Estrada, who seemed incapable of giving up, was quick to list the positives. Mounteban had left us more than ample supplies, and yesterday had told her carefully where we were in relation to our next objective, the ferry port at Casta Canto. It was only a couple of hours to the southwest, and should be visible beyond the brow of the next hill. 'We'll be safe for a while if we can just find a fast boat.'
I nearly asked if by 'find' she meant 'steal', but decided she'd been taunted on that subject enough by Mounteban. That wasn't our real concern, in any case. More to the point was that any vessel quick enough to afford us an escape would likely be too small to take Saltlick's weight. Would she be prepared to abandon him if the need arose?
For that matter, would I get my chance to leave them both behind?
There seemed no point dwelling on distant dilemmas when we'd be lucky to make it even as far as Casta Canto. Estrada took the lead, pointing towards the brow of one particular hill and declaring, 'It should be just over there.'
I judged by the position of the sun that she was probably right. Remembering how Mounteban had forced us to crawl through the fence of bramble and whitethorn bushes the night before, I asked, 'Saltlick, can you clear a path?'
He glanced at Estrada for confirmation.
'Try not to make too much noise,' she said, sounding a little guilty for agreeing with me.
Saltlick plunged a hand into the mass of thorny tendrils. He tore the bush from the ground and tossed it over his shoulder, in one fluid motion. It landed with a rustling crash at the far side of the glade. A moment later, another shared its fate.
We trooped into the gap. A steep climb lay beyond. It soon became clear that it would be too much trouble to have Saltlick deal with every thorn bush or fallen tree-trunk that blocked our path; easier by far to add to the scratches and bruises we'd incurred the day before.
Without Mounteban, we had no idea where to look for paths, if paths there were. The going was slow and difficult. It might have taken a couple of hours by an easier route, but with our approach of meandering through the densest, most inhospitable foliage, it was well past lunchtime before we scaled the hilltop.
By the time we saw the Casto Mara, a distant ribbon of blue-flecked grey far below, even Saltlick was dripping with sweat. There was some small comfort in the fact that straying so far from beaten paths was probably all that had kept us out of Moaradrid's hands.
We sat crouched behind a row of pines, pretending we couldn't be seen when Saltlick was five times wider than the tree supposedly hiding him. Below, a steep wooded slope much like the one we'd just climbed tumbled down to the river, wide and fastflowing here and laced with fringes of white where it churned over hidden rocks and beds of gravel.
Casta Canto nestled in one crook, a huddle of large wood buildings set amidst great ziggurats of logs: the small town was the main channel through which timber cut in the forests of Paen Acha made its way out into the wider Castoval. A number of flat-bottomed boats were moored around the crude harbour, none of them looking very suited to our purpose. Nearer, the ferry — a fenced rectangular platform strung from chains moored on either bank — was flopping like a dying fish in the middle of the flow.
I'd been through Casta Canto any number of times. As one of the main links between the halves of the Castoval, it was difficult to avoid. A generally quiet town, it was occasionally enlivened by the loggers gathering for wild and random-seeming celebrations, which left everyone else cowering for a couple of days while they drank the town dry. It was a place to pass by for most, not one to stay at — which made the bright hem of tents around its eastern edge all the more suspicious.
I glanced at Estrada, who replied with a nod. Then, her eyes apparently sharper than mine, she pointed out a brown smudge bobbing near the dock. I concentrated, and decided that she was right: it was a single-masted skiff, just what we were after.
'I think we can reach it. If we come in from the north we'll be out of sight of the camp.'
We began our descent, heading not so much towards Casta Canto as to a point a half mile above it. A dry streambed took us much of the way down, and made the travelling easier than it had been. Still, it was sluggish work. It seemed at times like some surreal game, as we picked our way from rock to copse and copse to shaded hollow, trying to find a route that kept Saltlick's bulk invisible. Even where the cover allowed Estrada and me to move freely, he mostly had to crawl on hands and knees. By the time we were drawing near the river, he'd fallen far behind, and my patience was wearing thin.
It must have shown. Just as I was about to lose my temper altogether, Estrada whispered, 'Do you remember what you said earlier?'
''Earlier' when? I've been saying things for most of my life.'
'You said you don't scheme, or manipulate people, or pretend to value anyone you don't care about.'
'I remember.'
'That wasn't exactly true, was it?'
I thought about it. 'Perhaps not entirely. It's possible I was exaggerating for offence.'
Estrada threw a significant glance towards Saltlick, who was currently trying to hide behind a shrub that rose to about a third of his height. 'You've manipulated him. You used him, and then tried to abandon him. When that didn't work you lied to him some more, telling him you'd help protect his family.'
'I never said that.' Then I remembered. I had said something along those lines, in the cave after our rescue — and before that as well, in Moaradrid's camp. I cursed beneath my breath. 'That's hardly the same thing.'
'Oh? Because he's a giant?'
'Because he's an idiot.'
Estrada nodded, one of those characteristic halfsmiles shaping her mouth. 'You've never really tried talking to him, have you?'
'I haven't had a full day free since we met.'
'I think he does well, considering that he's selftaught, and that he's only been learning our language for a couple of weeks.'
That stopped me in my tracks. It had never crossed my mind that Saltlick was anything but an oversized dolt. What must it have been like to be taken from his home, thrust into a world where everything down to the simplest word was incomprehensible?
Saltlick chose that moment to catch up, and looked at us bemusedly.
Estrada whispered, 'I'm not trying to pick another fight, Damasco. I'm just asking you to have a little more patience.' Aloud she said, 'Not much further.'
She was right. We'd practically reached the base of the hill. A labyrinth of pines stretched around us, with Casta Canto just visible to the south, carved into slivers by the trunks. We continued to skirt around the town, keeping our distance. The noise of the river was loud enough to drown our voices by the time it came into view, a torrent of muddy grey and foaming white. We clambered to the narrow strip of gravel beach that ran beside it and then, with the shoreline embankment concealing us from observers above, started towards the town.
As we crept nearer, so did the ferry, skulking spider-like along its chains. It was largely empty of human cargo: two men, presumably merchants, stood at the front, lazing against the barrier and smoking pipes. All the remaining space was taken up with horses, which stared with panic-shot eyes at the water and whickered piteously. There wasn't even need for a pilot, since pulleys and half a dozen hard-working ponies in the shore station propelled the craft. The system was impressive in everything but speed. That tended to provoke amusement more than admiration, or frustration for anyone in the slightest hurry. The idling merchants evidently weren't in that category. Nor, thankfully, were they inclined to look in our direction.
Their presence did highlight a flaw in our plan though. We might be well hidden from Casta Canto and the encampment outside it, but from the river and the far bank, we'd stand out like belly dancers at a funeral. Estrada signalled a halt as the ferry limped the last stretch into port. We were close enough to make out the merchants' voices over the racket of their horses. One had propped up the gate bar while the other struggled to manoeuvre the traumatised animals, which were determined to find a way off that didn't involve going near the river or each other. Though it looked as if it must all end in disaster, the merchants knew their business. Their charges stumbled one by one onto the dock and milled about, grumbling in high-pitched whinnies.
'Here's our chance,' I said. 'Even if we're seen there's no way past that lot.'
Estrada nodded, and we hurried the last distance to the dock. A set of crude steps connected the ramshackle
