Taste of Lightning (12 page)

Perrin arranged himself with his legs akimbo and a sack loosely open between his feet. He began to sing a low, sweet song, and there was a stirring in the hay.

‘Don't,' said Tansy. ‘That's as bad as playing with the horses. Worse, if you're going to kill them. It's tricking them. It ain't fair.'

‘There's not much meat on them, but we have to eat. Unless you'd rather raid the farmhouse?'

‘But that's stealing,' said Tansy.

‘That's survival,' said Perrin crisply. ‘We don't have the luxury of your Baltish scruples now.'

Cautiously, Skir flexed his arms and legs. He still hurt all over, but he thought he could move without groaning aloud. He said faintly to Tansy, ‘I'll go. See if I can find something.'

But Tansy was glaring at Perrin. ‘
Baltish
scruples? What's that mean?'

‘Private property is sacred?' Perrin raised an eyebrow. ‘What's mine is mine? What can't be paid for isn't worth having? There's no ill that money can't heal?'

Tansy flushed, and her voice rose. She knew she was being insulted, but she wasn't quite sure how. ‘But you own things in Rengan, too. You've got money.'

‘Actually, my ignorant child, no, we don't. Our wealth is shared for the benefit of everyone.' He recited. ‘Rengan's health is our common wealth.'

‘But you must own things. Your land, your animals. Your clothes.'

‘Animals and land, no. They're held in common, managed by High Command. Clothes – well, sort of. They're passed around. Mended, unpicked and remade. Except for the Army uniforms, of course. The Army gets the best of everything. This shirt's brand new, it's the only new thing I've ever had. And you're a fine one to lecture me about stealing, by the way, with two of the King's own horses over there in the corner.'

Tansy flushed. ‘We ain't stolen them. Just borrowed. Soon as we're safe away from Arvestel, we can set them free and they'll find their own way home.'

‘Ri-ight,' drawled Perrin. ‘Of course we will . . . Where's the boy – Skir?'

‘He just said he'd go and find food. Don't you listen?'

‘Oh dear,' said Perrin heavily, with a great show of folding up his sack one-handed. ‘Now one of us will have to rescue him. Again.'

Tansy felt another surge of irritation. ‘You do it, you're so good at it. Or does your hand hurt?'

‘It's all right.'

‘And if you find anything to eat, you can bring it back to share. Like in Rengan.'

Perrin smiled. ‘Very good, Tansy, very good.' And with an elaborate bow, he was gone.

Tansy put the lamp out. She could see just as well by the moonlight that streamed through the chinks in the wall. It was chilly now, and she took her cloak from her pack. It was slightly damp, but the packs were good quality; they hadn't let in much water at all.

The smell of the horses and the sound of Penthesi and Sedge steadily munching hay was comforting. Letting them eat someone else's hay was a kind of stealing, too, she supposed. But horses had to be fed; that was more important. She didn't have any – what did the Gani call it? –
Baltish scruples
about that. And they
would
send the horses back, no matter what he said; she was no thief, and no idiot either. Not idiot enough to steal from the King . . . She'd always thought Ganis were stupid, but this one was a smart-breeches. Twisting her words around and laughing at her.

But even the Gani couldn't spoil tonight. She was free, free of the Palace. And free of Wanion, too. Wasn't she? Tansy shivered as she fingered the bruise on her forehead and the gash on her cheek. She was lucky to be alive. Was the Witch-Woman finished with her? She'd never let herself be owned by anyone again; she'd die first. She'd never go back there, never. She'd follow Skir as far as he wanted; she owed him that. And she didn't care where they went. Cragonlands must be a good sort of place, if everyone kept fighting over it. Maybe she'd end up looking after the King's horses after all, but it'd be the King of Cragonlands, not the King of Baltimar . . .

Tansy stretched her arms up and sighed, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from her, and lay back in the hay.

Every sense alert, Perrin crept along the hedgerow down the hill to the big square farmhouse and the cluster of outbuildings. The moons were up. It was easy to see, and easy to blend with the shadows.

Perrin prowled close to the nearest building: a goat shed, judging from the smell. At the end of the path, in the farmhouse yard, he heard voices, the tramp of boots, a dinner gong. A door creaked, then slammed. A light moved about in the goat shed, and he heard bad-tempered bleats. And there was another sound. Somebody breathed in the shadows beside him: shallow breaths, frightened.

