Count Scar - SA (31 page)

Those who lived here were no tenants of mine, and might well be no one's tenants at all. Would they be just as likely to turn Melchior and me over to the heretics as to help us?

There was a sheepfold, redolent with fresh dung, but no sheep; they must have recently been driven even higher into the mountains for the summer's grazing. Well, I wasn't prepared to butcher a
sheep single-handed anyway. And the sheep's absence meant that the strongest members of the household would also be gone, making my raid easier. I climbed the wall cautiously, careful to come
down on my sound ankle, and started in search of a chicken coop.

From the cottage there abruptly came a loud barking. I froze, crouching below the wall, knife in my hand. A voice inside spoke in Auccitan. An old man's voice; the dog's bark too had been that of
an old dog. The young people and young sheepdogs would all be up on the highest slopes along with the sheep.

I sensed more than saw someone at the doorway. I kept dead still, waiting, as the old man stood listening. The blood pounded in my ears, but I hoped no one could hear it but me. The dog growled
as though to justify having barked. After a minute the man said something else, that might have been, "There's no one here," and moved away from the door.

But I waited several more minutes before resuming a stealthy progress around the cottage. I grinned to myself as no further canine challenges came. An old dog slowly loses sensitivity of both
hearing and smell; I hoped he had initially been startled into barking by something other than me.

At the back of the house I almost bumped into a low stone structure that turned out to be roofed steps leading down into a root cellar. I regained my balance and groped downward into an enclosed
space smelling of dry earth, and discovered by touch the last of the turnips. With three of them in my pouch, I went back up into the moonlight and found the old man's garden patch. It was too
early for most of the vegetables, but I located some young lettuces that should be ready; they joined the turnips.

Now for a chicken. I had saved the chicken coop for last, readily identifiable both by the smell and by the occasional sleepy cluck from within. In the flat moonlight I could see it was made of
wooden slats, big enough for several birds. The door closed with a simple latch.

I started to reach for the latch, then stopped. Whoever this farmer might be, the duke's tenant or Prince Alfonso's or the Church's, I had no indication that he was sympathetic to the heretics, and
he had done nothing to me that deserved such punishment as the loss of a hen. I had been, I thought bitterly, enjoying myself, outwitting an old man and an old dog even though I had had no luck
this afternoon outwitting the heretics. A sorry spectacle the Count of Peyrefixade would make if discovered, stealing a chicken like a beggar who has twice been turned away without a scrap and
decides to take his own dinner if it won't be freely given.

Well, if I wanted to pay this old man I had better do so before rather than after he set the dog on me. I took a coin from my belt—worth far more than a chicken and a few vegetables, but I didn't
have any coppers small enough—and laid it on the chicken coop threshold. Then I carefully unhooked the latch and reached inside.

My hand found warm feathers. A startled flapping stopped short as I reached in with the other hand and wrung the first chicken's neck.

But I had awakened the other birds. The rooster crowed a challenge., almost deafening at this close range in the quiet night. I shot away, vaulting over the wall with one hand, the other clutching
the dead hen. Wild barking broke out in the cottage behind me and lamp light again glowed yellow.

I stumbled in landing but jumped up and ran as fast I could in the dim light away from the cottage. The door banged open, and the dog was after me. Old dog or not, he cleared the wall easily and
ran far faster than I could go, barking loudly in the triumphant knowledge that he had been right about an intruder the whole time.

I spun around and landed a solid kick in his chest as he leaped at me. The pain from the ankle shot up my leg, but he tumbled backwards from the impact and took a moment to rise again. I put a
few more yards between me and the cottage before he ran snarling at me again, again to meet my boot.

The lantern light had reached the chicken coop, and I heard a surprised shout. The man had found my payment. The shout went promptly still—he was doubtless biting the coin to see if it was
genuine. But the old dog took this as a command to return. He had never been a large dog, and he was not at all happy about being kicked twice. But as he retreated toward the cottage he kept up a
steady stream of barking, telling me exactly what he would have done to me if he had been five years younger and thirty pounds heavier. I stumbled rapidly away through the night, clutching the
spoils of my raid and grinning.

For the first half mile I kept expecting pursuit, but no one followed me. I dropped down to a walk, limping now on my newly strained ankle. As I pressed onward up the mountain I found myself
going slower and slower. I thought I had noted the way well in coming down, but the moon was now low in the sky, and all the stones and stunted trees looked different when seen from another
angle. Several times I convinced myself that I had lost my way completely and would not find the priest before daylight, if at all. In my exhaustion the rocks between which I threaded my way
kept appearing with the shape of the castle of Peyrefixade, until I wasn't sure if I was trying to find where I had left him or trying to find home.

But after what seemed endless hours I heard the stamping of a horse and stumbled into the hollow by the spring. The last of the moonlight made Melchior's face colorless, but his chest still rose
and fell steadily. Fighting an almost overwhelming desire for sleep, I wrapped my cloak around me against the chill of the darkest part of the night, relit the fire, and started dressing the chicken
by its flickering light.

I was half dozing, sitting with my back against a rock, when I heard his voice. My head jerked, and my eyes flew open to find a faint dawn light cutting through the mists that draped the
mountain slopes. The priest's eyes were squeezed shut, and he was mumbling what sounded like a prayer through his teeth.

"Father Melchior," I said quietly, touching his uninjured arm. "Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes and started to lift his head but fell back weakly. He looked around for a moment, taking in the rocks and the two tethered horses, then focused on me. "The attackers?"

"We outran them—thanks in large part to your magic."

"And your knights?"

