But I forced myself not to rush, to do it all properly, no matter how tired, or how much I felt like I might be sacrificing crucial minutes of my own sleep. I’d heard the Syldoon talk about the importance of horse care enough to realize that if I skimped, even a little, I increased the chances of my mount coming up lame or sick, and therefore my own chances to lose my mount and to be left behind.
When I was finally finished, I didn’t ask Braylar if I could use the interior of the wagon for sleep-that might have played in the Green Sea, when it had just been the two of us and very occasionally Lloi, but no one was sleeping in there now, and I knew it would appear presumptuous, weak, or both to ask for special accommodations. The Syldoon who had been with the wagons took watch. I unrolled my bedroll, set my crossbow next to me on the grass, with the quiver in easy reach, and pulled a blanket up to my chin, curling my body in a ball to ward off the chill.
Even though I was cold, sore, exhausted, hungry, and uncomfortable on the unforgiving ground, I still fell into inky slumber before I had a chance to tally a single one of those complaints.
I was shaken awake and it felt like I’d only just closed my eyes, despite the sun having risen for quite some time, judging by its height. Vendurro looked down at me, big toothy smile on his face. “Climb the ladder and empty the bladder, Arki! Time to move.”
Sitting up, I wished I had another half day to sleep. Everywhere around me, men were moving, armored and saddling up. I would have been more amazed I’d been able to sleep through all the activity at all if I hadn’t spent most of the night riding away from an enemy who might catch up to us at any time. The Syldoon always seemed to have one enemy or another chasing us.
Vendurro handed me a flask. “Cap says you’re to ride with him, you lucky bastard. Got your horses tethered to that wagon already.”
I accepted the flask and he offered me his arm, which I took as well, clasping his forearm as he clasped mine, and he hauled me to my feet. After thanking him I took a swig. It was warm wine, and tasted of leather, but still a welcome change from brackish water. Vendurro slapped me on the back and almost made me piss myself as I walked off into the grass, looking over my shoulder to be sure neither of the women were nearby.
Done, I walked over to the lead wagon. Braylar was sitting on the seat already, in armor but without the helm, and alternating tugging on one leather glove and then the other. I reached up and held my hand there, and when he merely looked at it rather than helping me up, I wondered if riding in the wagon was so preferable after all.
Braylar said, “There are some nuts in a small sack, just behind the bench. Some dried meat of mysterious nature, though I’d recommend chewing it for an inordinate amount of time before attempting to swallow. It will transform into a horrible ball of meat-cud, but at least you won’t choke on it.”
He always had a way of making every meal with him seem so appealing. I settled onto the bench, looking at the road ahead of us, resisting the urge to look behind. But I couldn’t resist asking, “Has Benk reported anything from the rear?”
Captain Killcoin started the team of horses. “No. So you can be sure that when he does, you’ll hear about it the very moment I do. That is if you aren’t absorbed in writing or translating.” He turned in my direction, and gave a hitching smile. “Your writing table is just inside the wagon. I’m sure you two have missed each other. Once you have brought the record current,” he handed me the small key, “continue translating the documents. As hastily as you can manage while still being accurate, yes?”
I looked at him and he looked back to the road as he got the team of horses moving. “You didn’t think you were suddenly relieved of your obligations or duties, did you?”
“No, it’s just, what if we are attacked? Gurdinn is out there somewhere, and-”
“And if and when he catches us, I will give the order to put the pen away, yes? But we have a respite, however brief, so use it. The wily cleric is unlikely to voluntarily reveal much, but if you can uncover anything translating related to his order, and its association with the hedge witches, that would be more useful than you know.”
Even as tired as I was, almost to my bones, I felt a surge of energy. I was finally about to get back to the one thing that I had some talent at. And it wouldn’t involve any bloodshed whatsoever.
After settling in and retrieving my supplies, I opened the writing desk the captain had gifted me with and set my small knives and inks in front of me, glad to be wielding something that had little chance to kill or maim anyone. At least in my hands. I’m sure Mulldoos could find a way to sever or impale someone with every instrument I had, or to force someone to drink ink until dead. Shuddering at the thought, I tried not to think overmuch of death. Which of course was impossible, as I had to record quite a bit that had happened recently, much of it violent in the extreme.
When I was finished, it was time to turn my mind to something that was admittedly mundane and laborious, but which I still found riveting and fascinating. Sifting through all the onerous records and difficult passages with nothing more interesting than ledgers of grain purchased and sold, or an inventory of stock in a larder was tedious, but so long as it promised even the possibility of something evocative or useful, it was worth it.
I started in where I left off, forcing myself not to rush for fear of missing some vital snippet of information or a subtle reference buried in the text. While subsidy rolls and a catalogue of blazonry were unlikely to have anything worthy of excitement, there were poems that were difficult to decipher but might provide some obscure hint or connection to some layered truth. And even if not, there were some fabulous illuminated bestiaries that were a wonder, and there, I had to force myself not to dawdle.
After several hours, my eyes grew heavy, as most of the translation involved records of taxes some fieflord or other paid a bigger fieflord, hundreds of years ago, payments by bailiffs or reeves in some village that ceased to exist, the running record of construction costs and challenges for a castle or temple that took twenty-five years to complete, the revenue from a fishpond, a wonderfully illustrated calendar, contract and coroner’s rolls, customs and manifests, ancestral rolls and theological disputations, and every other possible document that might have been penned.
The wagon jumped and tilted as we rolled over rough, uneven ground, and I frequently had to reread passages again and again, having lost my place, and this also contributed to heavy eyelids.
We stopped and rested at midday, and progress was so slow I was reluctant to leave the covered wagon, especially since it had ceased moving. Vendurro brought me some stale oatcakes, a few wrinkled carrots, and some ale that tasted like yak piss (or what I imagined it tasted like, never having sampled it).
Much of the afternoon was the same. Aside from occasionally shifting to stretch my muscles and avoid cramping, I sat absorbed in my work, reading, puzzling over dense passages that didn’t avail themselves very easily, scratching my notes out on separate sheets of parchment, and translating well into the afternoon.
So, eyes weary, back sore, mouth dry, and dusk only a short time off, I was nearly ready to take a break when I opened an ancient book with a wooden cover that was embossed in peculiar copper designs, whorls within whorls. It was the personal account of a high priest of Truth. The initial passages weren’t especially intriguing, but there was something about it, a feeling I couldn’t shake, that if it didn’t contain something momentous, it would at least reveal something that Braylar was hoping to find. I couldn’t say precisely what it was, and as I slowly made my way through it, page after page, I began to think it was merely wishful thinking.