‘Skir?' he whispered.

A hand grabbed his shirt. ‘Ssh!'

Don't tell me to ssh
, thought Perrin.
I'm the trained soldier
. A flash of memory: Tugger waiting with his back turned while the squad sneaked up behind him, calling each name as the long grass rustled. He'd never got one wrong. Perrin pushed the memory away and firmly closed the lid on it. Just survive the next few breaths, the next quarter of the day. Don't get stuck in the past, don't fret too far ahead. That was the way to stay alive.

Skir's grip on his shirt tightened. Then Perrin heard it too: the crunch of boots on loose stones. His heart quickened. Half-a-dozen men. Odd how the military march was the same, whatever side of the border. He pressed himself back against the rough plaster of the shed wall. These weren't Palace guards; this was the real thing. The Army – soldiers in battle-dress. The enemy. Perrin's stomach churned and his palms were slick with sweat. The corporal carried a lantern on a pole that swung back and forth in great arcs, illuminating the clean white sheds, the swept yard, the apple trees studded with tiny fruits.

‘Halt!' cried the corporal, and the boots came to a ragged stop.

Typical Balts
, thought Perrin.
No discipline.

The men breathed hard, and someone coughed.
Out of
condition
, thought Perrin automatically, then half-grinned in the dark. He answered back to himself as he would have done to his sergeant:
If the Balts are such a lousy crew, why do they keep
beating us?
Skir stirred at his side, a small panicky movement, and he gave the boy's wrist a sharp warning squeeze.

‘Who's that? What do you want?' It was an old woman's voice, surly and suspicious. A second lantern emerged from the shed to join the corporal's light on the path.

‘Where's your master? We're on the King's business.'

‘I'm the master here, laddie, so mind your manners. This is my farm. King's business, eh? The King never showed any interest in us before, unless it was to take taxes.'

‘We're searching for fugitives, ma'am, dangerous prisoners and horse-thieves. Had a report they were seen riding this side of Well's Water. Two boys and a girl, one with red hair, one dark, one fair. Permission to search your property?'

‘Couple of boys and a girl? Don't sound dangerous to me. Fine lot of soldiers you are, to go chasing after a couple of kids larking about. I've seen nothing, but I'll ask my lads at dinner. Now be off with you. I've chores to do, we're short-handed.'

‘Permission to search then, ma'am?'

‘No you don't. I don't want a lot of soldier-boys tramping about all over my property. Now get off my land before I take a pitchfork to your behind.'

Perrin peered around the corner of the goat shed and saw a thickset, beefy young man towering over the old woman. His fingers, thick as sausages, curled tight around his spear-shaft.

‘I'm an officer in the King's Army and I give the orders!'

The old woman stood her ground. ‘I know what I know. You got no right to be on my property unless I give permission. And I don't. You take one more step and I'll report you to My Lord Sabot. It's my taxes that pay for your fancy uniforms and your shiny swords, my lad, and don't you forget it. Now be off!'

There was a pause. For a dreadful moment in the silence Skir thought they'd hear his heart roar; he half-expected them to lunge around the shed and drag him away. Then, worse, he had an impulse to dart out, wave his arms, shout
Here I am!
He twisted his fingers into Perrin's shirt and squeezed his eyes shut.

The rhythmic crunch-crunch started up, the sound of retreating boots. ‘We'll be back in the morning, missus!' yelled the corporal. ‘And we'll bring your Lord Sabot himself!'

‘You do that, laddie!' jeered the old woman, her lantern held high. ‘If you can find him.' She spat onto the dirt. Then she made her way, slow and steady, down the path to the farmhouse.

Perrin nudged Skir in the darkness.

‘Is it safe?' Skir whispered.

‘Probably not. But I'm not going back to your girlfriend empty-handed.'

‘How many times do I have to tell you, she's
not
my girlfriend.'

‘You wish she was though, don't you?'

‘No, I don't. I mean – well, I don't wish she wasn't –'

Perrin shrugged. ‘She's a pretty girl, sort of, when she holds her tongue. And some men enjoy being bossed around. Not me. I get enough of that in the Army. But I can see why it might appeal to you.'

