Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [127]
The creatures were climbing again, desperate and ravenous, struggling to escape the high-walled fortress of his mind. Their claws slipped and scratched as they gained purchase. He shivered, his eyes closed tight against the struggle. When he opened them, Willem was gone and the grey mare had buried her face in the pack mule’s grain sack.
He pulled her back. ‘Not now, girl. You’re tethering with the others in the picket line.’ She pinned her ears and snaked her head around towards him. He held his palm out flat, clicking his tongue when she bumped her nose into it. ‘No need to get vicious, sweet pea. Your legs will feel better when the liniment takes effect and you’ll have plenty to eat. Patience.’
He gripped her crest and gave it a shake, leading her away. Once secured with the others in his charge, he slipped on her feed bag and headed for the cook tent, his stomach rumbling. The aromas drew him but before he entered, he overheard a conversation. The whispers were hushed but he heard just the same.
‘Are you certain, Willem? He said that?’
‘Aye. It was like he had a map in his head. He knew what was coming. Described it perfectly.’
‘Then there’s more than one spy among us.’
‘That’s what I was thinking too, sir. But I’ve had my sights on him all day and there’s no one he’s talked to, save the beasts.’
‘He’s a witch then, linked with the mind speech.’
‘Living as a peasant boy, like you found him?’
‘It doesn’t make sense, unless it’s a glamour.’
‘How can we find out?’
‘You could just ask me,’ Xane said. He’d walked up on them so quietly that they startled, their mouths snapping shut. Neither Willem nor the Stable Master spoke.
‘And if you did just ask me,’ Xane went on, ‘I’d tell you I’ve got no witch blood in my veins, nor do I know any witch unless you count the dried shell of a being called Rall, and she’s not taught me a thing, I promise.’
‘Then how’d you know what was ahead?’ Willem asked, his hand on his sword.
‘Easy, Willem. It’s me. Xane. I’m not a spy. I knew because I figured it out.’
‘How?’
‘We’re heading to Temple Dumarka and we took the north road. The only way there, unless we sprout wings and fly, is to cross the Goregan River at the ford of Dumar and take the north Prieta pass. It’s not witchcraft. It’s common sense.’ Xane didn’t know what had possessed him but he felt good he’d spoken out. He didn’t like being accused of spying and he didn’t want to get a knife in the back, which was what spies generally got. He thought his explanation would solve everything, but the looks on their faces told him it had not.
Finally the Stable Master waved his hand, dismissing him. ‘Get yourself some food, Xane. And see to your neck.’ He pointed at the wound.
Xane touched it and his hand came away bloody. ‘I will,’ he said and walked away, the scent of the pan-fried corn cakes losing their appeal. They didn’t believe his explanation. He could tell more by what they didn’t say than by what they did.
He couldn’t hear any more of their conversation, if indeed they carried on. He ate his ration in silence, washing his plate and tin before seeking the healers’ tent. When he found it, he went straight in, no waiting. They’d brought only two healers with the scouting party and neither had much to do, yet. That would change when the fighting started. He creased his brow. He didn’t want the fighting to start.
‘You needed to let it close over!’ The healer slapped a swab against it, shaking his head.
‘Must have come open from the ride.’
‘You should be in the ward. Who released you?’
‘The Master Healer Grebes, sir.’
‘Grebes?’ He let out a rush of profanities Xane didn’t recognise, nor did he need to. The meaning was obvious. ‘Hemlock makes it harder to mend,’ the healer said as if he were talking to a five-year-old. ‘And this wound is nothing close to mended.’
‘It wouldn’t be,’ Xane said, straightening.