Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [75]
He checked his side, smiling to feel his sword still in place. Not many stableboys wore them, but he’d shown aptitude. He ran his hand down the length of the scabbard, frowning for a moment at the thickness of the width. For an instant he struggled to remember something different. An image of the thin blades used by the Timbali witches formed in his mind. He coughed, his throat sandpaper dry. What would make him think of that? He didn’t know anything about Timbali. He wasn’t even certain where it was.
He tried shouting to the nearest wagon but his voice was hoarse and the sound didn’t carry. Struggling to sit, he waved at the driver—a burly man standing on the buckboard, supervising the others. It was pulled by four palomino horses, one of the teams in his charge. He delighted in seeing them. He loved horses. That felt familiar.
The thought triggered another image. Into his mind came clear as daylight a copper-red mare tied to a tree, pawing the snow. The horse whickered at him and he smiled, calling back, but that was crazy. He’d never seen snow, or a mare so red. The hemlock must be causing hallucinations. He scratched his head. Hallucinations? What’s that mean?
The driver halted, whistling to him. He tried to stand but couldn’t. He wondered if his legs were broken. He slumped against the tree trunk, waiting to be collected. For a horrid moment he thought perhaps he was only a ghost and these men were going to pull his body out of the ground and throw it onto the heap with the others, but he laughed and heard the nervous sound in his ears. He felt the vibration in his throat, the dappled sun touching his tongue until he closed his mouth. A spirit wouldn’t feel such things, he was certain.
‘Ain’t you just lucky?’ the driver said.
Strong arms gripped him, hoisting him out of the muck. He still couldn’t make his legs move. ‘I think so,’ he said, the words a whisper.
‘Xane, isn’t it? The Stable Master’s new boy? He’ll be pleased you survived. Says you got talent.’
‘Xane.’ He said the name and was about to agree but felt a protest, as if it wasn’t quite right. ‘No, I’m Jar…’
‘What’s that, lad?’
His thought disappeared. ‘Yah, I’m Xane.’ He did remember being called that. Of course. He was Xane, and his sister was Shaea. He lifted his head. It was all there in his memory. He pictured Shaea. She would have known he was hurt. She would have tried to come to him, but he didn’t see her anywhere. He sensed for her but got nothing. It was like she wasn’t in the city. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said.
‘Damn demons there is, lad.’ The man checked his neck wound. ‘You’ve been shot by one of our own arrows, and by all rights you should be dead.’
Xane smiled, thinking of someone he cared about but couldn’t quite remember. ‘There is no should.’ He mumbled the words.
‘Say again?’
They’d reached the wagon and lifted him up, sitting him on the tailgate. He wrapped his arm around the railing and shook his head, wincing. ‘Never mind.’
‘It’s the poison,’ the other man said. ‘We best get him to the healers.’
The driver clucked to his team and the wheels lurched forward, half rolling, half skidding through the mud. It must have rained buckets. Xane bumped along, careful not to look at the bodies piled high beside him. The warm sun, buzzing flies and the sickly-sweet smell of decomposition all seemed to mix with the bile in his throat, and he spent most of the journey dry retching over the rail. When he looked up, he yelled out, ‘Stop!’ He struggled to his knees. ‘My charges.’
The driver pulled his team to a halt as a tall palomino gelding and a mud-caked black mare came trotting to him, their hooves squelching in the muck.
‘You are blessed, lad. What stars have you rising today?’
‘My stars?’ He stiffened. The question was like a match striking the edge of his mind, unable to light. ‘I don’t know.’ I’m not a star watcher but…
‘Lucky ones,’ the driver said, ignoring Xane’s confusion. ‘You’ve got lucky stars.’
The driver caught the horses and tied them to the back of the wagon. Xane relaxed. At