Bar-Woten twisted around and threw a needle stare at the trader. The man squirmed like a pinned insect, then started to back off. The crowd moved in a step at a time, grumbling and milling about.
"Knife," Bar-Woten said. Barthel quickly passed a blade under cover of their cloaks. He pressed another into Kiril's hand. "If we don't have a chance, save your skin. But go on your own," the Ibisian said. "It's your only chance, penitent."
"Is that too high a price for an Ibisian?" the trader asked contemptuously. "For a butcher?"
"For any sensible man," Bar-Woten answered, approaching him with a long stride. "Perhaps you'll lower your price with some persuasion?" The trader backed away farther. He looked at the market crowd with darting eyes and held out his hands to them—attack, now! But they did nothing, still advancing slowly.
"Hup!" Bar-Woten shouted. Barthel rushed forward and pushed the trader aside. Kiril followed at his heels. The crowd leaped as one and Bar-Woten swung his curved knife wickedly this way and that, making them flex like a sheet in the wind. Then he ran backward with comic agility, turned at the last moment, and swung onto a horse Barthel had secured for him. Kiril, unaccustomed to his own mount, had trouble controlling the animal's bucking and rearing, but was keeping the mob back. Barthel reached for the Mediwevan's reins and pulled him after as Bar-Woten cut a path through the market. The crowd screamed and grabbed at ankles, stirrups, whatever they could reach. For their efforts they were kicked and cuffed and thrust aside by the running horses. The three broke from the marketplace and rode up an alley, stopping briefly to reconnoiter.
"Which way?" Kiril asked, out of breath and red-faced with exertion.
"The east gate to the left. Farmlands and a road to the forests. The best way," Bar-Woten said. He urged his horse forward and the others followed. Behind them the market crowd surged up the alley.
There were no troops between them and the gate. In the misty morning light, bright and uniformly gray, they rode up the cobbled streets with forced equanimity. The horses pitched their heads and frothed at the bits, unaccustomed to their new riders and uncertain of the adventure.
Barthel's animal laid its ears back and tried to bite him several times. On the last attempt, just before they passed under the great stone arch, Barthel leaned forward and took an ear between his teeth. The animal bucked and kicked out, narrowly missing an old woman wobbling by in her black robes. But Barthel held on, and the horse decided to be calm.
"Farewell to Madreghb," Bar-Woten said as they rode under the gate. Kiril looked uncomfortable. Barthel surveyed the green country beyond with dark-eyed nonchalance.
"Does the Bey know where he wants to go?" he asked.
"North. We'll cross the border into Mundus Lucifa as soon as we can. Sulay's met his end, and ours will be close behind if we don't move quickly."
"Your army generated a lot of good will," Kiril said.
"Keep on your horse and watch your mouth when you're an outlaw. Honor among thieves is a virtue seldom observed—be glad I'm not often a thief and no longer an Ibisian."
"And I no longer have God on my side."
"Your journey is a noble one, penitent. You're off to save your love. We ride hard for an hour or so—hang on!"
The land outside the scattered and crumbling walls of Madreghb was fresh and fertile with spring rains. Almond trees blossomed yellow in groves on either side, and olive orchards hunkered gray-green in aging shadow. The road was a reddish-brown gash infrequently paved with flagstones and littered with ruts and puddles. Their horses splashed through at a dead run. The flanks of both mounts and riders were soon sticky with mud. Kiril bounced and growled at growing blisters. "Ride loosely, ride with the horse," Bar-Woten shouted at him, but he continued to wrap his feet under the horse's belly and soon had welts on his calves, thighs, and buttocks.
He sighed aloud when they stopped at a tumbledown farmhouse to examine a well. "My God, adventure!" Kiril rasped. "I might ask to die after another hour of that." His vision swam and he wanted to vomit.
"You'll get used to it," Barthel told him.
"You were whipping yourself only three days ago," Bar-Woten reminded him. "Which punishment do you prefer?"
The well was full, but the water was brackish. Still, it was drinkable, and they watered their horses, watching carefully that they didn't bloat themselves. Bar-Woten inspected his horse. It was a dapple roan, very different from any he'd ridden in his army. He made sure the shoeing was holding up. The smithy work was rugged and durable, and no stones had worked into the hooves. He did the same for the other mounts and pronounced them fit. "Ready?" he asked.
