willing mule did better at first, but it grunted with each stride at the jouncing weight it bore. So did dy Cabon. When they reached the top of the next rise, half a mile on, they could see that the Jokonan column had dispatched a squad of a double dozen riders out ahead, galloping with the clear intent of overtaking Ista’s party.
Now it was a race, and they were not fitted for it. The baggage mules might be abandoned, but what of the divine’s beast? Its nostrils were round and red, its white hair was already starting to lather at its neck and shoulder and between its hind legs, and despite dy Cabon’s kicks and shouts it kept breaking from a canter into a bone-jarring fast trot. It shook dy Cabon like a pudding; his face went from scarlet to pale green and back again. He looked close to vomiting from the exertion and terror.
If this was the raiding column it appeared—and how in five gods’ names had it appeared from the south of them, so unheralded?—Ista might cry ransom for herself and the Daughter’s men. But a divine of the fifth god would be treated as heretic and defiled—they would indeed start by cutting off dy Cabon’s thumbs. And then his tongue, and then his genitals. After that, depending on their time and ingenuity, whatever ghastly death the Quadrene soldiers could devise, or urge each other on to—hanging, impalement, something even worse. Three nights he’d dreamed of this, dy Cabon had said, each different. Ista wondered what death could possibly be more grotesque than impalement.
The country offered poor cover. The trees were small, and even if any overhung the road, she wasn’t sure they could boost the wheezing divine up one. His white robes, dirty as they were, would shine like a beacon through the leaves. They’d show up for half a mile through the scrub, as would his mule. But then they topped another rise, temporarily out of sight of their pursuers, and at the bottom of this wash . . .
She lashed her horse forward beside Ferda’s, and shouted, “The divine—he must not be taken!”
He looked back over his company and signed agreement. “Exchange horses?” he cried doubtfully.
“Not good enough,” she shouted back. She pointed ahead. “Hide him in the culvert!”
She slowed her horse, letting the others pass her, till dy Cabon’s mule labored up. Foix and Liss reined back with her.
“Dy Cabon!” she cried. “Did you ever dream about being pulled out of a culvert?”
“No, lady!” he quavered back between jounces.
“Hide you in that one, then, till they all pass over you.” Foix—Foix was in hideous danger if taken, too, if the Quadrenes should learn of his demon affliction. They might well take him for a sorcerer and burn him alive. “Did you dream of Foix with you?”
“No!”
“Foix! Can you stay with him—help him? Keep both your heads down and don’t come out, no matter what!”
Foix glanced down the track at the cover she pointed to and seemed to understand the plan at once. “Aye, Royina!”
They scraped to a halt over the culvert. The streamlet here did not fill it full, though it would be a cramped, wet, uncomfortable crouch, especially for dy Cabon’s quivering bulk. Foix swung down, threw his reins to Pejar, and caught the gasping divine as he half fell from his animal. “Wrap this around you, hide those white robes.” Foix tossed his gray cloak around dy Cabon, hustling him off the road. Another guard began grimly towing dy Cabon’s mule; relieved of its great burden, it broke again into a canter. A canter wasn’t going to be enough, Ista thought.
“Look after each other!” she cried in desperation. The pair was already scrambling into the low mouth of the culvert, and she could not tell if they heard her or not.
They started forward once again. There was another here who must not be taken by the rough soldiery, she thought. “Liss!” she called. The girl rode nearer. Ista’s horse was dark with sweat, blowing; Liss’s tall bay still cantered easily.
“Ride ahead—”
“Royina, I won’t leave you—”
“Fool girl, listen! Ride ahead and carry warning to anyone you pass, Jokonan raiders are coming. Raise the countryside! Get help and send it back!”
Understanding dawned in her face. “Aye, Royina!”
“Ride like the wind! Don’t look back!”
Liss, face set, saluted her and bent over her horse’s neck. Its stride lengthened. The three or four galloping miles they’d covered so far were clearly but a warm-up for it. In