The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [171]
“A very good point.” Laz flashed him a grin. “And I’d guess that no one’s going to look for you out here. Barrows always harbor evil spirits, right? No one’s going to come poking around them, therefore.”
“That was my thinking, yes. Though I can see how the superstitions got started. There have been times when we’ve heard things in a barrow, a funny scraping sound, and something else.” Faharn paused, then shrugged. “Almost like someone talking. The wind, probably, or the earth shifting inside.”
“Probably. Spirits or no, you look well.”
“We’ve done well enough, though the winter was hard. We had some deserters desert.” Faharn smiled with a twist of his mouth. “We’ve lost men since you left us, but then I picked up a few, too.”
“So I see. What happened between you and Pir?”
“We split the band between us.” Faharn’s voice turned flat. “That woman of yours chose to surrender to the Ancients, and he went with her. So did a lot of our men.”
“That I know. I scried for them.”
“Oh? How much did you see? He’s taken your place with her.”
“I’m not in the least surprised.” Laz fished his belt out of the sack and wrapped it over his shirt. “Pir has always had a way with the fillies.”
Faharn hesitated on the edge of speaking. Laz finally got the buckle fastened and looked up to find Faharn staring at him with a peculiar expression.
“You’re not angry?” Faharn said.
“It’s her right to take a second man, isn’t it?” Laz said.
“According to the laws, yes, but—” Faharn hesitated, and he looked oddly disappointed by something. “But it’s none of my affair, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll be her first man still.” Laz knelt down again and pulled his boots out of the sack. “What about these new men? I see that some of them are carrying falcatas.”
“Deserters, all of them. Can I help you with your boots? I’m guessing those crystals are what injured your hands.”
“You’ve guessed right. No, I can get them on eventually. It’s a bit of a struggle, is all. Here, deserters from what?”
“Regiments. They’re Gel da’Thae horse warriors. They’re more than a little fed up with the direction this Alshandra cult has taken. The rakzanir get more control over the priestesses every day, or so they tell me.”
“Oh, do they? Now that’s extremely interesting.”
Laz got the first boot on, tucked in the brigga leg, then glanced up. Faharn was watching him, his head cocked to one side, his eyes narrow.
“What’s wrong?” Laz said.
“Nothing, nothing,” Faharn said. “I suppose I thought you’d be angry about Pir and your woman.”
“Her name is Sidro, by the by.” Laz pulled his second boot on. He tucked his brigga leg into it, then stood up. “And I don’t own her any longer.”
“Of course not. Sorry.” Yet still Faharn hesitated with that peculiar expression on his face.
What is this? Laz wondered. Did he want her himself? If so, he’d had an odd way of showing it, back in the forest camp. Laz decided that the problem lacked both importance and interest. He felt perfectly confident that Sidro would always choose him over any other man around.
“Now,” Laz said, “what I want to do is head south and find them all, Vek as well as Pir and Sidro, and the others. What will the rest of you do?”
“I’ll come with you,” Faharn said. “And I’ll wager that everyone else will, as well. Ye gods, there’s nothing out here! There’s no reason to stay.”
Some of the men—those from his old band—cheered. The new men nodded and agreed more quietly. Most of them were still wearing their gray regimental shirts, Laz noted, stained with varying amounts of dirt.
Laz spent the rest of that day talking with his band of outlaws, particularly the new men. They’d grown suspicious, they told him, of the convenient visions of a handful of priestesses, the ones that their leaders favored. One of the new men in particular, Drav, was more than willing to explain at some length. He was a hulking, beefy sort, a full-blooded Gel da’Thae with a swagger and a face full of tattoos that marked him as a member of a highly placed mach-fala. He’d been an officer in Braemel’s top regiment.
“So,