This time they rode at an even pace. The smell of damp leather and warm horse rose to cheer Bar-Woten and made Barthel feel at home, but Kiril wrinkled his nose. By midafternoon, the Mediwevan was weary but only a little nauseated. His back was still slightly infected. They found a stand of oaks and settled in for a prolonged rest.
Across the valley, no more than three or four kilometers away, a village rested in the late afternoon twilight. The white walls and red brick roads stood out in the dimming golden light like the bones and meat of a freshly slaughtered steer. Bar-Woten watched it with narrowed eyes. Barthel napped, and Kiril lay on his stomach in the grass and loam, breathing fitfully.
He struggled awake an hour later and stretched painfully, pulling at the lash stripes across his shoulders. "I wish I hadn't been so thorough," he said. Bar-Woten smoked beside the small fire. Darkness was complete. The Ibisian's face glowed in the firelight, and the reflection of the pipe coals was a bead of red on his nose. "I wish I knew what I was doing here," Kiril said, "with a savage like yourself and a pagan."
"You gave up one life," Bar-Woten mused. "Not so difficult to give up another, especially one with no rewards."
"I'm a coward, I think," Kiril said. "I haven't had the conviction to stay with any sort of life."
Bar-Woten gave a noncommittal nod and put out his pipe, pointing the stem at the village after grinding the ashes into the ground. "We'll pick up supplies there. We have a long trip ahead—several hundred kilometers, maybe, before we leave Mediweva."
"Less than that," Kiril said. "What happened in Madreghb? You have any idea?"
"Sulay probably let his guard down. He was getting too old to be vigilant all the time. No doubt he was the last to die, though I think I see him … how he died. Not bravely. The way we led our lives, few of us will die bravely now."
"You … think of yourself as a savage?"
"Of course," Bar-Woten said. "Twenty years of March and battle. How could I be anything but a savage? I haven't married a fine woman or fathered good children, and my religion departed years ago at my own hand. I've killed men brutally. And you're an ass to travel with me." He grinned.
"Probably," Kiril admitted.
Barthel woke quickly and doused the embers with urine. They gathered the horses at their tethers near a small, grassy glade and rode into the village under cover of darkness.
"Did you enjoy being a scrittori?" Bar-Woten asked. Kiril nodded and said it had been the finest time of his life.
"Did you ever wish to verify what you read?"
"No. What's written on the Obelisk is taken for truth. Why else would God have gone to so much trouble?"
"Sh," Barthel hushed. A group of men leading donkeys passed them on the road, briefly flashing a lantern. No words passed between.
Most of the village was shuttered and quiet for the night. A few shops were open still, but the hungry and sleepy owners were grumpy at any customers. They bought food and two small pistols.
Bar-Woten decided it wasn't wise to spend the night in the village. He could almost smell the pursuers.
"When people want you dead, you always assume the worst," he said. Kiril drew his horse closer to the center of the road as they left the town. Barthel stopped, and his mount pawed the ground impatiently. Bar-Woten turned to the Khemite and also reined in his horse. In the dark, with only a few dim fire doves
to light the landscape, he could barely see the road, and he couldn't tell what Barthel was thinking.
"Does the Bey wish me to follow, or does he wish me to go alone?"
"You are free to choose."
"I'm not used to that."
"You're free to come with us if you want."
"I'm no longer your servant?"
"You haven't been for a day or so, maybe longer."
"I would like to go with you then."
"Good."
Barthel brought his horse up even with theirs, and they marched abreast in the dark.
Bar-Woten was the next to call a halt. He perked his head up and listened intently. "Engines," he said. Kiril could hear nothing but insects humming. Barthel kept silent, knowing Bar-Woten's senses were sharper than his own.
