The Dragon's Path by Daniel Abraham

Master Will.
    “Sir,” she said in a soft, low voice. Master Will didn’t answer, and so uncertainly she tugged at his sleeve.
    “What?” the old man said.
    “My name’s Tag, sir. I’ve come to drive Magister Imaniel’s cart.”
    Master Will’s eyes went wide for a moment and he glanced around to see if they’d been heard. Cithrin cursed silently. Not Magister Imaniel’s cart. The bank didn’t have a cart. She was driving the wool cart. It was her first mistake. Master Will coughed and took her by the shoulder.
    “You’re late, boy. I thought you might not come.”
    “Sorry, sir.”
    “For God’s sake, child, try not to talk.”
    He led her quickly through the press to a deep, narrow cart. The weathered wood planks looked sturdy enough, and a canvas tarp over the top would keep the rain off the bolts of tight-packed grey cloth. The axles were thick iron, and the wheels bound with steel. It looked to Cithrin like obviously more of a wagon than mere cloth would need. The two mules in harness hardly seemed enough to pull a thing that big. Surely,
surely
they could all see through the sham. The prince’s guards hardly needed to glance at her to understand everything. Her gut tightened harder, and she thanked the angels she hadn’t been able to eat that morning. She didn’t know how well her false whiskers would survive vomiting. Master Will leaned close to her, his lips brushing against her ear.
    “The first two layers are wool,” he said. “Everything beneath that’s in sealed boxes and casks. If the tarp fails and things get wet, just let them stew.”
    “The books—” she muttered.
    “The books are in enough sheepskin and wax you could drive this bastard into the sea. Don’t worry about them. Don’t think about what you’re hauling. And do not under any circumstances dig down and have a look.”
    She felt a passing annoyance. Did he think she was stupid?
    “You can sleep on top,” Master Will continued. “No one will think it odd. Do what the caravan master says, keep the mules healthy and fed, and keep to yourself as much as you can.”
    “Yes, sir,” she said.
    “Right, then,” the old man said. He stood back and clapped her on the shoulder. His smile was forced and mirthless. “Good luck.”
    He turned and walked back toward his shop. Cithrin hadthe powerful urge to call after him. This couldn’t be all there was. There must be something else she was supposed to do, some preparation or advice she should have. She swallowed, hunched forward, then walked around the cart. The mules met her eyes incuriously. They, at least, weren’t frightened.
    “I’m Tag,” she said into their long, soft ears. And then, whispering, “I’m really Cithrin.” She wished she knew their names.
    She didn’t catch sight of the soldiers until she’d climbed up to the driver’s bench. Men and women in hard leather, swords at their sides. They were Firstblood, apart from one Tralgu with rings in his ears and a huge bow slung on his shoulder. The captain of the troop, the Tralgu, and an older man in long robes and tightly knotted hair were talking animatedly with the Timzinae caravan master. Cithrin gripped the reins, her knuckles aching and bloodless. The captain nodded toward her, and the caravan master shrugged. She watched in horror as the three soldiers came toward her. She had to run. She was going to be killed.
    “Boy!” the captain said, his pale eyes on her. He was a hard-faced man younger than Magister Imaniel and older than Besel. He wore his sandy hair too short for Antean style, too long for the Free Cities. He leaned forward, his eyebrows rising. “Boy? You hear me?”
    Cithrin nodded.
    “You aren’t dim, are you? I didn’t sign on to guard boys who are likely to wander off on their own.”
    “No,” Cithrin croaked. She coughed, careful to keep her voice husky and low. “No, sir.”
    “Right, then,” the captain said. “You’re driving this cart?”
    Cithrin nodded.
    “Well.