Polijn eased into the dark building, her eyes open for stable hands or anything else likely to object to a stranger’s presence. Nothing presented itself, though a few large eyes turned to study her. She studied them back, adjusting Carasta’s pack on her hip. Now, how could you tell which was the horse that would get you all the way there, and which the one that had a loose shoe, or would tire out after a few miles in the cold slush? Polijn’s acquaintance with horses was limited. In her district, back home in Rossacotta, mighty few people could stand the expense of keeping a horse.
She supposed she could do worse than just pick one by color: a black or a dark gray would hide her best in the shadows by the wall. Moving along the stalls, she had just about settled on a big, dark creature when she was startled by the sight of a familiar face. Those big nostrils, those little, little ears: that was a Rossacottan warhorse. Since Rossacotta had opened trade, their legendary warhorses were moving farther afield. The creature was a light grey, not exactly what she wanted, but the square, solid horses were known for speed and rumored to have nightsight. Their chief attribute, though, was endurance. That was what she’d want most on the road back to the religious shelter.
Setting Carasta’s pack down, she studied the walls for the next piece of decision-making. She could hardly make it all the way there on a naked horse. Having also sung a great deal about horses, Polijn knew, in a general way, which pieces of harness went where. But it was largely theoretical knowledge, and since the songs mainly concentrated on the jewels and gold trim attached to the tackle rather than technical details, they weren’t necessarily perfect guides.
She decided she’d have to settle for any kind of halter she could get around the horse’s neck. Choosing some tackle at random, she took down the bits that looked reasonably adaptable and advanced on her chosen mount.
The warhorse watched her approach without any apparent interest. Polijn jumped back once when the creature drew back its lips to expose teeth a little bigger than Polijn thought necessary. But that was the extent of the horse’s comment, and she went back to tying knots.
The job turned out to be much more time-consuming than she’d expected. The Rossacottan warhorse was considered small by warhorse standards, but it was still mighty large for her. And this horse seemed to grow a little every time she had to get a loop over it. Half the time she couldn’t reach far enough, or throw the strip of leather far enough, and had to pick it up off the floor and start over. She had hoped there might be time for her to get an actual nap, but the stable grew darker and darker as she improvised her harness.
The only light coming in by the time she had the job done to her satisfaction was a flickering glow. She wiped her forehead and pulled up Carasta’s pack. Fastening it to her own, she slipped to the door and peered outside.
The bonfire was lit, and the duke’s subjects were gathered around it, hands joined. If she could count on all of them being there, this scheme would work.
She hurried back inside. The time for planning and preparation was over. It was time now to get to work, and little enough time there was, too. She took hold of the halter and moved out.
She moved out a good foot and a half and then stopped. She looked up. The horse looked down.
“Come on!” she said, yanking on the leather. The horse tossed its head, yanking it back and out of her hand.
She took hold of it again and pulled some more, calling as loudly as she dared every starting command she’d ever heard in song or story, every way to pronounce “get up” or “go.” Those little ears twitched enough to show the horse was paying attention, and she was willing to bet it understood, too. But it was just not inclined to go off with somebody it didn’t know. That was a laudable habit in a warhorse, but Polijn would gladly have dispensed with such good training.
The business with the harness had been a complete waste of time. She’d have to head out on foot, now, not knowing how soon the partygoers would be ready to leave their bonfire. Polijn headed for the door, tossing the length of leather down behind her and expressing in an undertone her opinion of the horse’s physical state, its morals, the morals and even the species of its parents, and the likely abuses accorded in the afterworld to recalcitrant horses.
At the door, she paused to check the crowd. She didn’t mean to wait long — there was no time to waste; even so she wasn’t ready to move forward yet, but she was shoved from behind.
She whirled. The horse had come up behind her and stood now in the doorway, eyes fixed on her face.
What in the world had she done just now that she hadn’t been doing before? She frowned. “Are you coming?” she demanded, and added a colloquial Rossacottan epithet that in one short syllable expressed the unlikely possibility that the listener was a large amount of body waste addicted to unnatural sexual practices.
The horse moved forward, head bobbing. “Well,” Polijn said, “we’re way west of there. Let’s head east.”
It might, in fact, be interesting to ride all the way back to Rossacotta, just to prance through her old neighborhood. But since the trip would take months, and she was still under ban, Polijn thought a ride to Anderal’s shelter would be excitement enough.
She didn’t really expect to move through the gate without a challenge and had a story made up about riding ahead to tell Anderal when the duke set out. But no sentry appeared; either hostilities in the Northern Quilt ceased during the winter or the duke was powerful enough to make sure nobody bothered him. In any case, it saved her some time.
There was a milestone outside the gate, and she climbed up on that to mount her charger. Even with that boost, the broad back proved an illogically difficult perch to achieve. Her final position was precarious, uncomfortable, and very, very high. She had just about decided she’d done it all wrong and would do better to dismount and start over when she heard a cry of “aha!”
Only one person would have said “aha!” instead of “who goes there?” and she’d recognized his voice anyhow. “Go, you halfeaten toad!” she whispered into the little ears. Nodding some more, the horse set off in the direction she had him pointed. Carasta hollered only once more. Polijn wasn’t secure enough in her position to look back to see what he was doing.
When she did look around, the only thing she could see was that she really ought to be moving faster. Somehow the idea of moving faster, even if she could communicate this concept to the horse, had no real appeal for her. So she just studied the little brown ears and hoped the horse would not decide it had done enough for an old compatriot and head back to its nice warm stable.
The horse did keep moving straight ahead as if it knew the road and her destination. That was just as well because the landmarks she had noticed this morning were considerably different in the dark. Even moonrise didn’t help. Polijn knew where she was only when she saw the Crossroads Shrine looming ahead.
At the same time she spotted that, she noticed movement off to her right. A figure with arms flailing plowed through the snow. Carasta had taken the clear road to the south, of course, and was now struggling through the band of snow separating the two thoroughfares.
Polijn reached down to slap the horse’s side. “Hurry!” If she could get well past the shrine before he reached her, she should be able to stay that far ahead of him the rest of the way. “Hurry, you...”
She cast her eyes back toward Carasta as she slapped the horse again and tried to think of a proper motivational expletive. This was too much to do at once, and she started to slide. She snatched at the loop around her mount’s neck, missed, and slid off backward.