Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [168]
“Have you seen Learned dy Cabon lately?” Ista asked Illvin.
He nodded. “Still holding up in the sickrooms. We have pallets strewn through three chambers now. Half a dozen fellows just came down with dysentery. With no wash water left, it won’t even take demons to spread that all over the fortress. Bastard’s hell. At this rate, Sordso will be able to take Porifors by assault tomorrow with six ponies, a rope ladder, and a Quadrene temple children’s choir.” His teeth gritted, white against his blackened face. “Oh.” He held out the sack. “Would you like some baked horsemeat? It’s not rotted. Yet.”
Ista eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know. Is it Feather?”
“No. Happily.”
“Not . . . right now, thank you.”
“You should keep up your strength. Five gods know when we’ll eat again.” He dug out a chunk and dutifully munched it. “Liss?” He held out the bag to her.
“No, thank you,” she echoed Ista thinly.
Failing to take his own advice, he passed the bag on to the former archers, now stone-throwers, who accepted it with murmured thanks and somewhat less revulsion. A crack sounded, as another timber in the stable block gave way and fell in a cloud of soot. Illvin returned to the inner side of the tower to stare down into the debacle again.
“That was one day. Less. Bastard’s tears, what will we be reduced to in one week?”
Ista leaned on the sun-warmed stone with arms that shook, past prayer. “I have brought this down upon you all,” she said in a low voice. “I am sorry.”
His brows flicked up; he rested on one elbow beside her, looking across at her. “I’m not so sure you can claim that honor, lady. The situation here was well along this road before you ever arrived in our midst. If your presence had not baited the Jokonans into attack now, you may be sure they would have struck within another month or so—against a fortress with both of its most experienced commanders dead and rotted, or worse, and none even to explain the horrors pouring down out of nowhere upon it.”
Ista rubbed her aching brow. “So we’re actually not sure if I make any difference, except this way I hand myself as hostage and pawn to Joen.” Perhaps. She stared down at the patterned paving stones, far below her. There are other ways to avoid becoming a hostage.
He followed her gaze, and his eyes narrowed in a penetrating frown. He reached out with two fingers and gently turned her chin toward him. “You made a difference to me,” he said. “Any woman who can wake a man from a sleep of death with a kiss deserves a second glance, I think.”
Ista snorted bitterly. “I didn’t wake you with a kiss. I only disrupted and redirected the flow of your soul-fire, as I did later with Cattilara. The kiss was just . . . self-indulgence.”
A little smile curved his lips. “I thought you said it was a dream.”
“Uh . . .” Oh. So she had. His lips curved up farther, maddeningly. She said, “A stupid impulse, then.”
“Come, I thought it was a brilliant impulse. You underestimate yourself, lady.”
Ista flushed. “I am afraid I have no talent for”—she swallowed—“dalliance. When I was young I was too stupid. Now I’m old, I am too drab.” Too stupid then too mad then too drab then too late. “I’m just not the sort.”
“Really?” He turned around, leaned against the battlement, and took up her hand with an air of great curiosity. One sooty finger began to trace the dirt-streaked lines within her palm. “I wonder why not? They say I am a man of wit. I should be able to figure it out, with a little study. Map the ground plan of Castle Ista, mark the defenses . . .”
“Find the weaknesses?” Firmly, she took her hand back.
“All right, a deal of study.”
“Lord Illvin, this is not the time or place for this!”
“Truly. I’m so tired I could hardly stand up. Nor climb to my feet, either.”
There was a short silence.
His lips peeled back on a flash of teeth. “Ha. I saw your mouth twitch, then.”
“It did not.” It did now, helplessly, as she was reminded of the bird in its nest.
“Oh, better