"They're about a kilometer back, near the village. Steam buggies. And I think horses, too. We'll have to ride hard to reach the next hills before them." He spurred his horse, and the group galloped off. Kiril groaned aloud with each lurch. They reached the hills and heard the clear hiss-chug of a steam buggy just as lights appeared on the road behind them. Shadows of horses prancing across the light-beams gave Bar-Woten a rough idea how many were following them. It was a large group, maybe twenty men. He looked around desperately and saw a ravine angling away from the road, not too deep to climb out of, but deep enough to hide them if the horses could be kept quiet. It pointed to a dense copse of trees where they'd have a better chance in a fight.
"Your horse," he called back to Kiril. "To keep it quiet, pull both its ears back gently and tug with every sound it makes—but not too hard!" They left the road and slid into the ravine one by one, rocks and clods rattling behind. The soft sandy bottom muffled the pounding hooves. Water splashed and clouds of insects rose to feather them and cling.
Trees grew above the ravine after a hundred meters of winding run. Bar-Woten found the way ahead blocked, brought his horse up short, and urged it to clamber up the side of the ravine into the copse. It hesitated and reeled but finally dug its hooves into the soft dirt and hauled itself up the slope. Barthel and Kiril followed. A bag of supplies dropped from Kiril's horse, and he turned instinctively to retrieve it. "No!" Barthel stage-whispered. "Leave it!"
Already the chugging and clop of hooves was clearly audible. The pursuers were no more than a hundred meters from where the ravine began. The buggy wouldn't be able to follow, but the horses could give them a dangerous chase.
Branches whipped by as they plunged through the trees. Bar-Woten held up his hand to push them aside and gritted his teeth at the sting. A stem slapped Kiril across the mouth, and he felt blood on his lips, but he didn't dare stop. "This is mad," he whispered to himself, licking his lips.
Barthel's horse seemed to lose its footing. It teetered, whinnied sharply, and vanished like a ghost. Kiril shouted for Bar-Woten to stop and pulled his horse around to go back. "Hey!" he called in a harsh whisper. "Hey! What's happened?"
He couldn't see anything. The fire doves were nearly down now. It would be a few minutes before other bright ones rose to replace them. He heard the shouts of approaching men and the distant chatter and rumble of the idling steam buggy. But Barthel was not to be seen or heard. Kiril cursed Bar-Woten. He ground his teeth and slapped his horse's flank in frustration. The animal jumped, then stood its ground shivering and champing on its bit. "He's ridden away, damn him!"
The forest was now completely dark. Lanterns gleamed from the road, and some bobbed closer, carried by men on horseback. A bright spot came on at the back of the steam buggy, and a whining generator matched the chug, chug, hiss. The light scoured the forest, formed a blinding band on a tree over Kiril's head, passed by, then circled back on the ground. He moved his horse to one side. The upper arc of the circle passed within inches of the horse's hooves. He didn't dare speak or call out names, so he guided his horse between two oaks and dismounted. Should he grab the animal's ears to keep it quiet? He decided not to. He patted its neck and whispered to it, not audible above the wind in the trees. He held his hand up and moved his fingers to see what he could detect—nothing. The pitchy woods were full of odd sounds now that he was blind—sighs of tree limbs, leaves rustling, water groaning over rocks someplace near.
He couldn't see the lanterns from behind the tree, but he could see their backwash. He heard the voices plainly.
"Tracks! Dirt gouged up here."
"Yes, but which way? Did they double back?"
"How many are there?"
"Too many! Damned Ibisians would sooner cut a throat than eat dinner."
"Many would say one leads to the other."
"Quiet! What's that?"
Kiril listened and tried to stop his own breathing. His horse was cooperating and he felt a great affection for it. Wonderful beast!
"Nothing. Leaves."
"Don't be too sure, dammit."
"Where's Reynot?"
"He was behind me."
"Reynot, Reynot!"
"Quiet!"
The lamps came into Kiril's line of sight, and he ducked closer to the trunk. There was nothing he could do about the horse. He could see their beams dodging back and forth steadily. One lamp fell and winked out. It didn't reappear. There was little sound now but the nickering of the animals.
"Where is Hispan?" The voice creaked with fear. Somewhere a bird twittered. Again the searchlight passed through the woods. It swept over someone hugging a tree like a lizard.
