in the guard shack sipping tea and trying to keep dry and warm. He'd counted on that when he'd worked the mosquito spell, figuring they wouldn't hear the cries of their victims. So far it looked as if he'd guessed right.
He motioned and both locks, inside and out, fell away. He cracked the door a few inches, saw no one about, and went out, shutting and locking the door behind him. With luck his escape wouldn't be noticed for a few hours until the sleep spell faded and the guards woke up and found him gone.
The rain was falling so hard he was soaked through within seconds. He made his way gingerly across the muddy ground, trying to work out a plan of action for when he reached the guard shack. He still needed another bit of luck to complete his escape. Actually, he needed more than a bit. He strongly suspected that to overcome twelve soldiers a mosquito just wouldn't do.
When he got close he heard a thump and a groan, then the sound of a heavy weight splashing onto the muddy ground. Safar had frozen at the first sound, pulling back into a dark recess. He heard bootsteps going into the yard and tried to make himself smaller.
Then he saw a familiar form leading four men toward the cell building.
He sagged in relief.
It was Leiria!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The priest chanted a prayer, swinging his censer by the chain, lid clack-clacking, incense smoke billowing through the altar room.
King Quintal gagged on the smoke, making the painful throb in his temples drum harder and he cursed the very gods the priest was invoking. Quintal was sick-sick with fear, sick from too much drink and trebly sick from enforced sobriety on this most horrible of mornings.
Two other priests joined the others in sing-song prayer, adding their censer smoke to the too-sweet perfume that already infused the air.
Quintal shouted, 'Get on with it you pack of shrieking eunuchs!'
The head priest protested. 'But Your Majesty, this is a solemn occasion. Everything must be properly purified.'
'Well, I'm purified up to my behind,' Quintal roared. 'My bowels are bursting with your damned purity.
If you want to keep your head you'll get that horse out here right now. Let's kill it, and be done with it!'
The frightened priest issued orders and a moment later the stallion was brought out by sweet-faced boys dressed in white robes. The executioner followed, a broad ax resting on his shoulders.
Sick as he was, Quintal couldn't help but admire the animal. Besides its classic form, the stallion seemed quite calm. Not placid-his head was up and his eyes were alert. Confidence, that's what it was. Despite circumstances that would panic most animals, this one acted as if it were in complete control of the situation.
To Quintal's right a bulk as large as his own stirred uncomfortably. It was Ulan, sitting in the traditional place of honor. He was also the sole public witness to the event. Other than the principals, the sacrificial chamber was empty. The room was large enough to hold several hundred and normally it would be packed with dignitaries and honored guests. The priests began to pray over the horse and Ulan shifted again, the ornate seat groaning under his weight.
'I don't like this, Majesty,' he grumbled. 'Don't seem right to kill a great horse like that. And in such a hurry, too. With nobody around, so it's like we've got no respect for him.'
Quintal flushed, angry, but he bit off a royal curse. Ulan was the most popular man in Naadan. Not only was he a Brave Titan, fresh from victory, but he was well-known for his many kindnesses to the poor, his temperate lifestyle, and for speaking up when ordinary people were wronged. In short, he was Quintal's rival for the throne. And if the king wasn't careful he find himself deposed.
Quintal pretended sympathy. 'I know, I know,' he said. 'I've been in your place-declared Brave Titan of Naadan with all the honors and glories. And you want your friends to see. And your family, too.
They'll all be proud and damned disappointed as well they can't be here.'
'I don't care about that!' Ulan said. 'Killin' the horse is what bothers me. I already offered to put up a sacrifice double his value. That should satisfy the gods. I won him fair. And I oughta be able to do what I like!'
It was all Quintal could do to keep from calling the guard to punish Ulan for his impertinence. But he needed the wrestler's support. Especially now.
'I can't take a chance on pissing off the gods,' the king said. 'Especially right now!'
Ulan was not mollified. 'So why're we doin' it this way, Majesty?' he asked. 'In secret and all. Like we're ashamed of something. I don't like the smell of this!'
Quintal looked about to see if anyone could overhear him. Then, desperate to win Ulan's backing, he leaned closer to say, 'I'll tell you what's happening. But I've got to swear you to secrecy.'
'Done,' Ulan said. 'You've got my word as a citizen, brother wrestler and fellow Brave Titan.'
Quintal hesitated, then said, 'A terrible thing has happened. Safar Timura has escaped.'
Ulan gaped. 'How?'
Quintal sighed. 'It doesn't matter how. He just did. I haven't told anyone other than my closest advisers, otherwise the whole city'd be in a panic.'
Ulan grimaced in painful understanding. 'When King Protarus hears about it they'll be the hells to pay.'
'Exactly. I haven't sent runners out to tell him yet. I'm trying to decide what to do and how to portray it.
But I can't delay much longer because Protarus will think I've conspired with Lord Timura.'
He pointed at the horse. 'That's why I'm doing this so quickly and so quietly. My priests tell me the faster we make the sacrifice, the faster we get the gods' blessings. Which we'll need when Iraj Protarus hears what's happened. But my generals said if any kind of crowd was gathered together-especially a crowd of such important Naadanians-word was sure to get out. Then we'd have public hysteria on our hands at the same time Protarus showed up.'
Ulan frowned. Like most Naadanians of late, he thought Quintal a drunken fool. Now, it seemed he'd become dangerous as well. If Iraj Protarus was about to pay a visit with blood in his eye, they ought to be doing more to get ready than killing a poor horse in some stupid secret ceremony. Ulan was never one to keep his deep-felt beliefs silent.
The big wrestler was weighing a reply, when a voice broke through: 'Perhaps I can solve your problem, gentlesirs!'
The men jolted around and saw Safar standing there, hands on hips, wizard's cloak thrown back to show a gleaming breast plate, steel blue eyes boring out from a face darkened by the desert sun.
Then a second jolt as they saw the tall warrior woman standing by his side, crossbow cocked and ready.
Behind her were at least ten other bowmen, all poised to strike.
Quintal jumped as the executioner saw the group, let out a berserker's roar and charged, swinging his ax over his head.
Leiria fired and the bolt dropped him in midstride and he crashed to the floor, dead.
Ulan was coming to his feet, but Safar stopped him with a shouted, 'Hold, friend! I mean you no harm!'
The giant wrestler sagged back.
Safar turned to Quintal, saying, 'I'm sorry for that man. He was only trying to protect you. Now, let's make certain no one else makes such a tragic error. Tell your people to keep quite still and when our business here is done we'll be on our peaceful way.'
Quintal gave the orders, although he saw it wasn't really necessary. The priests and boys were frozen with fear. Then the horse nickered, pulled free and trotted over to Safar. To the king's amazement the two seemed to know one another. They acted like old friends, too long apart. Safar touched the horse, hesitant at first, then it snorted with joy and nuzzled him. Safar patted and stroked and whispered into the horse's ear.
Then he looked up, blue eyes moist. 'Does he have a name?' His voice was husky.
