unsaddle it. Yen Olass was unsure of his intentions. If she ran, he could probably catch her. If they fought, he could probably take her and break her, then work his will with her afterwards. Best to get some control over him, then – so that, if necessary, she could disable him with a word. She knew how to do it. All she needed was an opening, which was swift in coming.
'This is a slave's job, really,' said the Ondrask, loosening the saddle girth.
'I was not born to be an ostler,' said Yen Olass. 'Hear the omens. I was born in a blizzard. I was born with a clot of blood clenched in my fist. My mother walked in places beyond your imagination. My conception was immaculate.’
'Listen to the female thing,' said the Ondrask to his horse.
'When I was conceived, the stars shone white,' said Yen Olass, her voice becoming a lilting chant. 'Out beyond the stars, the darkness. They say it's cold in the darkness; you die, they say.’
For the words 'you die', she dropped her voice, saying those two words in a lower tone. Most people would never have noticed the drop in tone which marked those two words out as different from the rest. But the Ondrask did.
'Stop that!' he said sharply.
Yen Olass ended her spiel then and there, immediately. She was shaken. She had never been caught out before.
'I play those games myself,' said the Ondrask. 'A very minor part of my art – but, no doubt, the sum and total of yours.’
Yen Olass said nothing, watching as the Ondrask dumped saddle and harness on the floor of the cave. Clumsiness betrayed his fatigue. He tried to hide his weariness, but she saw he was exhausted. She suspected he had been lucky to find the cave at all – lucky, indeed, that the storm had not claimed his life. He had no baggage. Knowing she would have to feed and shelter him, she now saw him not as a potential rapist, but as a danger of a different order – the incompetent traveller whose failings put the lives of others at risk.
'You came unprepared,' said Yen Olass.
'I expected to find you quickly,' said the Ondrask. 'It was further than they led me to believe – and the way was tricky.’
'Excuses never saved lives,' said Yen Olass.
It was a telling criticism, which he did not try to answer, because he could not. Though he was of the Yarglat and she of the people of Monogail, both were children of the barrens of the far north, the lands, as Serek has it, 'beyond all maps, and cold beyond belief.' Both had learnt the same lessons in early childhood.
The Ondrask seated himself by the fire again. Yen Olass sheathed her knife and took the horse blanket off Snut. She draped it round the Ondrask's shoulders. He shook it off.
'I never asked for that,’ he said, with anger. 'But you need it.' 'I'll get by without it.’
'Heat is strength,' said Yen Olass, quoting an old survival maxim. 'And one who weakens serves to weaken all.’
Her position was unassailable. The Ondrask yielded, allowing her to wrap the horse blanket around him. He pulled its warmth close to his body, shrouding himself in its comfort.
Yen Olass offered him pemican. He hesitated. Then spoke, loudly, harshly: 'Skak, give me food.’
'I have already offered,' said Yen Olass serenely. 'How can you demand what has been offered?’
She knew he had blundered badly. Of her own free will, she had offered to share her survival rations. The rigid survival ethic of the Yarglat gave him only two choices: to accept of decline. Acceptance would formalize their relationship, making him her guest, and placing him under obligations.
'I was tired,' said the Ondrask, by way of apology. 'I will eat.’
And he accepted her gift of pemican, which put him in a very uncomfortable position, since she was both a woman and a slave.
As the Ondrask ate, Yen Olass got a cooking pot out of her baggage and took it to the mouth of the cave. The night was now as black as hell, and every bit as cold. The wind, demented, raged across the land. Yen Olass packed the pot with snow, tamping it down to a little water. Bringing the pot back to the fire, she balanced it on two fresh logs. When she had hot water, she would reconstitute some of her dried milk curds.
The Ondrask huddled by the fire. His filthy locks were wet with melted snow; he reached behind his head and wiped away some water which was running down his neck.
'Why did you ride so light?' said Yen Olass.
'Because anger rode me all the way from Gendormargensis.’
'They would have given you food at Brantzyn, if you'd asked.’
'They offered. I told them to set tables for two.’
'You thought to eat with a woman?' said Yen Olass, mocking him ever so gently. 'To eat with a slave?’
'The tables,' said the Ondrask, 'were not going to be in the same room. But… here I've no objection.’
Though he made that concession, he could not bring himself to thank her outright for her hospitality.
Yen Olass knew they might be in bad trouble. A storm like this could last for weeks, leaving impassable snow drifts more than head high. Having got one concession from the Ondrask, she went hunting for another:
'If we have to kill a horse,' said Yen Olass, 'we kill yours first.’
'Agreed,' said the Ondrask.
'That way,' said Yen Olass, watching him carefully, 'you may lose a horse when you sought to recover one.’
The Ondrask eyed her in silence, then said: 'I'm not as impressed as you might expect me to be.’
When the Yarglat quarrelled, it was usually over horses or women. Gendormargensis was glutted with women, the spoils of recent conquests, but good horses were still hard to come by. As Yen Olass had guessed, a problem with horses had sent the Ondrask raging down the road from Gendormargensis. But why had he come to her? What made him think she could help?
'Now tell me the details,' said Yen Olass.
'No,' said the Ondrask. 'Let's see how you ride blindfolded.’
'Just one question then,' said Yen Olass, exchanging boots for luffle bag. 'How many horses?' 'Three.’
Yen Olass knew the Ondrask was an old friend of the Lord Emperor Khmar. The two were as close as brothers. Lord Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis, did his best to keep on the good side of Khmar, who had once come close to killing him. Alagrace would supply any horses the Ondrask needed. And, if those horses went missing, Alagrace would have no trouble replacing them. Unless…
'The horses were stolen..,' said Yen Olass slowly. 'Yes.’
'And the horses.., the horses had been consecrated for sacrifice,’
'In a public ceremony,’ said the Ondrask.
'I know how it's done,’ said Yen Olass. 'If taken anonymously, they'd be gone for good. But you didn't ride all this way for nothing. So you know who took them. And you want them back.’
'You ride well,' said the Ondrask. 'You're very close to the truth. Tell me who took them.’
Yen Olass checked the cooking pot. The snow had melted, but the water was not yet hot. She sat back, thinking, taking her time.
'You know who it is,' said Yen Olass. 'So Lord Alagrace should have the thief cut up and killed. But some people he won't dare touch.’
'But he's Lawmaker!' said the Ondrask, his rage sparking to life.
'Come on,' said Yen Olass, quietly. 'You know his position,’
Obviously some high-born Yarglat clansman had made off with the Ondrask's horses, and Lord Alagrace, always reluctant to make enemies amongst the Yarglat, was procrastinating, hoping the problem would resolve itself.
'He's Sharla vermin!' said the Ondrask. 'We should have killed them all in the Blood Purge,’
'You did kill them all,’ said Yen Olass, 'or nearly all. Lord Alagrace was one of the few survivors,’
'Yes,’ said the Ondrask. 'And who let him live? That's what I'd like to know,’
'He was away in Ashmolea,' said Yen Olass. 'Didn't you know that? No, I don't suppose you would.’
The Ondrask was known to keep very much to his yashram, which was usually somewhere in the countryside beyond the walls of Gendormargensis; she doubted if he knew half as much about the politics of the city as she did.
Who might have taken the horses?
