Try didn’t work. Eventually the only action that did accomplish anything was to turn him back the way we had come. The search would have to be done on foot. Or else by Del, when she returned. Which didn’t please me. It was risk enough for her to walk into taverns, alone and unarmed. She was correct about being less noticeable here where there were more Northerners present, but how many Northern women sword-singers, trained at Staal-Ysta, were present? Probably all of one, whose name was Delilah.
The stud, realizing we were now riding away from whichever mare, or mares, he’d scented, was not cooperative. He danced a little, tested my grip on the reins, bobbed his head, lashed his tail, gave me an altogether uncomfortable ride. I gritted my teeth, swearing I’d castrate him when we got back to the South. Between then and now, I needed him intact.
Of course he didn’t take my threat seriously. He knew better. I’d been making that threat for at least a decade.
When Del and I rode our mounts, we did so with rope halters over leather bridles. Lead-ropes, tied to the saddle pommels, were used only when we picketed the horses or tied them to trees. At present the stud was unlikely to stand quietly when picketed, so I’d have to tie him to a nearby tree with that lead-rope rather than pounding a peg into the soaked ground. I didn’t want to imagine what he’d do to a wagon if tied to one. Probably attempt to drag it to the mare, wherever she—or they—might be. Mahmood, I suspected, would not appreciate that. Especially if he were inside.
I fought my way back to Mahmood’s four wagons, looked around for a tree, and found a possibility not terribly far away. As the stud had not acted up until some distance from Mahmood’s little caravan, he probably wouldn’t behave terribly here. Then again, it might make no difference, now that he knew an in-season mare was somewhere within, oh, a hundred miles.
We splashed our way to the tree, the stud and I, where I untied the saddle pouches and slung them away, wincing as they landed in the mud. It squelched up between my sandaled toes as I dismounted and looped the lead-rope around a very stout limb, tying it firmly. I pointed to the ground. “Grass. See? Grass. You eat it.”
At the end of the rope, he paced back and forth, testing it with little jerks of his head. I grabbed the bit shank closest to me. I held it firmly, giving his head a tug back and forth to remind him I had ways of controlling him.
He rolled an annoyed eye at me, bared his teeth. As he tried to swing his head at me, I made a fist and bashed it into his muzzle. He jerked his head away, tail whipping again, hooves sucking mud.
With a few twists of the lead-rope, I fashioned a slip-loop and wound it around his muzzle, tugging it tight. If he tried to set back and break either halter or tree, this would put pressure on more sensitive flesh. A last resort but usually effective.
“You’re bigger, stronger, and could stomp me into the ground, given a chance. But I’m smarter than you. I travel with hobbles, remember?”
One did not waste any time when hobbling an irritated stallion. He was tied to the tree and the slip-loop would help, so I ducked down, put the hobbles around his fetlocks, knotted the ropes very hastily, and took two long steps away from his mouth.
“Your fault,” I explained. “Bad manners will not be tolerated.” He blew a huge and wet snort of annoyance, but I was distant enough that not much reached me. I pointed to the ground again. “Grass. See? Eat it. I’ll get you water and grain as well. For now, just settle, would you?”
The stud gave me a look that would freeze the flames of hoolies. Thwarted by rope at nose and fetlocks, there was little he could do.
Well, that was the theory. One never knows with a stallion, especially when mares are around. Particularly in-season mares.
I looked down at my feet. I stood in several inches of mud, and most of my sandals were invisible, except for the tops of my feet and laces. I swore, grabbed the saddle pouches, and splashed my way back to Mahmood’s wagon. There at the tailgate I took off and spread my coat on the ground, placed the saddle pouches in the middle, and leaned against the wagon to unlace my sandals. In this muck, bare feet would do best.
I shook as much mud as I could off the sandals, dried them slightly with a sleeve of my coat, dropped them on top of the heap. Now I wore burnous, harness, and sword. And I wasn’t about to go without a weapon. There were other sword-dancers in Istamir—or had been. Why did I have to be me? Recognizably me?
