Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [38]
“Now, what was that all about?” Ista wondered aloud.
Foix, sitting at her feet, smirked. “I believe my brother was seeking to display his prowess to Liss, not to compete with hers. I fear he did not handle his surprise well.” He settled back on one elbow with an air of enjoyable interest that did not seem entirely due to the colorful excitement of the upcoming race.
“So why aren’t you down there?” she asked him. “Do your ribs still trouble you?”
“No, lady. But I’m no great rider.” His eyes narrowed with amusement. “I’ll choose my ground, when I do, with more wit.” He was not, Ista suspected, referring to contests in a rural festival.
Under the direction of a pair of shouting organizers, the riders arranged themselves in an uneven, jostling line across the road. Vinyasca’s town divine, a blue-and-white sash wrapped around his waist, stood on the stump and intoned a short blessing to dedicate the race to the goddess, then held up a blue kerchief. His hand dropped. With yells from both riders and onlookers, the horses plunged off.
At first, the horses clashed for position in a heart-stopping melee—one rider fell—but by the time the leaders were partway to the turning point, the line was spreading out. Liss’s bay and Ferda’s black both ran near the front of the pack. Ista squinted anxiously into the distance, lips parted, breath coming faster. When the racers appeared again around the mound of oaks, the two shared a clear and widening lead. Ista’s party all broke into cheers.
Halfway back along the road from the trees, Liss threw a glance over her shoulder at Ferda and his laboring black, then leaned forward low over her horse’s neck. The rangy bay seemed to rise and float over the ground, and the gap between them widened rapidly.
Even Ista found herself cheering then: “Yes! Go! Ha!”
Liss was two dozen horse lengths ahead as she neared the stump. But then, suddenly, she sat bolt upright. Her horse’s stride abruptly shortened; in a few more yards the bay was nearly bouncing in place. Ferda’s foam-flecked black flashed past, and Liss eased her reins and let her mount canter demurely after him. Her animal looked as though it was ready to run another race just like this one, and Ista was reminded that a typical courier leg was fifteen or so miles. The cries of the onlookers took on a decidedly bewildered tone. The rest of the field pelted past the finish point, and the crowd swirled down onto the road.
Foix, one arm wrapped around his knees as he rocked, held his hand over his mouth and choked back sputtering noises.
Ferda was standing in his stirrups, astonished and red with exertion and fury. He was nevertheless fêted as the winner by the dubious locals, who shot many looks over their shoulders at Liss. Liss put her nose in the air and walked her horse past him toward the town and the waiting stables. Ferda looked as though he wanted to fling his blue-and-white garland on the ground in front of her in a rage, but couldn’t so insult the goddess or his hosts.
“If this is a courtship,” said Ista to Foix, “might you not advise your brother on his, ah, method?”
“Not for all the world,” said Foix, who had gained control of his breathing again. Little squeaks still leaked out now and then. “Nor would he thank me if I did. Now, mind you, my lady, I would throw myself between my brother and a Roknari crossbow quarrel without hesitation. In fact, I have. But there must be limits to fraternal self-sacrifice, I think.”
Ista smiled dryly. “Is that the way of it? I see.”
Foix shrugged. “Well, who knows? Time must tell.”
“Indeed.” It reminded