‘It's none of your business!'

‘She's a laundry-maid. You're supposed to be a king. Why don't you just click your fingers?'

Skir looked at him with dislike. ‘I thought everyone was equal in Rengan.'

‘Ah, but we're in Baltimar now.'

‘Don't you think we've got more pressing things to worry about than whether Tansy and I are – are sweethearts?'

Perrin took pity on him at last. ‘Let's see what the goats have left us.'

Fortunately for them, the old woman fed her goats on kitchen scraps, and they were able to salvage a decent haul: some carrot peel, a squashed quarter of fruit pie, cheese rinds and a handful of spinach leaves. Perrin also found one cranky nanny-goat that had been overlooked for milking, and squeezed out enough to fill a tin cup. They crept back to the barn in the moonlight.

‘Baltish scruples saved us that time,' said Perrin. ‘I owe you an apology, Miss Laundry-Maid.'

‘Course she wouldn't want soldiers prying around,' said Tansy through a mouthful of fruit pie. ‘Most likely she told the tax collectors she had a bad harvest last year, but she's got three barns stuffed with wheat. Happens all the time.'

There was a rustle in the hay, and Skir jumped. ‘I wish we could bolt the door.'

Perrin grinned. ‘The rats won't hurt you. Might just nibble your toes. They don't know you wouldn't do the same to them.'

Skir ignored him. ‘We were lucky tonight,' he said. ‘But we have to work out which way we're going.'

‘Cragonlands is north,' said Tansy. ‘I know that much.'

Perrin was silent. The rendezvous was at a place called Dody's Leap, right on the border. That's where Perrin's squad was supposed to hand over Skir to the second team, who'd take him not into Cragonlands, but further north to Rengan. Those were Perrin's orders; he wasn't going to stuff up anything else if he could help it.

‘First,' said Skir nervously, not looking at Tansy, ‘we should decide if we're all sticking together.'

Perrin reached for a spinach stalk. ‘Tansy, you could take one of the horses. Fingers and his pals won't be looking for a girl on her own.'

‘Fingers?' said Skir.

‘Our friend the corporal. Hands like gloves stuffed with mincemeat, didn't you see?'

Skir shot a look at Tansy. ‘You could ride home to Lotch.'

‘Of course, Fingers
will
be looking for a big black stallion with the King's mark,' drawled Perrin. ‘And I forgot – we're setting the horses free, aren't we?'

‘Not yet,' said Tansy.

Skir said, ‘But Tansy, if you'd rather go on alone –'

‘I'll stick with you,' said Tansy. ‘I ain't leaving you alone with
him
.'

‘Well, if you're sure,' said Skir.

‘I'll stay as long as you want,' said Tansy.

Skir's shoulders relaxed. He said, ‘They'll be expecting us to head north-east, the way we're going now, on the road up through Suum and Tiff and Lotch. But we could ride due north through the forests, to the coast road, and follow that around Codlin's Gulf. It'll take longer, but there's not so many towns.' He saw Perrin's face and stopped. ‘Do you have a better idea?'

Perrin laughed. ‘No.' Dody's Leap was right on the coast; they'd reach it just as surely, maybe quicker, by Skir's route. As for what would happen when they got there – he'd worry about that later. He gave them a disarming grin. ‘Baltimaran geography isn't my strong point. Tugger – our squad leader – showed us a map, but we were expecting to sail back around the coast, so I didn't waste any time studying it.'

‘I never seen a map in my life, except the map of Da's farm,' said Tansy. ‘I know Arvestel is south, and Lotch is north, and Cragonlands and Rengan is further north, but that's all. And the Westlands is over there somewhere, over the ocean, where all the sorcerers are.' She waved a vague hand at the barn wall in the direction of the sunset. ‘All the sorcerers except you two.'

Skir said, ‘Well, I've had ten years of geography lessons. I could draw a map of the Threelands in my sleep.' He scratched with a stick on the dirt floor. ‘Here's Baltimar. This is Arvestel. We're about – here. There's the border with Cragonlands. This is Codlin's Gulf –' Without thinking, Skir scratched the Signs that spelled out the name.

‘What's that?' said Tansy, leaning over his shoulder.

Skir scuffed out the Signs. ‘Nothing.'