A glass later, he had produced the documents Stepan wanted, and agreed to pay his fee to investigate the matter. Stepan promised to send word of the audit when it was complete. Old Kavarthin looked entirely too satisfied, he thought, and rose to go—this time for certain.
Kavarthin walked with him to the door. “It’s been a difficult few years,” he said. “You know what it was like, the season you defeated Siniava. It’s become more difficult, especially in the south and east. There’s been reason why people who were scrupulously honest before might be less so now.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Arcolin said.
“And if I were you, I’d ride with that sword on my hip and not under the saddle flap,” Kavarthin said, nodding at Arcolin’s horse, being walked up and down by a bank servant. “And wear your helmet.”
“On the trade road?”
“Indeed.”
23
At the inn where they’d been quartered, Arcolin paid the innkeeper’s last charges and heard that the cohort had marched off three full glasses ago. Once out of the city gates, he considered putting on his helmet, but the morning was already warming; he wanted to feel the breeze on his head. He checked the hooks—yes, he could free it quickly at need. He legged his mount to a canter on the dirt path to the left of the trade road and its drainage ditch. If only Tsaia had roads like this, it would take six days less to move a cohort north and south.
Traffic on the road this close to the city seemed sparse for the time of day. He saw one small flock of goats herded toward the city on the other side of the road, and an oxcart on the road itself, driven by a farm woman, a small child alongside the ox with a goad. In the cart, a stick cage held geese, their long necks poking between the bars. They honked indignantly. He passed a moderate-sized caravan heading east, a half-glass after he left, with guards armed with bows atop each wagon. He waved; the guards raised their bows in salute. Ahead, the road curved around a hill slope covered with trees; Arcolin knew from past years that a trail easy for horses cut through the trees and met the road again, saving some distance. It was also an easy place for bandits to ambush a lone traveler. He’d taken it often enough before when in a hurry … but not today. He passed the fork in the trail, noting fresh hoofprints and a pile of droppings where it entered the trees.
He kept to the path beside the main road, slowing to pass a group of foot travelers and give them greeting. Three men, two women, one older than the other, four children, all with packs and staves. His horse, eager as always to run, tossed its head; Arcolin legged it to an easy canter again. The morning’s problems blew away as the breeze brought him the fragrance of blossoming trees; his horse pinned one ear and quickened stride. Arcolin grinned. This one, of all his mounts, most loved to run, and he’d held it to a foot-pace all the way south. He took one hand from the reins to steady the hilt of his sword and closed his legs.
The horse bolted in great leaping strides, not quite bucking, then flattened out, running fast enough to bring tears to his eyes. Arcolin caught a blurred sensation of movement to his left, but they were past it before he registered the sudden appearance of five men on horseback and the flash of sunlight on drawn swords. Hooves thundered behind; he could not tell how many. His horse pinned both ears and quickened again. Arcolin switched hands on the reins and drew his own sword, though he doubted any bandits had mounts as fast as this one.
Then he remembered the foot-travelers. Were they there merely to slow riders like him, or were they in danger? And what about that caravan? Surely its guards would be enough to hold off a few brigands. He glanced behind. Two riders, kicking hard, but their horses could not keep his pace. More behind them turning back to the westbound path. A quick glance at the road showed nothing ahead; behind, when he looked back again, he saw dust rising, saw one of the brigands lean out to strike at someone on the ground.
Arcolin sat back, hauling his mount down; the two chasing him yelled in triumph. He swung his mount to the right, jumped the ditch between the footpath and the road, and reversed back down the road, passing the brigands before they could change direction. He heard his pursuers’ horses grunt as they too jumped and the clatter of their hooves behind him.
The odds weren’t good, Arcolin saw, as he neared the altercation on the footpath. One of the women was on the ground—dead or injured, he couldn’t tell. The men, trying to fend off armed horsemen with walking staves, showed some training, but the four brigands were ahorse and armed with swords. He reined in as he passed the fight and jumped back across the ditch on the Valdaire side. Two of the brigands had noticed and turned to meet him. One of his pursuers tried to jump the ditch, but his horse refused, and plunged uselessly in the muddy bottom.
Arcolin charged straight at the fight. The two facing him spread apart; Arcolin reined for the one nearer the trees, then, with a shift of his weight, sent his horse at the other, who had committed too early to attack his flank. One stroke of his sword took the man’s arm. His own horse squealed and bucked, as a clang reminded Arcolin where his helmet was—on the saddle instead of his head. He heard the solid THWACK as his horse’s hind hoofs connected with the brigand’s horse.
Now he was in the thick of it, hoping the foot travelers would realize he was on their side, but with no time to explain. No time to retrieve his helmet, either. He felt like a fool, but the helmet had saved his horse an injury. He parried a sword stroke meant for one of the travelers. One of the men, using his staff expertly, managed to unhorse a brigand; the other woman smacked the downed man on the head. If he could only get them in order, they were now four to four, but—he parried a stroke aimed at him, and on the backstroke came so near the brigand’s face the man flinched back and accidentally reined his horse away. Arcolin shifted his weight and signaled his mount. His horse reared, hopped forward, and struck the rider with front hooves, knocking him out of the saddle. The man’s sword flew from his hand, and his horse bolted away.
He couldn’t reach the man on the ground with his sword, but one of the foot travelers could. Four to three now. One of the men knocked the brigand trying to climb out of the ditch back into it.
The remaining two brigands reined their horses around and, kicking vigorously, rode at speed into the woods. Arcolin listened to their receding hoofbeats. His own mount was breathing hard, finally, sweat showing on its neck. He looked around. The man whose arm he’d severed sprawled on the ground, unconscious or dead—his horse had slowed to a stop some distance away and was now snatching nervously at grass on the verge of the path.
Arcolin rode over to the ditch, where the last brigand was trying to catch his horse. The horse moved faster in the muddy ditch bottom than the man, and finally scrambled out on the near side; the man managed to grab its tail for help up the slope, then pulled himself into the saddle from the off side, as Arcolin rode toward him. The man smacked his horse with the flat of his sword, and kicked; the horse threw a tremendous buck, then another and another, and the man flew off, landing with a loud thump. Arcolin was off his horse and had run him through before the man caught his breath. Then he saw the leg bent at the wrong angle and realized the man would have been no danger.
“We owe you thanks, sir.” One of the travelers came toward him, staff still in a defensive position. “It would have gone hard with us—”
“You use your staves well,” Arcolin said. “Are you Girdish?”