up out of the saturated ground at this time of year). The horse put its head down to drink, and he couldn't be bothered to pull it up. He quite fancied a drink himself, in fact he was desperate for one; but that would mean dismounting, and he knew that if he did that, he'd never be able to get back on the horse. The point was academic because he was going to die, but his stubborn streak had worn through onto the surface, like cheap silver plating on a copper dish. I shall die of thirst instead of hunger, he decided, and then all of you who betted on starvation will lose your money. Serves you right. Ghouls.
The horse was still noisily sucking up water. He pulled on the reins to drag its head up, but it jerked back, snatching them out of his hands. He swore, leaned forward to retrieve them, and felt himself slipping, forward and sideways, out of the saddle. He writhed, trying to pull himself back, but it was too late. He'd passed the balance point.
Hell of a stupid way to die, he thought, as he fell. It seemed to take him a very long time to travel the few feet, long enough for him to feel disgust at the ridiculously trivial way his life was ending, and then for the disgust to melt into amusement. If he fell in the water in his state, he probably wouldn't have the strength to swim. Drowning, now; nobody would've bet on that.
The water wasn't deep, but the pool bottom was spongy and soft. He tried to put his weight on his feet, but instead they sank down; he felt peat mud fill his boots, squidging between his toes. He was up to his waist before he stopped sinking. He laughed.
Would being swallowed up in a bog count as drowning, or was it something rarer and unlikelier still? Typical Ducas, got to be different from everyone else. Thorough, too. When the Ducas resolves to die, he's privileged to be provided with a redundancy of alternative causes. Surplus and excess in all things.
'Hold on, don't move.' It was a voice, faint on the edge of his awareness. 'No, you clown, I said don't move, you'll just go further in.' Move? Come to think of it, the voice was right. He was still trampling aimlessly up and down, and each thrashing kick dragged him further into the mud. But a voice…
'Now listen to me.' The voice was calm but urgent. He liked it. The voice of a good man. 'I'm going to throw you a rope, and I want you to grab hold of it and hang on. Can you hear me?'
'Yes,' Miel heard himself say. 'Where are you? I can't see you.'
'Directly behind you.' Ah, that'd account for it. Of course, he couldn't turn round to look. He felt something flop against his neck, looked down at his chest and saw the knotted end of a thin, scruffy hemp rope drooping over his shoulder like a scarf. 'Got it?'
Miel nodded. He carefully wrapped his right hand round the rope's end, so that the heel of his hand was jammed against the knot. He had no strength to hold on with, but he might be able to keep his hand gripped shut. As an afterthought he folded, his left hand round the rope as well.
'Good boy. Don't let go, for crying out loud.'
A second or two; nothing happened. Then the rope tried to pull away. He felt its fibers rasping into the soft skin of his neck. He was being hauled backward; he couldn't balance and his knees hinged. He was sure he was going to fall back, but remembered he couldn't. The rope jerked his hands up until his clenched fists bashed the underside of his chin. It was like being punched by a very strong man; he swayed, his eyes suddenly cloudy, nearly let go of the rope-would've let go, except that the knot was jammed against his hand. He could feel himself being gradually, unnaturally pulled, like a bad tooth being drawn. It didn't feel right at all. At the last moment, he tried to save his boots by curling his toes upwards, but he was wasting his time. His feet were yanked out of the boots like onions being uprooted. Now he fell; his backside and thighs were in the muddy water. He twisted round a half-turn, and a big stone gouged his hip painfully. He realized he was lying on his side on the grass. The rope's end was still gripped in his right hand; he'd let go with his left when the rope burned it.
Not drowning or smothering in mud, then. The thought crossed his mind, vivid and shocking as forked lightning, that maybe he wasn't going to die after all.
'It's all right,' the voice was saying, 'stay there, I'm coming.' Miel grinned for pure joy and, quite unexpectedly, sneezed. The whole thing reminded him, for some reason, of a time when he'd seen a calf being born, hauled out of its wretched mother's arse on the end of a rope. So maybe I did die after all, he thought; maybe I died, and was reborn. As a cow.
