Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [57]
Her translator took it back. “Indeed. Royina.” He favored her with a bow in the Roknari court style, right hand sweeping down before him, thumb tucked in the palm: one part irony, one part wariness.
The commander said in Roknari, ~So, this is Royina Iselle’s infamous mad mother, truly?~
~It seems so, my lord.~
~The largesse of the gods has fallen upon us,~ said the dark-haired one in a voice that vibrated with excitement. He made the Quadrene four-point sign of blessing, touching forehead, navel, groin, and heart, his thumb carefully folded inward. ~In one lucky blow, all of our pains are repaid and our fortunes are made.~
~I thought they kept her locked up in a castle. How is it they were so careless as to let her out to wander about on the roads like this?~ said the commander.
~Her guard could not have anticipated us here. We did not anticipate us here,~ the dark-haired one said.
The commander frowned at the letter, though it was plain he could not read more than one word in three of it without the help of his officer. ~This spy of their chancellor babbles too carelessly of the gods. It is impious.~
And it worries you. Good, Ista thought. It was hard to think of Foix as a spy. Although her estimate of his subtlety and wits rose another notch, for he’d not let fall the least hint of his mandate to report upon her. It made perfect sense in retrospect, of course. If he had been writing to anyone in the world but Lord dy Cazaril, it would have offended Ista deeply, but all of Chalion was in the chancellor’s charge—and her own debt to the man was as boundless as the sea.
The commander cleared his throat, and continued to Ista in heavily accented Ibran, “You think you are god-touched, mad queen?”
Ista, sitting very still, allowed her lips to curve up just a trifle, enigmatic. “If you were god-touched, you would not have to ask. You would know the answer.”
He jerked back, eyes narrowing. “Blasphemous Quintarian.”
She gave him her best impassive stare. “Inquire of your god. I promise you shall meet Him soon. His mark is on your brow, and His arms are open to receive you.”
The dark-haired one made a noise of inquiry; the Ibran-speaking officer translated her cool remark, an arrow shot at random from Ista’s point of view. Although it hardly needed communion with the gods to make that prophecy, given the Jokonan raiders’ precarious situation. The commander’s lips thinned still more, but he made no further attempt to cross words with her. He at least seemed to grasp how much more perilous his retreat had grown due to her presence here as a prisoner. Liss’s escape had been a greater disaster than he’d first guessed.
The women were moved up beside the commander’s campsite, and two extra guards were assigned to watch them—to watch Ista, she had no doubt. This put paid to any dream of slipping away into the woods in darkness, in some moment of confusion or inattention.
The evening continued unsettled. A Jokonan soldier was dragged in and whipped for some infraction—attempted desertion, most likely. The senior officers sat close together and debated—sometimes breaking into angry oaths, too loud, then quickly muffled—about whether to hold the column together for mutual defense or break up into small groups and finish the flight to Jokona in better secrecy.
It wouldn’t be long before some no longer waited for orders to break and run. Ista had spent part of the long ride, earlier, distracting her mind by counting the Jokonan numbers—the sum had come to some ninety-two men. It would be interesting to count again when the light returned tomorrow. The fewer their company, the less defense staying together would become. How long before the column was forced into splitting by default?
The Jokonan commander had every reason, internal and external, to push on as quickly as possible, and Ista was not surprised when she was wakened at midnight and lashed to a horse again. This time, however, she was moved up from the baggage train and put in hand of the Ibran-speaking