I bent and scooped up mud, dragged some across my facial scars. Not much, but enough, I hoped, to fill in the depressions and divert the eye. I splattered some on my burnous as well. After all, my horse was very difficult to ride. Mud in appropriate places told its own story.
Barefoot and muddy, I took myself off to go walking, hunting Harith’s horses again. Only one was necessary. That would lead us to the others.
The stud, watching me go, flung snorting, squealing insults at me. Good thing I didn’t understand horse speech.
I found no horses with shorn manes anywhere near the Marketfield. Of course it was entirely possible I missed one or more, but the state of my bare feet, calves, and the bottom of my burnous, heavy with mud and water, proved my efforts. And no one recognized me.
I squished my soggy way back to the stud, thinking about Rashida, and discovered he was somewhat calmer. He still gave me the Ugly Eye, but I promised him grain and water, and went off to get both out of my saddle pouches. When I returned, I decided he was calm enough to remove the slip-rope and unsaddle him. I’d have to leave the bridle on him because the halter was fastened over it. In order to remove it I’d also have to remove the halter, fasten it temporarily around his neck, then remove the bridle and let him drop the bit from his mouth, whereupon I’d slip the halter back on. A well-trained horse is generally quiet during this process, but ‘well-trained’ was not a term I’d attach to the stud. Besides, he’d wait for the exchange, for a chance to jerk his head away, thereby tearing the halter out of my hands and departing at high speed to find the mare he’d scented earlier. Or any number of in-season mares scattered here and there. Life is never boring when you ride a stud-horse.
I removed Neesha’s sword from the stirrup strap and placed it carefully in my armpit, then pulled the saddle and blanket from the stud’s back. I was in the midst of arranging blade, blanket, and saddle when I heard Del’s call. I turned to it, hooking the saddle against one hip. And my jaw nearly hit the ground.
A man was with her. A sword-dancer. Blond, blue-eyed, tall. A Northerner.
The first thought that ran through my mind was that Del had accepted a challenge and had come for her sword in Mahmood’s wagon. But that shouldn’t apply, because in lacking her sword she wasn’t expected to accept a challenge. Which left the other possibility.
He’d come for me.
Well, I had two swords. One, wrapped in muslin, tucked under one arm; the other in harness across my back. He was far enough away that it was a simple matter to drop saddle and blanket and arm myself before he could reach me, and I think he recognized it also.
I looked at Del, tilting my head just a bit and giving her a wide-eyed, extremely pointed, questioning stare.
She smiled. “This is Eddrith,” she said. “Remember him? He danced with Neesha.”
“And defeated him,” Eddrith said.
I didn’t look at him. “I remember Eddrith,” I told her coolly, “but what is Eddrith doing here?”
“It’s not a challenge,” she explained.
“Well, not yet,” Eddrith clarified.
Del frowned at him. “You didn’t say that in the tavern.”
He smiled, first at Del, then at me. “You didn’t ask me in such a way as to require a complete answer.”
I dropped saddle and blanket into the mud, took Neesha’s sword from under my arm, and sliced through the muslin wrappings to free the blade. I looked a question at Eddrith, waiting for the challenge.
“No,” he said, alarmed. “No, no. That’s not what I’m here for, here. Not now. Wait. I promise. Let me draw my sword.”
“That’s a good indicator of a friendly intention,” I said dryly.
Del stood next to him. Together, they were so similar in coloring, two tall, pale-haired Northerners. But carefully, deliberately, she took the number of steps necessary to remove herself from Eddrith’s reach. My bascha was not happy, not happy at all. In fact, she was coldly furious. Probably more with herself, bringing a challenge to me when I was supposed to be elsewhere.
Eddrith showed me his palms. “No challenge,” he said. “No challenge. Let me remove my sword. I’ll drop it into the muck. Or hand it to her.” His eyes slanted to Del.
I smiled broadly. “Yes, give it to Del, why don’t you? It puts you close enough to attack an unarmed woman.”
