The prior wrote again and sent for one of his special men, those who did particular jobs for him, such as ride very long distances very fast on the relay horses that they’d been sending to Benjobz recently, for Benjobz was going to be a waystation for vastly increased traffic when the abbey and Wold were brought into the king’s lands.
The servant returned. The particular men the prior wanted had been sent to do a reconnaissance of the road down to Benjobz Inn. There were said to be brigands in that area, molesting travelers, and the abbot had sent a hundred men from the abbey to seek out their camps along the road while escorting the people from Woldsgard home. The men the prior wanted were with them.
The prior asked the servant to get a small box from the hidden compartment in the top of his armoire and take it to Precious Wind. Ask her to come see him.
The servant left with the box, and no one came to replace him.
The prior thought furiously. He tried to get out of bed and couldn’t. His legs folded under him. He vomited blood all over himself. He felt a hideous pain. Both his men and the duchess had killed easily, often, but none of them had ever mentioned causing pain. As he passed from screaming to throat-blocked silence, from agonized thrashing to excruciating immobility, it seemed impossible to him that he was alone in this room and no one came to offer him any of the drugs that he knew, he knew, could be given for pain.
He opened his eyes, at the last, to see Wordswell standing at the foot of the bed, regarding him with solemn sorrow not unmixed with satisfaction, and he knew the omission had not been accidental. If it had been the abbot standing there, he would not have allowed his prior to suffer this torment. The abbot was too kind. But the abbot didn’t know. The prior had made sure the abbot didn’t know . . . about a lot of things.
On the road west of Benjobz Inn, the troop from the abbey cantered down the road, not so fast it would lose the wagons that followed, not so slowly as to bore the armored men who took every opportunity to scour the nearby forest for the brigands who might be there. Oldwife Gancer and Nettie shared the wagon, driven by Bartelmy. Each of the menfolk wore one of the gay scarves Xulai had knitted for them, the fringed ends trailing over their shoulders. They were going home. Of them all, only two deeply mourned the fact that Xulai would not be there when they arrived: Oldwife, for a near daughter lost; Bartelmy, for a near sweetheart, ever dreamed of, never really gained.
On the road south of the abbey, Precious Wind drove her little carriage at a great pace, the wolves keeping even with her inside the shade of the forest. Sewn into her garments were the contents of the box the prior had sent to her, the gems that had made up virtually all of the treasure Justinian had sent. She had been surprised. Considering that the prior had had the treasure for some time, he had used remarkably little of it. He hadn’t even thought to ask the return of his receipt.
On the road to Merhaven, a group of travelers had come to a pleasant meadow between the road and the shining crimson surface of Red Lake, some distance to the west. The lake received a good deal of its water as runoff from red clay country, giving it its name. The travelers had set up their usual evening encampment, little tents, little wagons, a few campfires with kettles hung above them. Off to one side two brothers had built their own stingy fire, cleared their own patch of ground on which to erect their own two-man tent against the wet, if any.
“I wish I had some idea of what’s happening back at the abbey,” said Chippy to his bearded older brother. “Don’t you . . . Bram?”
“Hearing nothing is sometimes better than hearing bad news,” said the older man, the one scratching at his beard. Though it had been growing for days, he wasn’t used to it yet and it itched him continuously. They had traveled with a considerable train of folks headed south along the main road to Elsmere, lagging at the rear of the procession, not so far back as to look separate from it, not so close as to involve them in unnecessary conversation. Occasionally they would move aside for a faster-moving horse, an abbey messenger or some post rider in a hurry. They’d passed a number of posts on their way. Blue always whinnied at the corrals and received a whinny in return. Chippy’s horse was more laconic, and their mule brayed only when he didn’t get the oats or horse biscuit he expected. Along the way, Chippy and Bram had managed to get hold of the necessaries to make horse biscuits almost as well accepted as those the Horsemaster had made back in Woldsgard, though there were a couple of herbs that no one seemed to know of.
They had come far enough south and far enough down the mountains that late autumn was still with them rather than the winter that had taken the highlands around the abbey. There had been no more snow, only a few light rains. When the group stopped each night to make camp, there was still plenty of edible grass for the horses and mules. The group was large and well armed enough to discourage any wandering bands of ruffians. They did have some elderly folk, however, and some women who weren’t accustomed to travel, so they made slow time on the road. Dawdling, Chippy called it. Safe, said Bram. Better slow and easy, part of a sizeable group rather than quick and easy prey, part of nothing.
There had
