"Water weed," he said, the soft voice neutral rather than wry this time. That only made it worse, even more like Ieskar’s. "I am sure there is a reason for that." He gave up on his hair and took up the second bowl in a hand which shook, his every action exuding a fragile dignity.
"Horse trough," Medair explained, and found herself abruptly amused. Already she could see that the man was used to command and comfort both. Most adepts were, and this one – there were surely few people who could manage to be at so bedraggled a disadvantage and still appear in charge of his situation. Those grey eyes flashed up to meet hers, then he returned his attention to eating, apparently requiring all his concentration to not drop the bowl. The bruise she had given him stood out shockingly against that white skin.
A part of her wanted to fling out of the room again, to get away, to not have to deal with this at all. But the geas removed running away from her choices. Trying to force herself out of her sullen temper, Medair finished her own bowl while he was still only halfway through his. She had only once been spell shocked, and had been among friends while she recovered. That weakling helplessness would be hard to bear for an Ibisian adept, especially when health and safety depended on a total stranger who had no reason to be kind about things like dropped bowls of stew or the necessity of relieving neglected bladders. She was almost as glad as he must have been that she’d slept while he attended the chamber pot.
And he would only have had a few disjointed moments of consciousness since the fire. Waking to be fed and to geas her, and next on the road when she’d hit him. Now here. She wondered if he was surprised to still be alive.
Two men from the stables had been given the job of carrying him down, and she was relieved to see them before the Ibisian had quite finished his meal. She hardly felt inclined to small talk. The stablemen were no more enthusiastic and made little concession to Ibisian dignity as they got him to his horse. All that loosely braided hair swung as he struggled to remain in the saddle, and his face was particularly expressionless. Not at all used to being heaved about like a sack of rotted potatoes, or being unable to fend for himself. She kept a sharp eye on him as they rode out of the town, wondering how long it would be before he fell off.
"Ebbsy," he said, correctly identifying the town as they left it. It hadn’t been a question, so she didn’t bother to reply, only just controlling her reaction to that damnable voice. "We will need to press hard to reach Thrence today," he added.
Medair slowed her dun and looked at him. Grey eyes swung to meet hers and she noted that he was ready for an argument. And here she had been wondering how far she dared press him for speed, her mind on five men in leather.
"We’ll get there well after dark on these nags," she replied, rigidly keeping an indifferent note in her own voice. "Would you like me to tie you to your saddle now, or after you’ve been flung into the mud a few times?"
Lashes momentarily veiled the pale eyes, then he smiled, throwing her completely off balance. She’d never seen Ieskar smile. The Kier’s voice had changed inflection at times, but his face had been a stone mask which she had thought might crack rather than alter in any way. This man’s slight, very natural smile was like waking up to a lime-green sky.
"Now," he said, in that unfortunate soft voice.
He was not Ieskar. Medair told herself that over and over again as she obediently stopped and, much to the interest of a passing farmer, tied the Ibisian’s legs firmly in place. Accepting his statement that this was all which was needed, she took the reins of the grey, lengthened them and tied them to her own saddle. Then she looked up at him, feeling a pang of conscience. He was a White Snake, and he had geased her, and there were the Decians to worry about, but–
"Isn’t two days to Thrence better than pushing yourself to the point where you might be bedridden for days?"
He studied her. Definitely used to command. Even though she was long-practiced at shrugging off that Ibisian air of superiority, she suddenly felt like an errant serving-maid who had asked her emperor why he had directed his last war so badly. She would wager her satchel that this man wore tiger’s eye.
"I knew complete obedience without question was too good to be true," he said. The tone was perfectly grave, and Medair tried to decide if he was truly that arrogant, or if the White Snake was actually making a joke.
"Very unlikely, at least," she replied. "Though trying to interrogate someone when I’ve a geas-inspired headache would make me snappish, at the least."
"A necessary evil," he said, without any hint of apology. "I do not have time to be established in any villages. As for today – I have people I hope to catch in Thrence. They were meant to leave there this morning, if I did not communicate with them, but I suspect that they will have lingered. They, too, have their problems with unquestioning obedience." He paused. "It will be a bad day for me, yes. I might not be particularly lucid by nightfall. If I am not, go to an inn called the Caraway Seed, which is near the centre of Thrence. Ask for Jedda las Theomain and tell her the nest was robbed. Repeat that back to me."
"Caraway Seed, Jedda las Theomain, nest was robbed," Medair repeated impatiently. She eyed him without favour. "There were Kyledran guards among the others. Could you be recognised and linked to whatever all that death was about?" She, too, could be sparing with the information she chose to give. So he thought someone else had made off with the rahlstones, did he? Well, they could bide a time in her satchel.
He started to shake his head, and stopped, holding himself still. The refusal to wince was typically Ibisian.
"There is no reason I would be connected with what happened in the forest," he said, subdued, she diagnosed, by a spinning headache. "But I could well be recognised and my condition would give rise to a good deal of unhealthy speculation. It cannot be helped."
Medair made a noise in her throat, then turned away. It was pointless questioning him. White Snakes never told you more than they wanted you to know.
"We’ll buy you a hooded cloak somewhere," she said as she climbed back into the saddle. She didn’t know who this man might be, how many might be chasing him, her, or the rahlstones, let alone what she could do to prevent the Decians from catching up to her. Her bag of tricks, unfortunately, did not contain anything to foil a trace spell. Well, that she knew. There was a great deal she’d left untouched, but now was not the moment to experiment.
Digging her heels into her mount’s sides, Medair set them off at a slow canter towards the city which had risen from the ashes of her birthplace.
Medair’s headache vanished as soon as they started out, but she was soon thoroughly sick of the chafing saddle. Her charge was unconscious by mid-afternoon and caused considerable interest among passers-by, even after she’d covered him with a hooded cloak. And the gates had been closed for the night long before they reached Thrence.
Banging on heavy wood only produced an exhortation to come back in the morning. Centuries ago, Medair would have called back: "Open in the name of the Emperor!" and the gatekeeper would have seen her Herald’s garb and hastily let her in, but she now resorted to a small bribe to crack the gate. Money was an authority never overthrown, and she was glad to own it on arriving at The Caraway Seed, which proved to be a very large inn in the wealthiest section of town. When she rode into the well-lit yard, the stares of the ostler and attendant stable boys immediately made her aware of her much-neglected appearance. Not to mention the clod-hopping animal she was riding. She acted as if she hadn’t noticed, sliding off the dun and handing the reins to the nearest stable boy.