That appeared to have never crossed his mind. Thoughtfully, he looked at Del, as if tucking away in his brain the action I’d suggested. Then he looked back to me. “In the muck,” he said. “I’ll toss it out of my reach.”
I smiled at him. And while he watched, I tossed Neesha’s sword to Del and unsheathed my own.
“All right,” I said. “Now you can remove your sword and toss it aside. In the muck. But be careful when you do so. Very, very careful.”
Eddrith was very, very careful. The sword slapped down into mud, well out of reach. Then he stood very still and looked at me. His demeanor had changed to worry. He was now facing the best sword-dancers in the South. Even if we were presently in the North.
“Now,” I said lightly, “why in hoolies are you here?”
Eddrith licked his lips. “I wish to help you defeat these raiders.”
I had expected nothing like that. “You what?”
“I wish to help you defeat these raiders.”
I looked at Del, once more asking a pointed question with my eyes.
She shrugged. “That’s what he told me.”
Eddrith said, “I hired on as a caravan outrider, once. Raiders attacked. One of them managed to stick a sword in me, jerk me off my horse. They thought I was dead. I thought I was dead. And while I lay there, waiting to die, they killed everyone in the caravan I’d been hired to protect.”
Chapter 28
IEYED HIM UP AND DOWN. “You do not appear to be dead.”
“Well, no. It wasn’t a killing strike, it just looked like one. And another caravan came along not long after.”
I nodded. “All right, let’s back up a little, shall we? Something you said early on. You know: about this not being a challenge yet. Yet.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Yes, oh.” I smiled at him cheerily. “Well?”
“Not a real challenge,” he said hastily.
“How do you make a challenge that isn’t a real challenge?”
“Yes,” Del said grimly. “How do you do that?”
Eddrith seemed somewhat puzzled by our ignorance. “Well, I challenge you to dance. But it’s not to the death. Practice, mostly, because I know you would defeat me.”
I’d decided Eddrith was younger than I’d thought at first glance. “You mean sparring.”
Eddrith nodded. “In exchange.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Help with the raiders.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh, there’s a price for your help, is there?”
Del took two steps toward him. He was now in range of her blade. In an icy voice, she told him, “You mentioned no price in the tavern. You simply offered to help.”
“I think it’s fair.” Now he was on the defensive. He looked at me again. “Don’t you think it’s fair?”
Neither Del nor I said anything. Color filled, then drained from his face.
What Eddrith didn’t realize was that he had actually put Del and I in the position of having to pay his price for his help. It wasn’t that we needed help, particularly, but if we chased him away, he might just go to the raiders and tell them where we were. I didn’t think he would, because of his story; then again, it would be a clever man to tell such a touching story, all to win our favor.
Maybe Eddrith was brighter than I’d thought. Or else a very good actor.
I glanced at Del. Her expression said she was leaving it up to me, probably because it was me Eddrith wanted. “All right,” I said. “You can help us. Afterward, you and I will spar.”
He nodded once, attempting a dignified acceptance, but the light in his eyes was pure anticipation and excitement.
Del remained in reach of Eddrith, though she spoke to me. “I stabled my horse. I took a room in an inn.”
I glanced briefly at Eddrith. “Did he recommend the inn?”
Del knew better than to do such a thing, but it was worth asking in front of the young man. “Oh, no. This was done before I began going into taverns.”
I looked again at Eddrith. “Meet us here tomorrow. We’ll discuss plans.”
He nodded, but remained where he was. Warily.
Ah. I walked over to his sword, slid my blade under his, and flipped the sword in his direction. Del was already in position to defend or attack, as was necessary.
But it wasn’t necessary. Eddrith caught the sword awkwardly, shook it to clear some of the mud, but did not sheath it. The blade would have to be cleaned, first. He backed up, then turned and walked away, attempting to avoid the deeper puddles.
“Why?” Del asked.
“My shodo once told me it’s better to keep potential enemies close, rather than distant. So you know what they may be planning.”
