As they did, one spotted Hadrian and paused in his work. His brows furrowed as he stared intently until a shout from Dilladrum sent him back to herding.

“What was that all about?” Royce asked. Hadrian shrugged, but Royce looked unconvinced. “You were here for what—five years? Anything happen? Anything you want to share?”

“Sure,” he replied with a sarcastic grin. “Right after you fill me in on how you escaped from Manzant Prison and why you never killed Ambrose Moor.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“I was young and stupid,” Hadrian offered. “But I can tell you that Wesley is right about the jungle being dangerous. We’ll want to watch ourselves around Gile.”

“You met him?”

Hadrian nodded. “I’ve met most of the warlords of the Gur Em, but I’m sure everyone’s forgotten me by now.”

As if overhearing, the train worker glanced over his shoulder at Hadrian once more.

“Everywhere landward from Dagastan is uphill,” Dilladrum was saying as the troop walked along the narrow dirt path through farmlands dotted by domed grass huts. “That is the way of the world everywhere, is it not? From the sea, we always need to go up. It makes the leaving that much harder, but the returning that much more welcome.”

They walked two abreast, with Wesley and Dilladrum, Wyatt and Poe, Royce and Hadrian in front while Thranic’s group followed behind the Vintu and the beasts. Having Thranic and his crew behind them was disconcerting, but it was better than walking with them. Dilladrum set a brisk pace for a portly little man, stepping lively and thrusting his bleached walking stick out with practiced skill. He bent the brim down on his otherwise shapeless hat to block the sun, making him look comical even while Hadrian wished he had a silly-looking hat of his own.

“Mr. Dilladrum, what exactly are your instructions concerning us?” Wesley inquired.

“I am contracted to safely deliver officers, cargo, and crew of the Emerald Storm to the Palace of the Four Winds in Dur Guron.”

“Is that the residence of Erandabon Gile?”

“Ah yes, the fortress of the Panther of Dur Guron.”

“Panther?” Wyatt asked.

Dilladrum chuckled. “It’s what the Vintu call the warlord. They’re a very simple folk, but very hard workers, as you can see. The Panther is a legend among them.”

“A hero?” Wesley offered.

“A panther is not a hero to anyone. A panther is a great cat that hides himself in the jungle. He’s a ghost to those who seek him, deadly to those he hunts, but to those he doesn’t, he’s merely a creature deserving of respect. The Panther does not concern himself with the Vintu, but stories of his valor, cruelty, and cunning reach them.”

“You are not Vintu?”

“No. I’m Erbonese. Erbon is a region to the northwest, not far from Mandalin.”

“And the Tenkin?” Wesley asked. “Is the warlord one of them?”