Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [50]
“No!”
“Foix! Can you stay with him—help him? Keep both your heads down and don’t come out, no matter what!”
Foix glanced down the track at the cover she pointed to and seemed to understand the plan at once. “Aye, Royina!”
They scraped to a halt over the culvert. The streamlet here did not fill it full, though it would be a cramped, wet, uncomfortable crouch, especially for dy Cabon’s quivering bulk. Foix swung down, threw his reins to Pejar, and caught the gasping divine as he half fell from his animal. “Wrap this around you, hide those white robes.” Foix tossed his gray cloak around dy Cabon, hustling him off the road. Another guard began grimly towing dy Cabon’s mule; relieved of its great burden, it broke again into a canter. A canter wasn’t going to be enough, Ista thought.
“Look after each other!” she cried in desperation. The pair was already scrambling into the low mouth of the culvert, and she could not tell if they heard her or not.
They started forward once again. There was another here who must not be taken by the rough soldiery, she thought. “Liss!” she called. The girl rode nearer. Ista’s horse was dark with sweat, blowing; Liss’s tall bay still cantered easily.
“Ride ahead—”
“Royina, I won’t leave you—”
“Fool girl, listen! Ride ahead and carry warning to anyone you pass, Jokonan raiders are coming. Raise the countryside! Get help and send it back!”
Understanding dawned in her face. “Aye, Royina!”
“Ride like the wind! Don’t look back!”
Liss, face set, saluted her and bent over her horse’s neck. Its stride lengthened. The three or four galloping miles they’d covered so far were clearly but a warm-up for it. In moments, the bay outpaced every horse in the party and started to draw ahead.
Yes, fly, girl. You don’t even have to outride the Jokonans, as long as you can outride us . . .
As they topped the next rise, where the road swung out around a bulge in the hill, Ista looked back. There was no sign whatever of the divine or Foix. The first Jokonan riders were galloping across the culvert without pausing or looking down, intent on their quarry ahead. The tightness in Ista’s chest eased a little, even as she gasped for breath.
At last, her whirling brain began to take thought for herself. If captured, should she maintain her incognito? What worth would a minor female cousin of the rich provincar of Baocia seem to them? Would Sera dy Ajelo’s status be enough to buy safety for her men as well as her? But the dowager royina of Chalion, Royina Iselle’s own mother, was far too exciting a prize to let fall into the grubby hands of a pack of Jokonan soldier-bandits. She glanced around at her grimly intent outriders. I don’t want these loyal young men to die for me. I don’t want any man to die for me, ever again.
Ferda galloped up beside her horse, pointed back. “Royina, we must cut loose the mules!”
She nodded understanding, gulped for breath. Her legs ached from gripping the heaving sides of her mount. “Dy Cabon’s saddlebags—they must be got rid of—hidden—all his books and papers will reveal him, they might go back and search! And mine as well, I have letters in my own name—”
His lips drew back in a grimace of understanding; he stood in his stirrups and fell behind. She turned in her saddle and scrabbled at the rawhide ties holding her bags behind her cantle. Happily, Liss had tied them intelligently; the strong knots came loose at Ista’s pull.
Ferda again galloped up beside her; now he had the divine’s heavy pair of bags over his pommel. She glanced back. The loosed baggage mules and dy Cabon’s white beast were falling behind, stumbling to a halt, wandering gratefully from the road.
They were approaching a bridge over a strong freshet. Ferda held out his arm in demand, and she swung her bags over to him. He reared his horse atop the bridge and violently heaved first one set of bags, then the other, over the crumbling stone balustrade to the downstream side. The bags floated away, bumping