Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [144]
“Can you, simultaneously, handle a screaming, weeping, distraught woman?”
“Ah,” he said, contemplating this unpalatable vision. “Can you?”
“I think so.” In fact, I think I’m looking forward to it.
“I would, um, appreciate that, Royina.”
“Good. Warn Arhys’s officers . . . hm.” Her eyes narrowed. “I suspect Arhys would not want this tale bruited about. Dy Cabon. If we’re not back in—how long, Foix? Two hours?”
“They had four horses hitched, and an hour’s start—two or three hours.”
“If we’re not back in three hours, tell Arhys’s senior officers what we have done, and have them send men after us.” Ista turned to Foix. “Hurry. We’ll meet you in the forecourt as soon as the horses are saddled.”
He saluted her and was gone. Liss was already stripping out of her fine dress and kicking off her slippers. Ista pushed the protesting dy Cabon out the door.
“But I should ride with you, Royina!” cried the divine. “And Foix should not be left unguided!”
“No. I need you here. And if Foix’s dancing bear requires a collar, I am better fitted to supply it.”
“And you’re too fat and you ride too slow,” Liss’s unsympathetic voice floated through the window, accompanied by a thump of boots being lined up.
Dy Cabon reddened.
Ista rested her hand on his shoulder. “This is a dry country, and culverts are hard to come by. You will be one less terror for my heart to worry about, safe in here.”
His color deepened, but he bowed in unhappy obedience nonetheless. Ista shut the door on him and hurried to don her riding clothes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN THE FORECOURT, ISTA WAS STARTLED BY THE HORSE LISS LED out for her. Tall, shimmering white with a soft gray nose, mane and tail like silk banners—Ferda would have waxed poetic. The stall stains were carefully washed off its coat, with only a few faint yellow traces that reminded her inescapably of the blotches on dy Cabon’s white robes. It snuffled and nudged at her, big dark eyes liquid and amiable.
“What’s this?” Ista asked, as Liss led it to the mounting block.
“They tell me his name is Feather. Short for Featherwits. I asked for the best-trained horse in the stable for you, and they begged me to take him out, because since Lord Illvin fell sick he’s done little but laze in his stall and eat and get fat.”
“Is this Lord Illvin’s own mount, then?” asked Ista, throwing a leg over the broad back. The horse stood perfectly still for her as she disposed her padded knees gingerly against its sides and found her stirrups. “Surely it isn’t a warhorse.”
“No, he has another stallion for that—evil-tempered scarred red brute that no one else will go near.” Liss threw herself up on her courier palomino, which sidled uncooperatively and seemed inclined to buck, but settled under her stern hand. “It’s savaged any number of grooms. They showed me their injuries. Very impressive.”
Foix’s hand rose and fell, and he and Pejar on their mounts led the way out the gate, followed by Liss and Ista and then the half dozen remaining men of the Daughter’s company. They sorted themselves into single file to descend the narrow switchback road past the village. Beyond its walls, they turned onto the road from Tolnoxo that Ista had arrived down so many crowded days ago. Foix set a brisk but not killing pace, walking up slopes, trotting down, cantering on the flat. Featherwit seemed a slander, for the horse was so responsive to Ista’s lightest command of rein or heel that it seemed she had only to think her desire. Its trot was a long smooth ripple, its canter like being rocked along in a sedan chair. She was relieved by its gentleness, for it seemed a long way to the hard ground from her perch. Lord Illvin would need a tall horse, certainly.
Riding through a moist wooded area by the river, they stirred up a plague of large buzzing horseflies. Ista grimaced and slapped at the ones she could reach as they settled hungrily on Feather’s silky sides. They crunched disgustingly, leaving blood streaks on her palm. Liss’s palomino bucked and squealed. Foix glanced back