The Smuggler's Secrets

It is dusk, and so it is time to make money.

My brother, chocolate-haired and angelic and the most devious person I have ever met despite the fact that I was raised among thieves and cheats, rides beside me. His mare, white and small enough to pass for a pony if she wished to, brushes her shoulder against my stallion’s. I thinks she’s fond of him.

Beneath me, the stallion’s ears flicker back, as if he is asking for permission. We have only known each other for a few weeks, this stallion and I, but he already trusts me. I trust him, too. I just don’t hate myself enough to love him. I know he is not mine to keep.

I loosen my legs, giving the stallion room. He leans into the mare, a little rougher than I expected. She nearly trips.

Jason pulls on the mare hard, forcing her steady. His head snaps towards me, ready to accuse, but I am in no mood to deal with him. Silently, I shake my head and point forward.

We’ve nearly crested the hill.

This late, the sun has painted the hill beneath us a deep orange. These hills rise and fall behind us for miles. But beyond the top of the next hill is no peaceful country land.

Jason shakes out his arms, loosening himself up, like the movement can shake off his true skin and replace it with something pure and young and drenched in innocence. His version of armor. His narrowed eyes widen, his smile brightens. “Are you ready?”

I nod.

He doesn’t look certain. “Ransley….”

“Jason.”

Something about the way I’ve said his name tells him all he needs to know. He shrugs and settles his blue eyes forward. “You’ll talk?”

“Like always.”

“I’m trusting you.”

He always does. The stallion has more of a choice in the matter of trusting me than my brother does. And I have a rope tied around the stallion’s neck.

We crest the hill.

Finally, I see the wall.

It’s a terrible thing, all gray stone short enough that a brave man could scale it if there wasn’t a solider standing watch every tenth of a mile at its floor and a barn owl perched every quarter of a mile on top. There’s only one door, the outline barely visible through the cracks in the stone. An owl sits on its handle. Two soldiers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, backs straight and chests out, directly in front of it.

I’m more worried about the owls than the soldiers.

An owl flew into my window once when I was a child. It killed her. That night was the first time I cried. I'm still not sure why, but I think it was because she looked so wise, like she would open her beak at any moment and tell me the meaning of my existence, yet was also somehow foolish enough to kill herself. It was as if the universe gave her life only so it could laugh at its own cleverly cruel joke.

The owls perched atop the wall are not like her. Instead, they hold the most buried and brutal truths, and they are no fools. They are the servants of the king, blessed by the magic of the forest his kingdom was built on. Rumors are plentiful as to how the king convinced the forest to gift him the owls. The most popular is that his little baby princess, meant to be born an heir but instead born without the chance to take even a single breath, gave her life to the forest. In exchange, the forest transformed the barn owls, nestled in every tree and stable for miles, into the most powerful weapon it could imagine to pay the king back for his sacrifice.

These owls carry the secrets of every soul who steps foot past that wall. The moment your feet touch the grass that grows the trees the owls call home, they know you better than you know yourself.

And they tell the king everything.

The owls are the reason his city is the richest in the world. It’s not strategy or armies or bravery that wins wars.

It’s secrets.

The owls watch us carefully, their flexible heads turning, their black eyes wide. I swear their faces look more human than half of the actual humans I’ve known.

I glance at the one perched on the door's handle.

I might just be hoping too hard but I swear she nods her head once.

I turn my attention to the other problem: the soldiers.

These soldiers know my name. These soldiers know what I do. These soldiers know what money—or, more accurately, the pursuit of it—makes me capable of.

These soldiers are scared of me.

I can see it in the way they stiffen, in the way their eyes would rather settle on the stallion beneath me than on my face.

Good.

“Afternoon!” Jason calls lightly, even though we just agreed I would talk. I resist the urge to smack him. It will do no good now.

A single men steps froward. His name is Tanner Drayn. We’ve met before, enough times for me to have decided that I like him.

He, on the other hand, wants my head on a spike.

“Ransley Lynn,” he says. He looks older than I remember, his brown hair turning a bit gray, the laugh lines around his eyes more pronounced. It’s probably from the stress. I hope I've contributed to it. “What is your business here?”

I let the stallion take a few more steps forward, stopping him only when I’m sure Tanner can feel the horse's hot breath on his own face so that he will either have to endure it or take a step back. He endures it. I respect him a little more. “The horse race is tomorrow,” I say.

Tanner’s eyes narrow. “The whole world knows that the race is tomorrow. I asked what your business here is.”

I shrug. “The race. Same as every other man and woman who has crossed this border today.” I allow the corners of my lips to rise just slightly. “Were you this welcoming to all of them as well?”

“None of them were Ransley Lynn,” Tanner objects, and snaps his fingers, as I knew he would.

Four men step forward. Two go to Jason and his mare. They grab his saddlebags while Jason smiles at them sweetly, all fake angel and no authentic devil.

I let out a bored sigh. “Are the owls not enough to prove my truth?”

“They are.” Tanner grins. “But I’d like the satisfaction of catching you myself.”

What he means is that he’d like the praise and pay raise his king will give him for finally having a provable reason to put me behind bars.