I shook my head. "They were supposed to be protecting you and me. But the heretics didn't seem particularly interested in them. They were after the two of us, clearly, and they captured the pack
horses—took Seneschal Guilhem with them when they went." I spat into the dirt. "I thought if I had him along I could keep an eye on him, and instead he led us straight into ambush."

"Which we might have avoided if I had not been asleep," said Melchior in a small voice.

"You did plenty," I said, pushing myself to my feet. "But here. I've made you some chicken stew, and you should also drink some willow broth."

I had to hold him up, his head and shoulders cradled in my arm, while he drank broth and ate a little meat and turnips. He winced in pain when I shifted him but did not cry out. Fortunately he
did not ask where I had procured a chicken.

"Unless the heretics want the war against them to start up again," I said with the most confidence I could muster, "I expect there will be a message from them shortly after we're back in
Peyrefixade, telling me the price for ransoming my knights."

Melchior was silent for several minutes after I laid him down again. The sun was fully up now, and in its light I felt hope that in a day or so the priest's wound would have healed enough that I
could get him back to Peyrefixade. I rebandaged his arm; the hole out of which I had cut the arrow was ugly and raw, but no flesh had yet begun to turn green.

"We have to get word to my abbot," Melchior said, just as I thought he had fallen asleep again. "Everyone in the castle knew the workmen had found that conviare, and the seneschal must have
told the Perfected about it. That's why they were so interested in capturing our luggage— and me."

"But they didn't get it. You saved it as well as saving us."

"That only gives us a short-term advantage. The masters of my Order had thought we had enough time to find the great battle telesma before the Perfected realized we too were looking for it—

that's why they sent me back unaided, except by the knowledge they imparted to me while we were there." His voice was tinged with both pain and desperation. "But now that the seneschal has
betrayed us, and the pupils of the third student of the old magus have bent their attention to finding the conviare, they will not rest until they find us—and, with the conviare in their hands,
enter Peyrefixade."

"They won't get into the castle," I said, trying to reassure myself as well as him. "Peyrefixade could hold out against an army ten times as numerous as the defenders, and I doubt the heretics
have many more warriors than those we saw yesterday. The only time the castle's ever been taken was back when the followers of the True Faith captured it from the heretics during the war, and
then our side had royal forces from the north to help provide an overwhelming advantage, and the heretics' greatest magus had just died."

"I must get word to my abbot," he insisted again, "before the Perfected warriors find us. I have the strength for only a little magic, and I must notify him before all else." He made an unsuccessful
attempt to sit up, then slumped back weakly. "You will have to help me. Bring me my saddlebags."

Not quite sure what he wanted, I brought him his luggage, handling it carefully. I didn't want to set off any powerful spells by mistake. My experiences with the conviare had made me very
uneasy.

But the priest made me unpack all his bags and vials of powder and pouches of what might have been bark and could have been bone. My skin shivered to touch them, but I understood his urgency.

I didn't like any better than he did the idea of the heretics, maybe made invisible again, quartering these mountains in search of us. Melchior seemed to know a way to warn his abbot of what had
happened, and if the two of us were going to make it safely back to Peyrefixade we needed all the help we could get.

At his direction, I spread out a piece of parchment, weighted it at the corners with four rust-colored stones carved intricately with tiny lines and whorls, and finally found the right bag of powder.

He had to peer into each one, mumbling, before he decided which to use. One which I opened, thinking it matched his description of what he wanted, he waved away with a wide-eyed look of
horror. "No, no, not that!" I didn't dare ask what that particular powder would do.

Carefully I sprinkled the gray powder he finally selected onto the piece of parchment. In spite of the constant wind, the powder did not blow around but settled itself in whorled patterns. Would
working magic here on the mountain slope alert the heretics to our presence?

Melchior propped himself up, wincing from the pain. "Would any of these other powders help your wound heal?" I ventured to ask. But he only waved me to silence, concentrating on the even
distribution of the fine gray powder.

He finally began speaking, words I couldn't quite understand. The incantation seemed to take a long time. His face, which had started to take on a somewhat better color after a helmetful of
chicken stew, grew slowly white again.

He finished at last, lying flat, his eyes half shut. "Help me," he said, so softly I could scarcely hear. "Help me up. I must write—"

I lifted him to a sitting position and tried to lift his uninjured arm out over the parchment, but he could not hold it up unassisted. After a moment he closed his eyes and whispered, "You must
do it, Count. The graphic magic is prepared and awaits only the writing. Write in the powder. Tell them—"

I waited a minute, but he did not continue. Glancing at his still, pale face I saw that he was no longer conscious. Tiredness made me so lightheaded it was hard to concentrate. I looked at the
parchment sprinkled with powder and took a deep breath. How was I supposed to write? And what would I say?

The wind strengthened slightly, and a few grains of gray powder rose and whirled away. If Melchior's spell had alerted the heretics' Magian, he might already be casting spells of his own to make
our magic ineffective. I had better work fast. The thought flitted through my mind that in working magic without all the spiritual training members of the Order of the Three Kings underwent, I
might be imperiling my own immortal soul, but I pushed the thought aside. My first responsibility now was to. the priest wounded in serving me. With another deep breath I leaned over the
parchment and, using my finger, began to write.

"The Perfected know that we have the conviare. They ambushed us and although they did not capture it, Brother Melchior is badly wounded. We are hiding somewhere in the mountains and will
try to reach Peyrefixade when we can." I signed it."Caloran" with a flourish—I wasn't going to attempt to recreate my monogram.

As I finished a stronger gust of wind reached us, and all the gray powder rose together in a funnel-shaped cloud. It skittered across the ground and between the rocks, flew upwards, then slowly
rained tiny dark grains down on us. A few fell on the parchment but now just lay as ordinary dust, with none of the whorls of a moment ago.