Who? Kiril couldn't tell. He began to tremble uncontrollably, and sweat stung his eyes. His teeth chattered and he bit his thumb to quiet them.
"We're losing ourselves here. Back off—is that a horse?"
Kiril jumped.
"It's Reynot's horse. Somebody got him!"
"Get together in a circle until the next fire dove rises. Quickly!"
"Hispan is gone. What's that?"
"Where?"
Kiril decided the best thing would be to leave. But which way? Away from the road he might run into what had swallowed Barthel. He had no judgment for distances at all. But he decided leading his horse out would be better than waiting for the next light. He tugged at the reins and urged the animal to follow. "Not a sound!" his lips said.
His feet felt their way in the dark with tiny crunches. His back prickled—at any moment he expected a light and a bullet. But they were still talking among themselves, about twenty meters back. A dim twinkle was starting to the north—another fire dove was rising, a bright one.
"Quiet—and step this way!" he heard Barthel say. "To your left."
They were waiting for him behind a thrust of granite. Bar-Woten had a green-smeared face and was smiling like the Lotus Contemplative, without showing his teeth. They were barely visible in the dark, standing next to a streak of phosphorescent fungus.
"I've found the way out," Bar-Woten said. "Due north. No troops surrounding the forest, no one to block our way."
Kiril said he felt ashamed the soldiers of Mediweva were so incompetent. Bar-Woten laughed softly and guided him by the shoulder to a narrow natural path.
"Where did Barthel go? I saw him drop," Kiril said.
"Into a ditch," Barthel said. "Tumbled me about, put the horse on its back and spilled the supplies. But I gathered them up, pulled the horse to its side and kept it quiet until I could hear what was going on. The Bey came to tell me all was clear but to be quiet."
"Orders still stand," Bar-Woten said.
They left the forest in a few minutes and rode across fields of wild oats. When morning caught them they were riding hard for the north and the borders of Mundus Lucifa.
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Four
The countryside of Mediweva was slowly changing its character. Lowlands and plains gave way to high, craggy peaks and green river courses. Forests became thinner and scrubby; green turned sere. The air grew cool. And still they were pursued.
The parties trailing them had given up steam vehicles. Now the chase was mounted and on
foot. Bar-Woten figured it wouldn't end with the border of Mundus Lucifa, either—Ibisians, rumored or otherwise, were not popular in any land. So he stripped off all signs of his past twenty years and gathered together the accouterments of a mountain traveler—animal-skin clothes from the game they shot, rough bark fabric sewn together with the fibers of spear-tipped succulents, a collection of furs over his shoulder. Barthel put aside his Ibisian clothes and went nearly naked like an aborigine from Pashkesh—a role he could mimic well enough by simply down-grading his Arbuck tongue to grunts and slides. Kiril remained a penitent and replaced his cat with the remnants of a hide Bar-Woten had tossed aside.
The trio moved rapidly and efficiently, never so fast as to wear their horses down. They were in generally unpopulated countryside. Replacing good mounts would be difficult.
Because they frequently took cuts across rivers and over fields of smoothed rock and sand, they threw off their searchers for hours at a stretch, and thus moved faster. The border of Mundus Lucifa grew close—a hundred kilometers, fifty, ten. Then they crossed it—a low barbed wire strand posted with wood and stone markers.
As they prepared to stop and hide for the night, Barthel's horse went lame. He examined the beast's foreleg and found a splintered river stone had wedged into the hoof, splitting it to the quick. Left alone, the beast could hobble about and feed off the grassland well enough—but it couldn't be ridden. And it wouldn't be able to move fast enough to keep up with them.
Their supplies were low. There was little to transfer from horse to horse. They buried the saddle in a wadi as the sky was graying. Rain would fall before darkness came—and the wadi would fill with water, likely to cover their traces.
They found a pile of rocks firmly mounted against the floods and higher than the water was likely to rise. After checking it out for vermin, they rigged a hidden shelter and rested, waiting for the storm to break.
The front of rain hit with the impact of a spilled bucket. Rivers grew in minutes, carried away whole landscapes as mud and scum, and rushed into the wadi. The search party below faced serious danger of drowning unless they could find high ground and wait out the storm.