Two more soldiers move for my bags. They throw them on the ground and turn them upside down to watch the contents spill. Their hands slide under the stallion’s saddle, the bridle, even the reins. They crack open my bread, they stomp on my cheese. They are fools if they think I could smuggle anything of value inside a square of cheese.

Actually, there was that one time….

Tanner takes his time, examining each bag himself, careful to slip his fingers into every crevice and pocket. He gasps slightly when he finds a piece of chewed Eden—a drug that gives its users such a euphoric feeling it empties most of their pockets a month after first trying it—but Eden isn’t illegal, although it probably should be.

Tanner motions for me to take off my boots. I give the stallions' reins to a soldier standing nearby before I do. Tanner then makes me take off my jacket. And shirt, and pants, and then pads me down rather intimately once I am standing in nothing but my underthings. Another soldier, young and rosy-cheeked, does the same to Jason, who smirks at him like he wants to eat him. He probably does.

“I can’t find anything,” Tanner snaps at me when he is finally done, as if it is my fault. Which, of course, it is.

“There’s nothing to find,” I say with a sigh. Which, of course, is a lie. “I’m just going to watch the race like everyone else. Now can my brother and I put on our clothes before we freeze?”

“I can’t find anything,” Tanner repeats angrily, shoving me my jacket. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

I slip on the jacket. I reach for the stallion's reins. The soldier hands them back to me reluctantly. Meanwhile, Jason has his soldier blushing. I hate that my brother’s swift tongue could make even a tree blush. No one as cruel as him deserves an arsenal of so much useful charm.

Tanner watches me carefully as I dress, swing the reins over the stallion’s neck, and mount.

I don’t say anything. I know that he wants me to, expects me to, and I do have an infinite list of witty insults I would like to let loose. But I also know that sometimes silence is louder than screaming.

“Have a good night,” Jason’s soldier whispers shyly, helping my brother (who absolutely needs no help) mount, his hand hovering over the small of his back for a bit too long.

“I hope you get lucky,” Jason winks, looking down at him. When the soldier gapes, Jason adds innocently, “with the races.”

“You still have to get past the owls, Lynn,” Tanner warns. "Quit smiling."

Jason can't keep his own mouth shut, although I don't blame him. "Was my brother smiling? Wow. Do you mind taking a picture next time? I've never seen him do that before."

I nearly do smile at that. But Tanner is right. I still have to get past the owls.

I try not to roll my eyes Jason's way. Fail miserably. Without glancing at Tanner, who is still staring at me like he's still waiting for blood diamonds or drugs or any other illegal thing to tumble out of my pockets, I gently kick the stallion into a trot.

The soldiers step aside.

The owl on the handle blinks once.

A smooth, deep, classical voice drifts gracefully into my head. "Remember your promise, Ransley Lynn."

I try not to react. But I do blink black. I feel it would be impolite not to.

The owl flies off of the handle. The door opens. We step through the wall.

The soldiers are as still as the owls, watching carefully. Tanner’s fists are clenched so tightly I am surprised his nails have not broken his palm’s skin.

If the owls sense a secret that could hurt their king, they will begin to hoot, and every soldier guarding the wall will have a valid reason to attack us. I've heard stories of the owls joining in on such a good excuse for violence. They're small birds but their talons are sharp. Most of those stories include eyes being ripped out by those talons. I believe them to be true.

Something close to fear threatens to creep. I try to ignore it.

These owls know the secret I hold: The stallion I am riding is what I am smuggling.

A very wealthy business man hired me to switch this stallion--this stallion that not long ago was wild, and as a result is faster and freer than any of the trained racehorses; this stallion that I spent months trying to catch and weeks turning tame enough to let me on his back-- with the horse expected to come in last. My employer will then bet on the horse no one else will. When that horse wins, he'll make a disgusting amount of money. And he will give me half.

The two horses look nearly identical. If I had not spent so much time with this stallion, even I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. And while eventually the gaurds or Tanner might recognize that the winning stallion is the one I rode in on and know the truth, it won't matter. If word got out that the winner of the largest and most profitable horse race of the year was nothing but a cheat, not even one of the horses trained by any of the men paid so much to make them champions, there would be chaos. The race's reputation would be destroyed and--more importantly--lots of money would be lost. Every bet would have to be returned and every ticket refunded. But just because I will not openly be blamed doesn't mean that my name won't be whispered in fear under their breaths if I pull this off. I love that sound. I want to die someday listening to that sound.

Those owls could keep me from ever hearing it again.

But we are through the wall. Standing on the grass they rule. And they are quiet.

Jason looks at me when there is no eruption of hoots, shock plain on his face. He didn't believe it would work. Honestly, neither did I. But I keep myself from showing it.

The moment we are far enough away that the soldiers won't hear, Jason bursts, “How did you do that?!”

“Lower your voice,” I snap. “I made the owls a promise.”

“What sort of promise?”

“That I will come back here in a year,” I whisper, “so that they can have all of my secrets.”

Jason cocks his head. “What makes your secrets so valuable?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I don't have them yet.”