"And I suppose for a really urgent message, one would have to run."
Now he saw a glimmer of understanding in the boy's eyes. Horace nodded several times as he made the connection.
"So, the short skirts:they'd be to help them run more easily?" he suggested. Halt nodded in his turn.
"It would certainly be a more sensible form of dress than long skirts, if you wanted to do a lot of running." He shot a quick look at Horace to see if his gentle teasing was not being turned back on himself-to see if, in fact, the boy realized Halt was talking nonsense and was simply leading him on. Horace's face, however, was open and believing.
"I suppose so," Horace replied finally, then added, in a softer voice, "They certainly look a lot better that way too."
Again, Halt shot him a look. But Horace seemed to be content with the answer. For a moment, Halt regretted his deception, feeling a slight pang of guilt. Horace was, after all, totally trusting and it was so easy to tease him like this. Then the Ranger looked at those clear blue eyes and the contented, honest face of the warrior apprentice and any sense of regret was stifled. Horace had plenty of time to learn about the seamier side of life, he thought. He could retain his innocence for a little while longer.
They left La Rivage by its northern gate and headed into the farm country surrounding it. Horace's curiosity remained as strong as ever, and he peered from side to side as the road took them past fields and crops and farmhouses. The countryside was different from Araluen.
There were more varieties of trees and, as a result, there were more shades of green. Some of the crops were unfamiliar too: large, broad leaves on stalks that stood as high as a man's head were left to dry and seemingly to wither on the stalk before they were gathered. In several places, Horace saw those same leaves hanging in large, open-ended sheds, drying out even more. He wondered what sort of crop it might be. But, as before, he decided to ration his questions.
There was another difference, more subtle. For some time, Horace wasn't even aware that it was there at all. Then he realized what it was. There was a general air of unkemptness about the fields and the crops. They were tended, obviously, and some of the fields were plowed. But they seemed to lack the loving, fastidious care that one saw in fields and crops at home. One could sense a lack of attention from the farmers, and in some crops weeds were clearly visible.
Halt sighed. "It's the land that suffers when men fight," he said softly. Horace glanced at him. It was unusual for the grizzled Ranger to break the silence himself.
"Who's fighting?" he asked, his interest piqued.
Halt scratched at his beard. "The Gallicans. There's no strong central law here. There are dozens of minor nobles and barons-warlords if you like. They're constantly raiding each other and fighting among themselves. That's why the fields are so sloppily tended. Half the farmers have been conscripted to one army or another."
Horace looked around the fields that bounded the road on either side. There was no sign of battle here. Only neglect. A thought struck him.
"Is that why people seemed a little:nervous of us?" he asked, and Halt nodded approvingly at him.
"You picked up on that, did you? Good boy. There may be hope for you yet. Yes," he continued, answering Horace's question, "armed and mounted men in this country are seen as a potential threat-not as peacekeepers."
In Araluen, the farmworkers looked to the soldiers to protect them and their fields from the threat of potential invaders. Here, Horace realized, the soldiers themselves were the threat.
"The country is in absolute turmoil," Halt continued. "King Henri is weak and has no real power. So the barons fight and squabble and kill each other. Mind you, that's no great loss. But it gets damned unfair when they kill the poor innocent farm folk as well-simply because they get in the way. It could be something of a problem for us, but we'll just have to:oh, damn."
The last two words were said quietly, but were no less heart-felt for that fact. Horace, following Halt's gaze, looked ahead along the road.
They were coming down a small hill, with the road bounded on either side by close-growing trees. At the foot of the hill, a small stream ran through the fields and between the trees, crossed by a stone bridge. It was a peaceful scene, normal enough, and quite pretty in its own way.
But it wasn't the trees, or the bridge, or the stream that had drawn the quiet expletive from Halt's lips. It was the armored, mounted warrior who sat his horse in the middle of the road, barring their way.
13
E VANLYN FELT W ILL'S LIGHT TOUCH ON HER SHOULDER. S HE gave a small start of surprise. Even though she had been lying awake, she hadn't heard him approaching.
"It's all right," she said quietly. "I'm awake."
"The moon's down," Will replied, equally softly. "It's time to go."
She tossed back the blankets and sat up. She was fully dressed, apart from her boots. She reached for them and began to pull them on.
Will handed her a bundle of rags he had cut from his blanket.
"Tie these around your feet," he told her. "They'll muffle the sound on the shingle." She saw that he had swathed his own feet in large bundles of cloth and she hurried to do the same.
Through the thin wall between the lean-to and the dormitory, they could hear the sound of men snoring and muttering in their sleep. One of the Skandians broke out in a fit of coughing and Will and Evanlyn froze, waiting to see if he had woken anyone. After a few minutes, the dormitory settled down again. Evanlyn finished tying the cloth bundles around her feet and stood, following Will to the door.
He had greased the hinges on the lean-to door with fat from the cooking pot. Holding his breath, he eased the door open, letting go a sigh of relief when it swung silently. With no moon, the beach was a dark expanse and the water a black sheet, dimly reflecting the starlight. The weather had been moderating over the past few days. The night was clear and the wind had dropped considerably. But they could still hear the dull thunder of waves crashing against the outer face of the island.
Evanlyn could just make out the dark bulk of the two wolfships drawn up on the beach. To one side was a smaller shape: the skiff, left there by Svengal after his latest fishing trip. That was where they were heading.
Patiently, Will pointed out the route he had selected. They had gone over it all earlier in the night, but he wanted to make sure she remembered. Unseen movement was almost second nature to him, but he knew that Evanlyn would be nervous once she was in the open. She would want to reach the ships quickly.
And speed meant noise and a greater chance of being heard or seen.
He put his mouth very close to her ear and spoke in the lightest of whispers.
"Take it easy. The benches first. Then the rocks. Then the ships.
Wait for me there."
She nodded. He could see her swallowing nervously and he sensed that her breathing was speeding up. He squeezed her shoulder gently.
"Calm down. And remember, if anyone does come out, freeze.
Wherever you are."
That was the key to it all in uncertain light like this. A watcher might miss seeing a person standing perfectly still. But the slightest movement would draw the eye instantly.
Again, she nodded. He patted her shoulder gently.
"Off you go," he said. She took another deep breath, then stepped out into the open. She felt horribly exposed as she moved toward the shelter of the benches and the table, ten meters away from the huts.