He counted, of course: fifty left, forty-five, forty, thirty-five, thirty, twenty-five, twenty, nineteen. At times he was sure the terror would kill him before they finally condescended to come for him; then he'd slump, just as scared but too exhausted to move at all. His trousers were wet with piss and he'd skinned his throat with shouting, and he hated the scavengers for sitting still and quiet in the dark, while he made such a pathetic exhibition of himself. He realized he'd been yelling for Orsea, for Veatriz, for Jarnac (but he was dead already; thoughtless shit, to be dead when he was needed for a typical swashbuckling Ducas rescue); for Valens, for the sergeant of the guard, for the adjutant-general, for Daurenja, whose worthless life he'd saved from the just fury of Framain. Apparently, none of these was minded to help him; embarrassed, probably, by the appalling fuss he was making. Little wonder nobody wanted to know him, at the end.
Nine. He could hear someone crying; a feeble, bubbling noise. He realized he was listening to himself.
Eight; and the guards had paused in the gateway, looking round. When they left, the I-wish-they'd-taken-me-instead feeling made a feeble surge before drowning in terror.
Someone else was talking, but the hammering in his ears blotted out the words. He knew he was waiting for the fall of the axe; a voice in his head was saying, When they come for me I'll fight, I know how to fight, I'm good at fighting, I'll kill them all and escape. He wished the voice would shut up; but instead it changed. It was someone else, talking to him. He discovered that his eyes were tight shut, and he didn't seem able to open them again.
Something touched him, and he felt his leg kick out. Impact, and a shout; pain and anger. There, you see, I'm fighting them, I've got one already, that just leaves-
"Keep still, for crying out loud, I want to talk to you."
Strangely enough, the voice was familiar. In another time and place, it had belonged to a woman; the woman at the scavengers' camp, who'd tried to teach him to sew. With a jolt, he remembered who the other prisoners were.
"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. "Did I hurt you?"
"Yes. Stupid question, of course you did. Now listen." She lowered her voice. "There's not a lot of time left. We need to get out of here before it's our turn and they come and get us. Do you understand me?"
"You mean…?" Was she really talking about escaping? Didn't she realize the guards would be back any moment, as soon as the axe fell? She made it sound as though they had to hurry and get down to the market before all the fresh coriander had been sold. "We can't," he said. "They'll stop us."
"Be quiet and listen. I've been watching them." She was talking so quietly he could barely hear; quick, businesslike. "When they come in to fetch the next one, they leave the gate open, in case they've got their hands full with someone struggling. There's a moment when the gate's open and their backs are turned. They're worn out, you can tell just by looking at them. We'd have to be quick, but we could slip past and they wouldn't see us. If we got just outside the gate and waited till they came out again, we could get away. Really," she added furiously. "I've watched the last four times, and it's always the same. If we got away, we could head for Eremia. They wouldn't follow, they're about to move out, I've heard them talking about it. We could find your friends in the resistance, or even the Mezentines; they'd be interested in knowing what's been going on here. Well?"
Well, he thought. Absolutely nothing to lose; so how was he going to explain to her that he was too scared to move? It would sound ridiculous, but he knew he wouldn't be able to make it. "You go," he said.
"On my own? I can't. I don't know how to saddle a horse, or which direction to go in. Listen: my husband was the third one they took. I tried to get my uncle to go with me, but he's wrenched his knee, he couldn't walk. I've tried everyone I could think of, but they were too scared or they'd given up. If I can't find someone to go with me, I'll die. I know about you now; you're good with horses and finding your way about, they say you're a great war hero and everything. You've got to help me, there's nobody else left. Please."
It was really only because he was too tired to make the effort to refuse; and because he couldn't keep still anymore, and anything was better than being kept waiting until all the others had been used up. Besides, it wouldn't work, and they'd be caught and killed on the spot, so at least there was a chance he wouldn't be led out there to the chopping block. But mostly it was because he felt so weak, and doing what you're told is always easier than fighting. If he refused she'd probably get angry with him, and he hadn't got the strength to face a scene.
The sound of the axe falling; someone swearing in exasperation; a shout, three parts weariness to one part fury. She was standing up, grabbing his arm and yanking on it. He had to get up, or she'd have dislocated his shoulder.
His legs buckled twice on the way to the gate. As they passed, someone said, "Where are you going?"; his heart froze, but she dragged him past and into what he supposed was position for the maneuver they were about to attempt. He'd forgotten the details of the plan already.
The gate opened. The guard's shoulder brushed his face, but the guard didn't stop or look round. They'd passed him, and she was hauling at his sleeve. The gate had been left open.
He wasn't aware of taking the six or seven steps; the thunder in his head was too loud, and he couldn't feel his legs. But they were on the other side of the gate, and the guards came bustling past, hauling a man by his wrists; his back was arched and he was digging his heels in, so that they plowed ruts in the mud as he was dragged past; his head was as far back as it would go. All told, he was in a bad way, but he made tolerable cover. Perhaps, if he'd known what a service he was performing for the Ducas, it would've made it easier for him to bear. Perhaps not.
She was pulling at him again, like a lazy horse. He followed, ambling. It was, of course, ridiculous; they wouldn't get twenty yards. In between waves of terror, he occupied his mind with wondering why she'd taken him with her. She seemed so efficient, so self-possessed; not the sort who needed a man to look after her. The most he'd be able to achieve would be to get them both caught. The thought crossed his mind that she fancied him. He managed not to laugh out loud.
Well, they'd made twenty yards. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and she really couldn't tack up a horse on her own. Some women were afraid of horses, the way some big, strong men were scared of spiders. Perhaps she thought that as soon as they were across the border, the Ducas' loyal retainers would come scuttling out of their hidey-holes in among the rocks to fight over the privilege of sheltering them. Perhaps she'd seen how very, very frightened he was, and had taken pity on him. (Well, quite. Nothing like looting the dead for a living for honing the delicate sensibilities.) In any event, they were in the open. Behind them, the biscuit-barrel stockade was a vague, looming shape, lit by a fuzzy yellow glow from the hurricane lanterns. Ahead of them, pale shadows that had to be tents. She steered him away from them-for someone who needed him along because only he knew the way, she had a superb sense of direction-toward a dark open space on their right. Closer; he could make out the dark gray outline of rails. The horse-fold, surrounded by a ring of gate hurdles. Was she really thinking of stealing a horse? Not a good idea, in his professional opinion as the duty big, strong man. Highly unlikely that the Vadani kept their tack in a neat pile in the corner of the fold. Bareback and without a bridle, a horse would be a liability rather than an asset. Not his place to argue, though. She led; he followed.