I sat carefully, partly to avoid making noise and partly to ease my thudding head. There was just enough light for me to see that everyone but myself and Saltlick were already awake, and crouched together in the centre of the clearing. No, not everyone. The silent man who'd made me so uneasy yesterday was absent.
Once he was sure of my attention, Mounteban pointed towards the road. I could see Estrada in the corner of my vision, attempting to wake Saltlick with minimal success.
I mouthed to Mounteban, 'what?' and then, 'soldiers?'
He nodded.
His scout materialised at that moment from behind the bole of a nearby birch, hardly two paces from us. He gestured towards the road as Mounteban had, and then swept his hand westward.
'Gone?' Mounteban whispered, and the silent man dipped his head.
Estrada, having succeeded in rousing Saltlick, crept towards us. 'There'll be more. We can't use the highways.'
'I can guide you cross-country,' said Mounteban. There was a hint of triumph in his voice.
'There's no time.'
'We're about a day from the river. We might be able to find a boat.'
'Then what?'
'Then… I don't know, perhaps we could ask its owner if they'd consider selling. What did you think I meant? If you find my past so unsavoury, Marina, perhaps you shouldn't have recruited me in the first place.' Mounteban's voice rose, until by the end he was almost shouting. He glared around red-faced, caught between shame and anger. The silence seemed tangible as he and Estrada glared across the clearing at each other.
For once, it was she who backed down. 'You're right,' she said. 'We should get going.'
We spent the next few minutes unloading supplies from the cart and distributing them amongst packs and the saddlebags of the two horses. It was cellarlike in the gloom beneath the trees, the trunks resembling columns and the foliage a dripping ceiling that creaked with subterranean stresses. A mouldy odour rising from the damp peat floor only worsened the effect. As we flitted from one arch to another, glancing furtively towards the road, the tension seemed to rise like stagnant water, until it felt as though one snapped twig would bring catastrophe upon us.
Things improved once we got moving. We ate on the march, and if the food was barely edible then the effort of eating was at least a distraction. Light was breaking in the east by the time I'd choked down my last mouthful, and walking had gone some way to warming me and drying my clothes.
We made an odd parade. Saltlick hung at the back, where he trudged along stolidly, focusing all his effort into moving with a minimum of noise. Estrada, who'd begun at the front with Mounteban, fell back after an hour to join him.
I did my best to maintain an equal distance between them and Mounteban's ruffians, the only remainder of our original entourage. I'd been trying to ignore them, but I couldn't help paying furtive attention now that we were intimate associates.
It was partly that I'd belatedly recognised one of them: the bull-shaped character towards the back was the Northerner who'd been on the door at the Red-Eyed Dog. However, I'd also been giving some thought to the question of Mounteban's disconcerting scout. That might be his current trade, but it hadn't always been. He was too small, too lightly built, and his skin wasn't the leathered bronze it would be from a lifetime in the open.
I could think of only one other vocation that required his peculiar skill set, and it was one even career criminals got nervous around. Before Mounteban had supposedly gone straight, I'd occasionally heard his name linked — in the most privately whispered conversations only — with that of a man named Synza. He'd been discreetly referred to as Mounteban's problem-solver; but always with the implication that the absolute last thing you wanted was to find yourself the problem in question.
I had a horrible feeling Synza and I were now travelling companions.
Yesterday afternoon we'd left behind the terraces that joined the Hunch and Muena Palaiya to the valley floor. During the night, we'd penetrated the wooded region that continued to the riverbank, and which would eventually congeal into the forest of Paen Acha to the south. The whole region was pocked with farms and villages, even a couple of small towns, and tracks and roads laced it in every direction. For all that, it was scarcely populated, and it wasn't too hard to travel unnoticed, especially when most of our party had a proven record in that department.
Mounteban certainly knew the region well, no doubt from his days of shifting contraband between Muena Palaiya and the river. We followed a succession of paths for most of the morning, travelling through scrubby woodland or occasional meadows of high grass littered with bobbing thistles and bright splotches of wildflower. The sun was cool and watery, the sky still partly overcast. At least the rain held off, and the exertion of walking kept my temperature comfortable. There seemed little point in rationing my supplies, so I continued to eat as I walked, and sipped from one of my flasks.
It seemed we must have walked across half the valley by lunchtime, and I groaned when Mounteban called a halt to tell us, 'We're a third of the way to the river.'
My calves were aching fiercely by then, and the pain was beginning to creep up through my thighs and into my spine. I was pleased when he added, 'Does anyone need to stop?'
Just as I was about to answer, Estrada said, 'We're fine, Castilio.'
I glared at her.
'Good. If we can keep this pace up into the night, we should have time to camp for a few hours. They'll have discovered the cart and horses by now. Even if they find our trail, though, they don't know the valley like I do.'
I'd forgotten our abandoned cart. In fact, the whole notion of pursuit had receded to a vague wariness in the back of my mind, a sense that roads and inhabited areas were things best avoided. I suddenly felt less inclined to rest, for all my aches and pains.
As the sun rolled past the meridian and the afternoon wore on, there came other, more sinister reminders of Moaradrid's presence. First was a column of coal-black smoke rising up to our left, a few miles distant, though close enough that I could smell the pungency of burnt wood mixed with other less obvious odours. It might have been perfectly innocent. Certainly, Mounteban paid it little attention, except perhaps to hurry our pace a little. Yet I couldn't help thinking of the destruction of Reb Panza. Our pursuers wouldn't hesitate to burn a few villagers out of their homes if they imagined one of them might know where we were. Whatever the truth, the sight made me shiver.
If the second incident a couple of hours later was almost as ambiguous, it at least succeeded in getting Mounteban's attention. We were following a trail along the ridge of a hill, with a dense line of pines upon the crest and stunted aspens piercing the shale of the bank descending on our right, when a noise froze us all in place: the harsh staccato of dogs barking.
Mounteban took one brief glance over his shoulder, as though expecting to see hounds barrelling towards us. Then he cried, 'Run!'
He was the first to take his own advice. The rest of us followed close behind. There was something insistent in the noise, as though the beasts were actually trying to draw our attention. I was surprised by how easily running came to my racked muscles — a minute before the idea would have seemed preposterous. Every bark seemed to quicken my feet a little more.
A minute later, and my panic was starting to subside. My sprint had turned into a clumsy stagger. Pain had returned with excruciating force, and every lungful of air seemed to have been drawn over hot coals. It was hopeless trying to work out whether the dogs were getting nearer. Though their frantic barking hadn't paused, it was the only sign of them we'd had.
I'd thought we were fleeing aimlessly, but I realised Mounteban had had an object in mind after all. A rocky indent split the bank, close ahead between the trees. When I reached the edge, I saw a wide stream gurgling through the gap, and meandering on down the hillside. Mounteban and his men were already wading, the clear water lapping as high as their knees. I plunged in, biting off a yelp at the cold.
Five minutes later, Mounteban signalled us to stop. He led us within the shade of a weeping willow, hanging dense enough to form a pavilion half way across the gully. It was cramped with us all in there, especially given Saltlick's considerable presence, but I was so glad to have stopped that I hardly cared.
Mounteban took a moment to recover his breath, and said, 'I think we're safe.'