The rope was tugging at him again. 'Let go,' the voice said, 'it's all right.' Miel wondered about that, realized that the owner of the voice wanted his rope back. Well, indeed; what with the price of rope and everything, why not? He let go.
'Right, let's have a look at you.' He'd closed his eyes; he opened them, and saw a pair of boots. Old, fine quality, carefully waxed. He turned his head and looked up.
The voice's owner, his savior, was not quite as tall as his cousin Jarnac and not nearly as broad across the shoulders and chest. He was somewhere between forty and fifty years old, if the proportion of gray in his hair was anything to go by; his face was long, intelligent and somehow weak-looking. His hands were small and slender, and there was a big, shiny red scar running the length of his left forefinger; a civilian scar, Miel's instincts told him, rather than a military one. That came as something of a surprise. As well as the fine boots, he was wearing a short riding-coat (shiny and worn around the shoulders, suggesting that the man was in the habit of carrying heavy loads), breeches to match and long leather gaiters. The clothes could have come from Miel's own wardrobe. Correction; they were the sort of clothes he used to give to his grooms and his falconers, old but still perfectly good.
'I'm Tropea Framain,' the man said. 'Who're you?'
Miel hesitated before speaking. 'Thanks,' he said. 'You saved my life there.'
'I know. What did you say your name was?'
'I'm trying to get to Cotton Cross, but I lost my way. Do you think you could possibly…?'
'What?' Framain looked like he'd just remembered something important and obvious. 'Oh, right. When did you last have anything to eat and drink?'
Miel shrugged. 'Not sure.'
'That bad. It's all right,' Framain went on, 'my place isn't far. If I help you up, do you think you could stay on your horse for half an hour?'
Framain's own horse turned out to be a fine-looking bay mare. The other end of the miraculous rope was tied to its girth, which explained how Miel had been pulled from the bog. For some reason he felt painfully guilty about not telling Framain his name when asked to do so. It was a perfectly civil request, and Framain had done the proper thing by disclosing his own identity first. For the Ducas, bad manners are one of the few unforgivable crimes.
They rode for a little less than the half-hour Framain had specified across an open, stony moor, with no trace of a building of any sort to be seen. The house appeared as though by magic; quite suddenly it was there, as if it had been lying down in the heather and had stood up when it heard its master approaching. In fact, it was concealed in a deceptively shallow saucer of dead ground. There was a big farmhouse, a long barn, a clump of stables, byres and other outbuildings, including one that looked like a giant beehive with a tall brick chimney; a covered well and a sheep-fold, large and empty. No sign of any livestock, unless you counted half a dozen thin- necked chickens pecking about in the yard. This man, Miel realized, isn't a farmer. In which case, what is he? He noticed that the thatch on the farmhouse roof was gray with age and neglect, but the barn roof was bright gold with new, unweathered reed.
'You'll have to excuse the state the place is in,' Framain said (he hadn't spoken since they'd started to ride). 'I'm on my own here, and there's a lot to do.'
Miel muttered something polite. They rode down into the yard, which was open and unfenced. Framain dismounted, tied his horse to the fold rail, and helped Miel down. To his shame, Miel found he didn't have any strength left in his legs; he slithered off his horse, and Framain had to catch him.
'In here,' Framain said, and helped him to the farmhouse door. It was open. Miel remembered that when they'd passed it, the barn door was shut; he'd noticed three heavy iron bars and padlocks.
The house was a mess: one long room, mostly filled with an enormous oak table, thick with dust. The windows were unshuttered and empty-no glass or parchment-and as they came in, two crows erupted from the middle of the table, where they'd been picking over a carcass on a broad pewter plate. They flew up and pitched in the rafters for a moment, cawing and shrieking angrily, then swooped low and sailed out through the nearest window. Framain didn't seem to have noticed them. The walls were paneled in the old style, but the wood was gray and open-grained, and in places the damp had warped and split it away from the masonry, leaving behind nails rusted into the stone like arrowheads snapped off in a wound. The floor was dusty and crunched as they walked on