“Ah. My an-kaidin just told us to kill them.”
Mahmood once again offered us his wagon for the night, but this time I politely declined. He’d done quite a bit for us already, and he was certainly entitled to sleep in his own bed. Del took her sword and harness out of Mahmood’s wagon, while I put tack back on the stud, loosed his tie-rope and the rope around his nose, and led him away from the tree. I suggested to Del we ride double through all the muck so as not to wade through it.
She shook her head. “I don’t think we should be seen together. You ride, I’ll walk.”
I wanted to object, but she had a point. “All right. Where am I going?”
She provided directions and description for the inn; the small livery in which she’d stabled her gelding was in the same row of buildings. It was nowhere near the main street through town, nor where many men drank, she explained. Spirits were not allowed in the inn.
“Not allowed?” I asked.
“Not allowed,” she confirmed.
“Well, no wonder you chose that one!”
Del merely smiled in satisfaction.
“I hardly ever drink anymore,” I protested. “I don’t even know the last time I was drunk.”
“Approximately five days ago, when you and Alric sat by the stream sucking down ale.”
Oh. Yes. We had sucked down ale. And yes, I’d felt it. Time to change the subject. I asked if she’d learned anything about the raiders while visiting taverns. She said she would tell me at the inn.
I watched her go, then gathered up the tack and gear resting on my raincoat, which now would be even muddier than before. Once the stud was ready I worked my way back into the mud-coated oilcloth, mounted, and rode away in a direction different from the route Del took.
The sun, hidden above dark clouds for much of the day, began its journey down the ladder of the sky. Now was the time the taverns would fill up. Marketday would draw from miles around. The end of the day signaled time for food, spirits, even wine-girls, were a man not married. Caravaners who brought wives with them could avail themselves only of food and drink.
Hoolies, I couldn’t avail myself of drink, thanks to Del finding what likely was the one inn in all of Istamir that neither sold nor tolerated spirits.
The mud on my face had dried and now itched, caught in beard scruff. It took great effort not to scratch all of it off. I remained barefoot, riding with sandals tied together and draped across the pommel, wearing the bedraggled coat in hopes of looking nothing like a sword-dancer, despite my sword juttin
g up over my shoulder. I’d covered it with the flap of oilcloth, but mostly it made me look like a hunchback. A very oddly shaped hunchback. So after consideration I took my mud-caked sandals off the pommel and tossed them over my shoulder, one dangling in front, the other in back, attempting to disguise the hilt.
So. A hunchback with a very muddy face and muddier coat. Well, it might work.
I drew a few idle glances as I made my way around the wagons, looked for a way into the town that wasn’t part of the paved main street. Nothing about me looked particularly prepossessing. And no one commented or called out to me.
Eventually I found my way to the small, extremely narrow street Del had described. It was indeed well away from the main part of town and its paving stones. Here, dirt ruled, which, of course, had transformed itself into serious mud. Livery stables and smithies often were built adjoining one another; I followed the sound of a blacksmith ringing down a hammer upon an anvil. As I rode closer, I saw the shower of sparks, smelled the acrid tang of coals burning in the forge. And there was, indeed, an adjoining livery.
The blacksmith glanced up as I reined in the stud. He nodded his head toward the open double doors of the livery. “Wanting stabling, then?”
I nodded, untangled myself from sandals and coat, and stepped down into mud. The black-eyed smith, arms and shoulders overdeveloped from years of pounding iron, smiled through his dark beard. “A soft day, wasn’t it?”
I shot him a morose glance. “If that’s what you call unremitting downpours up here in the North, then yes, it was ‘soft.’”
“Not a Borderer, then?”
I decided the better part of safety lay in saying nothing about me being a Southroner. I wanted to give no one the puzzle pieces of my presence and appearance. “Borderer,” I said. “Just not from this area.”
“You’ve got the look.” He used tongs to pick up the horse shoe from the anvil, inspected it, dumped it back into the coals. “How long are you wanting to keep your horse here?”
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