As I rode I had conversations with the stud. I told him it really wasn’t necessary to show off, that certainly all the other males were geldings and offered no threat to his magnificence. He was unconvinced. The scent of mare—or mares, plural—turned his brain to goo. Only one thought remained in his head, and it had nothing to do with riding slowly through Marketfield.
“I don’t need this,” I told him, sitting loosely in the saddle so my body could adjust to whatever move he might make. “Really, a calm walk would do. The goal here is to not make ourselves obvious. We don’t want people noticing us, particularly if they happen to be attached to horses with shorn manes. This is reconnaissance, not a hunt.”
He was unimpressed.
“Honestly, every human knows you are the finest horse here. They have only to look at you to see your handsomeness. Even all the horses are impressed. Geldings, remember? No threat.”
Still unimpressed. He knew very well there were also mares present—which made perfect sense for a horse fair—and he wasn’t about to listen to me.
If I dismounted and attempted to lead him, he would be less my sandaled toes as I dismountedcontrollable, and I stood a good chance of being stomped on, intended or no. Best for me to stay in the saddle and guide him. Well, try to guide him.
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.