“More than one cohort?”
“Four.”
Kade actually wrung her hands. Inos had never seen anyone do that before, certainly not Aunt Kade. The roses in her cheeks had been stricken by a sudden frost.
“I erred?” she murmured, as if to herself.
“I did, certainly,” Andor said. “But there is no other road, and we could hardly have slipped away unseen.”
Inos did not understand, and she was staying quiet. Surely a large escort would be good protection against the goblins and, therefore, welcome news? She noticed that Isha was standing very close to the corporal, closer even than the press of the crowd required. So that was in the wind, was it? Inos had been wondering why the girl had agreed to enter the service of ladies who lived in a far country.
Aunt Kade restored her smile and directed it up at Oopari. “I think you had better agree to what the proconsul wants, Corporal. We can hardly have a divided command, and a proconsul is one of the Impire’s most senior officials.”
The honest, stubborn face flushed very red. “Then my services are not truly necessary, your Highness?”
Kade glanced again at Andor, as if seeking support, or hearing a message. “We do not question your loyalty or courage, Corporal, but your small band can hardly compare with an entire cohort. As Sir Andor says, we are to be well guarded. Do any more of your men wish to remain at Kinvale?”
Through clenched teeth, Oopari said, “All of them, ma’am. But we thought you had need of us.”
Now it was Aunt Kade who turned red. “I quite understand, and if you wish to be released, then now is certainly the time. Sir Andor? If you would accompany the corporal… He has our money. Four imperials for him and two for each of the others? And would you be so kind as to take the rest of it into your own care?”
Obviously wrenched in several directions at once, Oopari looked down at Isha, and she was staring up at him in dismay. Aunt Kade noticed and sighed.
A few minutes later, Inos found herself alone with her aunt, clutching a large and clumsy earthenware mug of watery lukewarm chocolate. Andor and Oopari and the man-at-arms had gone, and so had Isha. Inos would have to brush her own hair now, and Aunt Kade’s, also. Who would lay out and repack clothes? Perhaps they could hire someone else at Pondague. Anonymous Imperial troops still hemmed in the table, making her feel claustrophobic.
“This chocolate is really very good, isn’t it?” Kade said, her normal calm restored,
“Aunt? How many men in a cohort?”
“Quite a lot, dear. We shall certainly be safe from goblins with four cohorts to guard us. I have too much porridge…”
“But no Oopari! Why did you dismiss him like that?”
Kade blinked innocently. “Because he wanted me to. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of my porridge?”
“Whatever he wanted, I would feel safer with him close.”
Then a ladylike foot tapped Inos’s ankle, Kade flickered her eyes warningly, and her voice faded almost to a mumble. “It was for their own good, dear.”
Inos became suddenly more aware of all the men around her. They all had their backs turned, and they all seemed to be intent on other things, but…
“We don’t want any accidents.” Then her aunt added in a more normal tone, “The porridge is not too terribly lumpy.”
“How many men in a cohort?”
“Five hundred, I think, but it may be more. I’m not sure.”
Now Inos understood. She felt very foolish. Four cohorts? On important occasions in Krasnegar, Sergeant Thosolin could muster eighteen men-at-arms.
3
Dusk on the fourth day… Rap’s belly roared louder than the storm now, but that was partly because the wind was fading. There was not much new snow coming down.
He had been chewing on a scrap of leather all afternoon, and then his farsight had sensed movement in the distance—right at the limit of his range, a small herd of sheep or goats. He could not tell if they were wild or stray, but there was no herder with them. He had started to lace up his moccasins, making Little Chicken want to know why. There had been an argument, the goblin insisting he was a much better marksman, Rap that he was more likely to find the quarry in these conditions.
The final result had been a compromise. Little Chicken had gone to do the killing, and Rap had sent Fleabag to drive the prey toward him.
So Rap now sat in lonely humiliation, listening to the wind’s mocking wail, watching the shadows leap, and licking his lips at the thought of meat. His role might not be very manly or even dignified, but it was hard work. The herd was still out at his limit and seemed reluctant to come closer. Even controlling Fleabag was difficult at that distance. Rap’s head had started to ache as it had not ached since his first days with Andor—
Forget Andor! Concentrate!
“You! Boy!”
With a wail, Rap released his mental hold on Fleabag and the herd. He spun around, then fell back on his elbows at the unbelievable apparition in the corner.
A huge white chair had appeared there—no, it was a throne, with a dais below it and a silken canopy above. It was built of interlocked curved rods that he recognized right away as walrus ivory, all intricately carved and inlaid with gems and gold; it was grander even than King Holindarn’s chair of state, which he had used only twice in Rap’s memory, on very solemn occasions. It glittered, as if it sat in a brighter place than this smoke-filled, dingy hovel.
There was a woman on it. She was very tiny, slumped slacklimbed in the corner of the cushioned seat, her legs sticking out like a child’s. Her scanty hair was white and straggling loose. She was very old, scraggy, and stark naked.
He echoed her. “You!”
Hastily he turned his head away. She could not possibly be real, but even so—no clothes! It was the same old woman he had seen the first time he had raided the Ravens' larder. He had been very hungry then, too. It must be a form of madness, a flaw in his character. Real men did not go crazy just because they hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. Real men could starve for weeks before they went mad. He wasn’t a hardened woodsman like Little Chicken, he was a soft town boy, a mere stablehand—
“The faun again!” The ancient cackled in shrill amusement.
Rap closed his eyes to concentrate… Sure enough, his farsight detected nothing there except fragments of firewood and a snowdrift. He was hallucinating again. Determined not to be distracted from his purpose, he reached out for Fleabag.
“Faun! You stop that! Don’t you know better?”
“Huh?” Despite himself, Rap’s farsight switched to the source of that voice. This time it saw. This time there was someone there. He twisted around again. The throne had gone. The little old woman was standing much closer and, mercifully, she was now dressed in goblin robes, as she had been the first time he saw her. Now she seemed to be quite solid and real. He moaned.
“Farsight, too?” The old woman waggled a finger at him. “That’s all right—safe enough—but that mastery of yours! Don’t you know that sorcerers can feel power being used like that?”
Dumbly he shook his head.
She walked a few steps closer, peering around. “Well, we can. Not that anyone but me’s likely to be watching in these parts. It’s all right to look and listen, see, but do anything, make things happen, and you start ripples. You’re strong, lad. You ought to know that. Why, you’ve got goblin tattoos!”
Asorceress! Andor had warned him that sorcerers were always on the lookout for more words of power. He had betrayed himself to a sorceress! Rap felt the hair on the back of his head stir. He began dragging himself backward on his elbows, across the dirt floor.