the bench, taking up the whole thing. I slide my legs in front of me and let him have his place. He unfolds the map that’s lying on the table, the one he gave me last night.
“Where are we?” His voice is maybe a bit stern, but not mean. He’s not talking down to me none, which I appreciate.
I look over the map and find Marsh. Teeth a bit gritting, I trace the main path that we’re more than a long ways from. I give my best guess, sticking my finger to the north and east of it. Grandpa gently tugs my hand further east and just a touch south. “Eyes closed,” he says. I obey, and he yanks my finger off the map. I hear him shifting the map a touch. “Open.” I obey. “Again, where are we?” I trace my eyes back along the geography of the map, lining up with where my finger was before, setting it right down again. “Good,” he says. “Good. Very good.”
I nod. “I’m coming back with a caravan,” I say.
“That’s the plan.” He nods. “Only when’s the last time you’ve seen a plan that happened as it promised it would?”
I smile. “Okay. Point taken.”
“So, show me your route.”
I walk him through the entire thing. To Marsh today, with Daddy, by nightfall. Getting a horse and supplies there. Then off on my own, through the Gray Wastes, down through the northern farmlands, then to the city of Worth. Southwest along the serpent—the great river, the “Green Serpent”—unless I find a caravan to ride with. Then from Kolmas, the second great city, up to Cheyvelrus itself.
“And what won’t you do?”
“Camp,” I reply. “There is no such thing as camping on this trip. Me and the open stars will have no relationship of any kind.”
“Damn right. Because you’re …” he looks at me, waiting for me to finish his sentence, but I don’t know what he’s aiming at.
“Because I’m not an idiot?”
“Because you’re coming back alive.”
“Of course. Of course I am.” I straighten out the silk a bit. Already, running my hands along the fabric settles me. Everyone sure does like to remind me that I could die if I do this trip wrong.
“And then?”
“From Cheyvelrus, I hike to a caravan and make my way to Worth,” I say. Daddy sits down and settles himself across the table from us, setting his leather satchel on the tabletop.
“Then Marsh,” I say. Mom brings plates to the table, decked mostly with the venison, but also leftovers from last night’s feast. “Then home.”
“Good,” says Granddad. “Now, tell me one more time.”
I sigh and trace my finger back through the entire journey, showing him I really do know where in the hells I’m going. Between bites of our breakfast, he has me rehearse the entire journey to him twice more. I can do it by rote, with or without a map, by the time he’s laid off me. The entire while, my mum’s come up behind me and unbraided, brushed, and re-braided my hair. It calms me more than some, her familiar hands running through the strands. She picks up the belt that came with the silk tunic and ties it in a bow at the top of my braid. Nothing fancy, just a loose bow that falls down along with my hair. Guess she figured out that I’d be using my old belt to keep the tunic tucked. I’m glad she’s so readily quiet about it.
When breakfast is done and Granddad’s satisfied that I’ve memorized the entire damned map, Daddy shoves the leather satchel toward me. It’s packed up with a few of my things—some clothes and a few basics for the road. “Thanks,” I say, though there’s something about seeing my things all packed up that makes the prospect of leaving sink in unpleasantly.
“Are you ready to go over the scrollwork?” asks Granddad.
I bulge my eyes at him, and he shakes his head, wearing that crooked smile. “Come on, skrag. Let’s chatter outside.”
When we go out, he pulls out the scroll and hands it to me. “Oh, and one more thing,” Granddad whispers as he leans in close. I can smell the stale tobacco and peppermint leaves, all filtered through that overgrown forest of chest hair that bristled up from beneath his shirt. His right hand goes into his long jacket pocket, and when it emerges he’s holding a box.
No, let me say that again. He’s holding the box.
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