“I want you to get dressed again,” he said, undraping her shawl from the stool where it had been drying, “and come with me.” She stood up, a bit unsteadily, and he wrapped the shawl, still warm from the grate, around her shoulders. She stepped into her shoes, and he bent down to button them for her.
“But perhaps we should wait, here?” she said. “Who's to say that we will be harmed?”
“A nurse,” he said, still fastening the shoes, “would not be-not if they have the slightest shred of decency. But a nurse with your peculiar affliction,” he said, standing and looking into her emerald eyes, “might prove to be another matter. How should you explain it to them?” He did not even need to elaborate on the additional problems that a British officer, also so afflicted, might face, should he fall into the wrong hands. If there was one thing that he had learned from his time in the East, one thing that he knew could be relied upon, it was the boundless cruelty of one man to another.
He had also learned to trust no one; if you prized your life at so much as a farthing, it was critical to do your own reconnaissance and make your own decisions. Otherwise, you could find yourself in dire straits indeed… riding, to take a wild example, straight down the barrels of a Russian gun battery…
When he had wrapped her as warmly as he could, he climbed up onto the stool, saw that the two men had gone, then, getting down, went to the door. He pried it open a crack-the wind came howling in to greet him-and then enough to step outside.
Looking to either side, he saw no one-only low dark buildings, made not of wood but of tin or some other metal-squatting, at intervals, along a barren concourse. The sky had the same burnished glow he remembered from the deck of the Coventry, when the snowy albatross had sailed onto the yardarm and watched, impassively, as he and Eleanor were grappled in chains and hurled into the freezing sea.
Eleanor tentatively stepped out after him, lifting her face to the sun; she closed her eyes, and to Sinclair her skin looked as smooth and white and lifeless as marble. Her long brown hair blew loosely around her cheeks, and her lips parted to take in the frigid air as if she were about to taste some rare delicacy. In a way, that's just what it was-windblown air, as cold and unsullied as a glacier, coursing across their exposed skin. Cold as it was-so cold it made their faces burn and their fingers tingle-it was the taste, and the scent, and the feeling, of being alive. For years-centuries, perhaps-they had been immured in their frozen cell, unmoving and untouched. But this, even more than the breaking of the ice, or the warming air from the grate, brought back that painful bliss of living. Sinclair didn't have to say a word, nor did she; they simply stood there, at the top of the snowy ramp, savoring the physical world-even one as hostile and intemperate as this.
One of the dogs across the way looked up from licking his bowl and let out a low growl. Eleanor opened her eyes and took them in.
“Sinclair…” she began, but he interrupted, saying, “There's a sled, too.”
“But where will we go?” Her eyes traveled down the dreary alleyway and off at the distant mountains.
“The dogs will know. Surely they're employed to go somewhere.”
He took her hand before she could offer it and started down the ramp. His boots were ill suited to the snow and ice and he found himself slipping several times. His scabbard clanged against the metal handrail, and he quickly looked about in alarm, but in the roar of the wind it was doubtful anyone had heard. They scurried across the passage, and into the glare of the shed, where they were separated from the dogs only by a wooden partition a few feet high.
As Eleanor leaned back against the wall-already she was exhausted, and her knees were shaking-Sinclair made straight for the clothing rack on the wall. He selected a long, billowy coat-it was as smooth as silk, but its fabric had no sheen-and forced Eleanor into it. It weighed much less than he thought it would, and was so big that she could virtually wrap it around herself twice. The bottom hung down onto the floor, and the hood, when he drew it up, fell around her face like a monk's cowl. But she had soon stopped her shivering.
“You put one on, too,” she said.
Sinclair took a shorter coat from the pile-it was red with a white cross on its sleeves and another on its back, and hung down to his thigh. But he did not know how to fasten it at first; there was a long ribbon of tiny metal ribs that ran down its front, and he pushed them together, thinking they might bind somehow, but they did not. Fortunately, he also found some metal buttons, under a narrow placket, that he found would snap together when pressed.
