Stepping out of the pigsty into the yard was a bit like jumping into water without knowing how deep it is. He wasn't sure he could have done it, if he'd cared about staying alive. As it was, he felt his stomach muscles tighten into a knot as painful as his cramped leg. He wished he knew what the plan was, assuming there was one.
They were heading for the stables-the original block, not the new ones the Mezentines had built. It occurred to him that, since Daurenja hadn't known about him, he couldn't have provided a horse for him to ride. Was he supposed to run alongside them, like a dog, or were they proposing to turn him loose at the courtyard gate and leave him to fend for himself? If it hadn't been for the two dead guards, he'd have stopped by the mounting block and waited for the Mezentines to find him and take him back to the pigsty. He thought about them again, and about the two scavengers he'd killed with the hunting sword, when he escaped from their camp; and, for good measure, about the desperate flight of Ziani Vaatzes, who'd also killed two men in order to get out of prison.
Daurenja had stopped. A moment later, someone started to say something, but didn't get far enough for Miel to make out what he was saying. He saw Daurenja move; he seemed to have pulled a black shape out of the shadows, a man, and they were fighting. No, that was overstating the case. Daurenja had caught hold of him round the neck and was forcing him down on his knees, smoothly and effortlessly, like a man wrestling with a child. It was a remarkable display of physical strength, and Miel wished he could admire it. Daurenja's opponent must have done something to loosen that appalling grip on his neck; he wriggled and got loose for a moment. Then Miel saw Daurenja's arm outlined against the dark blue sky. It curled round the side of the man's head; it was like watching twenty years' growth of ivy in less than a second. Then there was a loud, sharp crack; the shape in Daurenja's embrace jerked and wriggled for a very short moment and was let fall, flopping on the ground like grain from a split sack.
Miel had seen so many men killed in his life-some by others, some by himself-that the sight had gradually lost its meaning, to the extent that he could no longer remember the first one he'd seen, though he'd been sure at the time he'd see it in his mind every time he shut his eyes for the rest of his life. Now it was just a process, like threshing wheat or dressing game. But the sound-a crack like a thick dry branch breaking, carrying implications of such a terrible strength exerted with such purpose-shocked him so much that he felt his guts spasm; he'd have been sick if the Mezentines had bothered to feed him, but his stomach was empty. Instead, he felt acid fluxing in his throat and into his mouth, so that he nearly choked. He couldn't have moved if someone (not Daurenja, obviously; not Framain) hadn't grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged him so hard he overbalanced, and had to take a step forward to keep from falling. Once he was moving, he kept going, except that he shied like a horse when his toe thudded into a soft heap on the ground, and he had to be dragged again, standing on something that yielded at first to his weight and then resisted; springy, like green branches, or ribs. 'What's the matter with you?' her voice hissed accusingly in the darkness. Fortunately, he could safely assume she didn't want a reply.
Daurenja was pulling the stable door open. There was light inside; it gushed out and stained the yard yellow for a moment, so Miel could see a tall, thin man who must be Daurenja slipping inside. A muffled voice, cut off short, as Framain followed him in.
Three horses stood saddled and bridled, feeding placidly from a long manger of barley and oats. They didn't seem bothered about the man's body slumped on the ground in front of them, like a drunk's clothes on the floor. In the pale lamplight, Miel could see a bizarre creature, long and thin and bony, more of an insect than a man apart from the absurd pony tail of black hair dangling down his back. He was in the act of lifting a saddle off its peg.
'Bridle,' he said, and Miel realized he was being spoken to. 'There, look. You do know how to bridle a horse, don't you?'
Strange voice; educated, you'd begin to say it was cultured but then think better of it. Hardly the voice you'd expect to hear from the long, thin insect. Hardly the voice of the man who'd just killed four strangers with his bare hands for the crime of getting in the way. Miel looked round for the bridle, and saw her holding it, looping the reins over her forearm. Daurenja had lowered the saddle onto the back of a nondescript bay gelding. In the middle of a desperate and bloody escape, for some reason they were stopping to tack up a horse.
