“Let me look,” said Saben. “I won’t do anything.”
“Well—”
“I’m all right, Canna. We do need to know what they’re doing.”
“All right. We’ll stay here. Don’t get caught.”
“No.” Saben turned away, toward the road, and disappeared. Paks found she’d slipped her dagger out again. Canna shook her head and pointed at the sheath. She slipped it back in. They waited. They heard a shout from the distance. Another shout. Paks felt her heart give a great leap in her chest.
“Saben?” she gasped.
“I hope not,” said Canna. “Holy Gird defend him. If that was a messenger, maybe they’re shouting at each other.” Her face was paler than before.
They listened. No more shouts. Paks imagined Saben full of arrows, his body dragged to the fire, or taken alive for questioning. She shuddered. Canna touched her hand. “Don’t think about it. We don’t know—imagining things will make you weaker.” Paks nodded without speaking, and tried to force her thoughts elsewhere. Again the noise of hooves, this time many of them, on the road. Was the whole troop leaving? They waited in a silence scarcely broken by the rustle of leaves in a slight wind. Paks gave up looking in the direction Saben had gone, and stared at the ground. She jumped when Canna nudged her.
Saben was coming toward them, walking almost upright. He was grinning. Paks felt a rush of relief that made her unsteady on her feet as she rose. “I thought you’d—”
“I know,” he said. “When they yelled it scared me, and I could see what was happening. Canna, the troop’s gone, ordered back to the fort, and they left a whole cow on the fire. The messenger, that single horse, told them not to wait, because they were starting south in the morning. If we hurry, we can have meat, and plenty of it.” At once Paks’s hunger returned.
“What about sentries?” asked Canna. “Surely—”
“No—all the horses are gone, and every horse had a rider; I made sure of that. Please, Canna—it’s our best chance.”
“It’s risky—but you’re right. It’s our chance.”
“We could pass the farm,” said Paks. “Saben or I’ll double back if it’s clear. How’s that?”
“Good idea. I hope they’ve cut that meat; I don’t want to leave any obvious signs.”
“I never thought of that,” said Saben. “They were poking at it; I saw that the first time I looked. But I don’t know about cut—”
“We’ll see. Even if it hasn’t, we ought to be able to find other food there—and they may think one of theirs took it.”
They moved on, carefully. The farm clearing lay across the road; when they had passed it, they moved to the road edge and looked both ways. “Maybe only one of us should cross,” said Paks. “If anything happens, maybe they’ll look on that side—”
“I don’t know if that matters,” said Canna. “Still, any precaution might help. Saben, you’ve seen the worst already—can you go?”
“Yes, Canna.” Behind the leafmold, his face was composed, his blue eyes steady.
“Good. If the meat isn’t marked up, haggle a corner off; don’t leave clean knife cuts. Maybe they’ll think a stray dog got it. See what else you can find, but don’t leave anything so stripped that it’s obvious.”
“Get some cloth for bandages, if you can,” said Paks. She thought Canna looked worse than she had that morning.
“Yes, and another tinderbox, if you see one,” added Canna.
“I’ll see what I can find.” After another careful look both ways, Saben darted across the road into the trees on the far side. Paks could see him skirting the clearing, coming in behind one of the huts. He disappeared. After a long wait, she saw him come back toward the trees, then turn back to the huts again. This time he was gone even longer. Then she could see him again, edging along the clearing toward the road, with a pack slung over one shoulder and a bundle in his arms.
Once across the road, he handed the bundle to Paks and urged them back into the trees. “Wait until you see what I found.”
“Hush,” said Canna. “We’re too close.” They walked on until the road was completely hidden, then sat down.
Paks unrolled the bundle, Saben’s cloak wrapped around a number of things: three round loaves of brown bread, half a small cheese, six apples, a small padded sack of lumpy objects—“Careful,” said Saben. “Those are eggs.”—onions, a few redroots, several strips of pale linen, a small stoneware crock with a pungent smell, and a short-bladed knife.
Saben was pulling other finds from the worn leather pack he’d found: strips of half-roasted beef, another cheese, and a roll of cord. “They’d hacked the cow up with their swords,” he said. “Some was bones with meat on, and some just strips of meat, so I took these. We could get more without it being noticed, I think, but I couldn’t carry more, and didn’t want to take too long. It must have been baking day; bread was rolling all over the hut floors. I took what had rolled under things. There was a barrel of apples; we can get more easily. Not so many cheeses, unless they’re stored somewhere else. I didn’t look in the barn. The eggs were under a bed; I felt them when I reached for bread.”
Canna smiled. “Saben, you found a treasure. I don’t know about going back—but now we’ll eat. Let’s see— we’ll share a half-loaf of bread, and one of those big strips of meat, and have an apple each. More than that, and we’ll be slow and sleepy.”
Paks and Saben sighed at that, but by the time they’d eaten what Canna allowed, Paks felt much better. Not satisfied, but better.
“Let’s see your shoulder,” she said, when she had swallowed the last bit of bread. “These strips will be softer than that old sack. And I think this stuff in the crock is for wounds, isn’t it?”
Canna sniffed at it. “It smells like what the surgeons use, yes.” Paks unwound her hasty bandage of the day before, and Canna slipped off her tunic, wincing. The folded sack, blood-stained, was firmly stuck to the wound. Paks poured some of her water over it.
“Brr. That’s cold,” said Canna.
“I thought that would loosen it.”
“It may, but it’s cold.” Paks worked as gently as she could, and finally got the sack off. Underneath, Canna’s shoulder was swollen, red, and warm to touch. “It’s—tender,” said Canna, as Paks probed it. “Is it going bad?”
“I can’t tell. It’s red, and it feels different. Maybe just swollen. Here—I’m going to try this stuff.” Paks smeared some of the gray-green sticky gunk in the crock over the wound. “How’s that?”
“It stings a little. Not bad.”
“Maybe I should have washed it first. If we had hot water—”
“No, that’s all right. Just tie it up, and we’ll hope for the best.”
Paks folded the soft linen into a pad, then bound it on as she had before, this time with the softer linen strips. “Now you can put your tunic over it,” she said. “Maybe that will be more comfortable.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Canna. She was pale and sweating.
“What about another trip to the farm, Canna?” asked Saben. “This won’t last long, and we may not have such a good chance again.”
“We’ve got to travel light—”
“I know, but a week’s march—”
“Let’s see what we’ve got now. Enough bread for a couple of days, with this meat. Cut it in hunks like this, Saben—” Canna showed the size. “I don’t know how that cheese will travel, but we can wrap it. Those redroots will have to be cooked, but they’ll keep. You’re right—we could use more. But it’s getting late—”
“Less likely to be seen, then. I’ll be careful.”
Canna looked uncertain. “I—wish I knew—”
Paks felt a vague uneasiness. “I think we should get farther away.”
“You’ll think differently when we’re hungry the day after tomorrow,” said Saben.
Canna looked from one to another. “I—I say no, Saben. We’ll go on. We shouldn’t take chances we don’t have to; the ones we must take are bad enough.”
Saben shrugged. “Whatever you say; you’re the commander. Here—let me see what I can fit in this pack.”