The dogs were restive, and done with their food. Several of them stood, staring, at Eleanor and Sinclair. And when he went to the food sack, one of them barked, no doubt thinking he was about to receive a second ration. But Sinclair dipped into the bag, and came up with a handful of rounded pellets, the size of shot, and put them to his own nose. The smell was vaguely horsey. He put one in his mouth; the taste was gritty but acceptable. He swallowed one, then the whole handful. They were crunchy but not nearly as hard as ship's biscuits.
“Here,” he said, holding out another handful to Eleanor. “They're not much, but no worse than army rations.”
But the smell seemed to upset her, and she turned away, shaking her head. Sinclair poured the pellets into one of the red coat's voluminous pockets. There wasn't time to argue about it now. He had too much to do.
He went to the chest at the rear of the pen and knelt beside it. The chains were gone, the hasp had been broken off, and the lid was barely attached. He raised it slowly, and inside found his sodden campaign coat, his stirrups, his helmet, a couple of his books- miraculously, still frozen solid and seemingly intact-and, finally, three unbroken bottles labeled, though illegibly, as Madeira from San Cristobal. He grabbed these first, wrapped them in the campaign coat, then carefully tucked the bundle into the shell of the sled. There were empty cargo bays, he discovered, running from the front of the sled to its rear stanchions, and he tossed everything else he could think of-his riding gear, his books-into them.
Finally, he dragged a sack of the food pellets toward the sled, and the dogs-now perhaps convinced that their provisions were being stolen-all stood up, on silent alert, at their neatly spaced stakes. That, or maybe it was just the odor he gave off. Sinclair had noticed that animals often became anxious in his presence… ever since Balaclava.
The lead dog-a massive creature with eyes like blue agate- barked furiously, and strained at his stake.
“Quiet down!” Sinclair urged, trying to keep his voice low but commanding. He prayed that the howling wind would keep anyone from hearing.
But as he lifted the bag into the sled, the dog leapt into the air, restrained only by the short chain running from its collar to the stake.
“Enough!” Sinclair declared. Eleanor was cowering against the wall, but Sinclair led her over to the sled and helped her to climb inside it.
“How will you ever harness them?” she asked, her voice nearly inaudible under the hood.
“The same way I've harnessed horses all my life.” Though, truth be told, he was wondering himself. He had not expected a rebellion. And he needed to quell the noise, immediately, or his whole plan would be for naught.
He came around the wooden partition and lifted the front of the harness-not so different from what was used on a coach-and-four-and shook it out. The other dogs studied him intently, but the lead dog, again, would have none of it. Barking loudly, he jumped at the intruder, but was yanked back to the ground by the buried stake. Instantly, he scrambled to his feet, spittle flying from his jaws, and leapt again-only this time the stake bent, then burst up out of the ground. Even the dog seemed surprised by it, shooting past Sinclair and banging his snout against the wooden wall. Wheeling around, and dragging the chain and stake, the dog charged at Sinclair, who managed to step to the side and parry the attack with one arm. The loose stake got snared on another one, still rooted in the permafrost, and in the few seconds it took for the dog to shake itself free, Sinclair dodged behind the partition.
Eleanor shouted his name, but Sinclair warned her to stay in the sled. The dog started to come at him one way, but when he saw Sinclair retreat toward the rear of the pen, where the wooden stairs led to the loft, he changed his direction and ran around the other side. Sinclair was halfway up the steps when he felt the dog's fangs digging into his boot, ripping at the leather-oh, how he wished he had his spurs on now-and as he struggled up the last few steps, he had the dog hanging off his leg. With his bare fingertips, he clawed at the floorboards while kicking out at the dangling animal.
When the dog abruptly lost its grip and fell, Sinclair stumbled up and into the loft. The rest of the team was barking below, and as Sinclair turned around and braced himself, he could hear the loose dog's paws scraping for purchase on the narrow stairs; then he saw its huge head, eyes ablaze and jaws open, appearing at the top. He knew what he had to do, and as the dog hurled itself through the air at him, he drew his sword and met his enemy