For me, Miel realized. But I don't want help from the likes of him…
The horse lifted its head to avoid the bridle; he saw Daurenja's arm snake out, just like the last time, and for a moment he firmly expected to see the horse strangled. Instead, Daurenja took the bridle and gently eased the bit into the horse's mouth. As soon as he touched it, the horse became completely calm and lowered its head to the optimum height for fitting a bridle. Miel had seen grooms who could do that. A rare gift, apparently, vouchsafed to only a few.
Daurenja was handing him the reins. He took them and watched the other three mount up. Daurenja mounted like water poured from a bottle, seen in reverse. It was, Miel couldn't help thinking, the way you'd imagine the hero of the story would do it-assured, graceful, quick, and once he was mounted he seemed to merge with the horse, controlling it with the same thoughtless ease you use when moving your own leg or arm. He'd be the perfect hero, if only he wasn't a monster.
'Come on,' she said, as if chiding him for using up all the hot water. He grabbed the reins and the cantle of the saddle, and made a complete botch of mounting, losing both stirrups and flopping forward onto the horse's neck.
Back in the yard again; there were men with lanterns; somebody shouted at them as they rode past. Miel's horse broke into a canter before he was ready, and the saddle hammered the base of his spine. Twenty years of riding; he couldn't remember what to do. It was just as well that the horse was inclined to follow the tail in front.
Only a complete idiot or a hero gallops in the dark. After a few strides, Miel lost his nerve completely. Instead of standing to the pace, he sat and flumped painfully, gripping the pommel of the saddle like a scared child. Escaping from the Mezentines was washed completely from his mind. All he could think was, I'm going to fall off, help. He could feel the horse extending its stride to keep up. All the fear he'd so skillfully reasoned away in the pigsty flooded back, drowning his mind. He was going to be killed, and he didn't want to be.
How long the ride lasted he had no idea, but after a lifetime the gallop decayed into a trot, then a walk; they were climbing, but he had no strength left in his knees or back to lean forward. He heard the horse wheeze, and apologized to it under his breath. Every movement it made jarred his pulled muscles. He just wanted the journey to end; a little pain was all it took, apparently, to shake him out of his high-minded resolve. Not even proper torture; discomfort. He was pathetic.
The first smear of lighter blue in the sky took him by surprise. It must've got there while his attention was distracted. Daylight, though; they'd have to stop when the sun came up. Hunted fugitives lay up during the day to avoid being seen, it was the rule.
They didn't stop. The sun came up, a red mess on the horizon. They were climbing a heather-covered moor, pimpled with white stones about the size you'd use for wall-building. The outline of Sharra directly behind him told him all he needed to know about where he was. In the middle of nowhere, precision is a waste of effort.
'We'll stop here.' Daurenja's voice, so unexpected as to be arbitrary. Actually, the choice was good. They were high enough up to have a good view all round, but hidden by a little saucer of dead ground under the top of the ridge. With the bulk of the rise behind them, they could sneak out unobtrusively as soon as they saw pursuers approaching, and the direction of their escape would be masked by the gradient. Clever, resourceful Daurenja; a proper old-fashioned sort of hero, not like the tortured, ineffective types you got in all the modern romances.
'Get off,' he went on, 'we'll rest the horses for an hour.'
Miel realized he'd forgotten how to get off a horse. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and tried swinging his leg over the animal's back. He must have done something wrong, because he slithered and ended up breaking his fall with his kneecap.
'Would somebody mind telling me who the hell that is?' Daurenja said.
'He's nobody.' Her voice. 'You bastard.'
'Don't start,' Daurenja snapped. 'This really isn't the time.'
Miel lifted his head, mostly to see if Daurenja looked as weird in daylight as he had under the lamp. He saw him facing her, a let's-all-be-reasonable look on his extraordinary face. Behind him, Framain was coming up slowly; the exaggerated strides of someone who's not used to it trying to move without making a noise. He had a rock in his hands.
'How dare you…' she was saying; then she caught sight of her father. There was a split second before she realized she had to keep Daurenja's attention distracted; he must have picked up on it, because he swung round,
