He strode along the frozen road, and the foothills of the North Blood Mountains rose slowly before him as he chewed that thought in silence.
They made another forty miles before the cold snap broke as Tothas had promised. And, just as Bahzell had feared, the road turned promptly into thick, clinging soup. The weather, though warmer, was still chill, and it was also damper, which aggravated Tothas’ cough once more . . . and gave the Horse Stealer one more worry to cope with.
The road rose as they slogged on into the foothills of the Blood Mountains, but if the drainage improved, the steady climb compensated for that, and winding turns added long, weary miles to their journey. They’d passed an occasional village or prosperous-looking steading between the river and the hills; now they moved through lonely wilderness, and as Bahzell peered out into each frosty, fog-drenched morning, he understood exactly why that was. Only a madman would live in such a place if he could help it.
And then the rain started again. Cold and slow, falling with infinitely patient, soaking malice. They kept Tothas as warm and dry as they could, and the armsman no longer tried to pretend he didn’t need it. He husbanded his strength whenever he could-and felt the rough side of Zarantha’s tongue anytime he forgot to-yet his face took on that wan, pinched look once more, and his gloved hands shook on his reins. But at least there was no sign of assassins (who, Bahzell thought, probably had better sense than to be out in such weather), and seven days after crossing the Blackwater, they finally emerged on the far side of the hills.
The Horse Stealer stood at the head of their soaked, mud-spattered party and peered down the final slope. Evening was coming on fast, there was a hint of sleet in the rain, the beasts steamed in the icy wet, and he could feel the sagging weariness of his friends, but his ears twitched under his hood as lights glimmered ahead. It looked like a good-sized village or small town, and he touched Tothas on the knee, then pointed at the lights.
“Would you be knowing what that might be?” Even his deep, rumbling voice was hoarse with fatigue, and the Spearman blinked for a moment before his mind churned back to life.
“I think-” He pursed his lips, then nodded wearily. “That would be Dunsahnta,” he said wearily. “We passed through it when we took My Lady north.”
“What sort of place is it after being?”
“It’s a village-good sized, but much like any other.” Tothas frowned. “There’s an inn, and Baron Dunsahnta has a keep of sorts to the northeast, I think.” He shrugged. “He wasn’t home when we came through.”
“Did you stay at the inn?” Bahzell pressed. Tothas blinked again, and the Horse Stealer sighed. “Tothas, it’s a right dummy I’d be-aye, nigh on as stupid as you were after telling that border guard-not to’ve guessed you and Lady Zarantha are hiding. So tell me-d’you think there’s any down there as might remember her from your last trip through?”
Tothas flushed, but then he shook his head. “I doubt it. We didn’t stop on the way north. We came through in the morning and kept right on going.”
“Ah.” Bahzell patted his knee again and slogged back to Zarantha. Her mule looked as weary as the hradani felt-it didn’t even try a nip-and sleety water crusted Zarantha’s coat. “You’ve the purse, such as it is,” he rumbled. “Will it stretch enough to get Tothas under a roof?”
“Where are we?” Zarantha countered, and nodded when Bahzell repeated what Tothas had told him. “Yes, I remember the place. And he’s right, we didn’t stop.” She bit her lip for a moment, then nodded again, more firmly. “Yes. We can cover two or even three days’ lodging, I think.”
“Good.” Bahzell sighed, and led off into the gloom once more.
Chapter Twenty-one
Dunsahnta did, indeed, boast an inn, but The Brown Horse was a poor exchange for The Laughing God, and the pudgy, nervous little landlord looked acutely unhappy when he found a dripping wet Horse Stealer on his doorstep.
At least Tothas was able to speak for them this time, and the innkeeper seemed to take courage from the armsman’s accent. He continued to eye Bahzell askance-especially when Brandark came in from the stables as well-but he finally admitted he had available rooms. Zarantha was back in her persona as “Lady Rekahna’s” maid, and Tothas scolded her for her sloth as he paid the landlord, then chivvied her up the stairs while Bahzell and Brandark followed as impassively and menacingly as possible.
The rooms were bigger than The Laughing God’s, but no fires had been laid, there were no hot baths, and meals cost two coppers apiece. Yet they were out of the rain, though it occurred to Bahzell, as he considered their rooms, that the landlord had hardly given them his best chambers. They were on the second floor, off a stubby, blind hallway, with the smaller room squeezed into an awkward space between the inn’s upper storerooms and the attached stables.
Bahzell assigned that one to Zarantha and Rekah the instant he saw it. The only way to it led past the room he and Brandark shared with Tothas, and, for all its shortcomings, The Brown Horse offered stout doors. With their own door open and the hradani taking watch and watch about, no one could get to Zarantha or Rekah unchallenged.
Tothas nodded approval of Bahzell’s arrangements, and this time he raised no argument over leaving the guard duty to the hradani. Indeed, he crawled into one of the beds the instant he finished supper, and Bahzell looked at Brandark and pointed to the other.
“I’ll be waking you in four hours,” he rumbled, “so you’d best not lie awake thinking of more verses for your curst song!”
Morning came noisily. None of The Brown Horse’s servants had ever heard of tiptoes, and Bahzell groaned in protest as a waiter barged in with a can of hot water. The servant dropped it beside the wash basin with an appalling bang, then trooped out like an entire company of heavy infantry, and the Horse Stealer sat up with another groan.
“My, aren’t
The thrown pillow hit hard enough to knock his chair over with a crash, and Tothas shoved up on an elbow and dragged hair out of his eyes.
“
“Penance,” Bahzell growled, and threw back his own blankets.
He stretched enormously, crossed to the washstand, and poured hot water into the basin, then frowned. There was no steam, and he shoved a finger into the basin and sighed. The “hot” water was barely lukewarm.
He grimaced, but it was all there was, and at least his people’s lack of facial hair meant that, unlike Tothas, he wouldn’t have to shave with it. He washed his face, rinsed and emptied the basin into the chamber pot, then checked the clothing he’d hung before the fire overnight. It was dry, and he climbed into it with only a trace of wistfulness for The Laughing God’s baths.
Brandark followed him to the basin, and Bahzell peered out the window. The rain had pulled back to blowing spatters, but a raw, gusting wind shook leafless branches like swords. It looked thoroughly miserable out there, and he hoped Zarantha was right about how long they could stay here, poor service or no.
A maid walked past their open door with another can of so-called hot water as if his thoughts of Zarantha had summoned her. She knocked much more gently than Bahzell would have anticipated and stood waiting a moment,
