Saltlick unfolded his limbs with a sigh that rolled and echoed around the rocks. He too looked better for a rest. The old man had done a good job of bandaging his many cuts and scrapes, and none of them were showing fresh blood. His skin had lost some of its pallor, and his movements were less pained than they'd been a few hours ago.
I led him towards the front cart, where Estrada had turned her attention to retying loose ropes. Hearing our approach, she turned and smiled. "Saltlick," she said, "you look better. We haven't any seat big enough for you, I'm afraid. Can you walk alongside?"
Although she only got a nod in return, I could tell Saltlick enjoyed the way she spoke to him and that he liked her for it. He came to a halt and lapsed into his usual pose of relaxation: legs apart, feet splayed, eyes exploring some indeterminate spot ahead. I got the impression he could have stood like that for days if the need arose. Personally, I liked the idea of riding on a cart. After horseback, giantback and my own sore feet, it seemed the height of luxury. I swung up and settled myself upon the seat with a deep groan of satisfaction. If I was stuck with Estrada and her foolhardy would-be rebels for the time being, I might as well make the most of it.
Estrada gazed over the length of the caravan behind us and, finding everything to her satisfaction, called back, "Let's march!"
It soon became apparent that "march" was a gross exaggeration for what was actually taking place. Two hundred drunks trying to find their way home through a swamp would have produced a similar spectacle. The old and wounded were quickly outpaced by the young and hearty, creating a concertina effect of surges and long waits. The cart drivers, struggling with the idiosyncrasies of the mountain trail, constantly threatened to overturn their vehicles or squash errant feet. Most of the horses were clearly unused to crowds and seemed determined to get in everyone's way.
For the first couple of hours, no one talked except to curse or shout. All efforts were devoted to keeping the parade moving at a reasonable pace, without causing or incurring injury.
For my part, I was happy to alternate brief, blissful naps and — when the jolting became too much — entertaining myself with watching the shambolic march behind us. I sipped from my wine flask, nibbled a piece of goat's cheese, and in general found that my spirits were steadily lifting. It was the closest I'd been to relaxation since my short imprisonment. I wasn't about to spoil it by worrying about the uncertain future.
Estrada, on the other hand, seemed to be edging towards a nervous breakdown. I could tell she didn't have much experience in handling a cart, or understand the temperament of beasts of burden. It wasn't long before the two horses, who were bloodyminded enough to be cousins of the mules I'd met earlier, were being regaled with some distinctly unladylike language. In between outbursts, she sat with gritted teeth, staring fixedly at the road as if she expected it to disappear at any moment.
After a particularly vehement outburst, I said, "Let me take over."
"I can manage."
"You're barely conscious. If you keep on the way you're going, we'll be down long before anyone else — and in more pieces."
From the look she gave me, I thought she was about to wrap the reins around my throat.
"Fine, I shouldn't impugn your driving skills. You're doing quite well for a woman who hasn't slept in who knows how long, and probably hasn't eaten in days either. Trust me, though, you can only keep that up for so long. I'd rather not be sitting beside you when you collapse."
"You're welcome to walk." Then she sighed, and in a fractionally gentler tone, continued, "All right. Just for an hour, then wake me and we'll call a halt. There are plenty of people behind us in worse shape than me."
She shifted to the far side and handed over the reins. I barely had time to catch them before her head was lolling, a trickle of saliva working its way from her lower lip to the tune of rattling snores.
At first, I didn't have much more luck with the intransigent horses than she'd had. I realised after a while that, left to their own devices, they'd trot along quite happily. I only needed to intervene every ten minutes or so, when they decided I'd forgotten about them and they could get away with grinding to a halt.
The way through the pass to Goya Pinenta would be relatively busy at this time of year, but Goya Mica in the north had declined as a fishing port, and this stretch of road had fallen into disrepair as a result. Still, it was safe enough if you were careful. Steep sections were rare, and a lip of rock on our right separated us from the void beyond.
The day was becoming pleasant; the watery sunlight was surprisingly warm, but a sharp breeze kept the temperature comfortable even as noon drew nearer. With little to do except try to make myself comfortable on the jolting seat, I amused myself by listening to whatever snatches of conversation I could catch. The general tone was cheerful, with swapping of jokes and snatches of song. Everyone's mood seemed to be improving. Everyone's, that is, except Mounteban's: whenever the hubbub got too loud he'd shout, "That's right, make certain to enjoy yourselves," or "It's not as though we're fleeing for our very lives!"
He had a point. Without his interjections, the procession would have made even more feeble progress. Still, it was irritating, and spoiled the mood. I was glad when Estrada started awake, gazed around blurrily, and then crouched in her seat and cried, "Everyone halt! Let's take thirty minutes rest."
Stopping was more disastrous than starting, with horses running into the backs of carts and carts veering too close to the edge or threatening to disgorge their contents into the road. It was a good five minutes before everyone was settled and calm. Estrada got down and began arranging the distribution of food, checking on the wounded, making sure that cargo was secured and generally playing mother hen to her bedraggled brood. She did everything rapidly and ably, yet without appearing to hurry or neglecting anyone. It was hard to imagine a more militant approach keeping them together as well as her quiet but firm ministrations.
I had to remind myself she was likely shepherding them to their doom.
Since he was too bashful to ask, I spent a minute finding out where Saltlick could get some straw and a quantity of water capable of slaking his thirst. Then I settled down to my own lunch, which I was careful to take from the caravan's supplies rather than my personal stash. However things turned out, they probably wouldn't need them for much longer.
Sitting there chewing on some unidentifiable dried meat, I felt oddly detached, like a visitor in some strange city where the customs and even the language were different. Estrada had been right last night, despite my protestations. I was a petty thief. I had no place amongst men such as these. Heroics and grand gestures were all well and good for those with something to gain, but I'd be just as unwelcome whoever ended up in charge. Estrada might need me now. Would she be so glad of my presence when I resumed my trade in her freshly liberated Castoval?
We'd been stopped no more than a quarter of an hour when Mounteban rode to the middle of the train and called, "Everyone up! Try and remember our survival depends on haste."
A rumble of protest arose from the entire column, particularly towards the back where those least capable of hurrying had congregated. A few stumbled to their feet. Many others didn't. Seeing that, Mounteban's face reddened.
Estrada, pacing rapidly towards him from where she'd been helping the old surgeon fix bandages, said, "A little longer won't hurt, Castilio."
"Every moment we waste brings us closer to being slaughtered like pigs."
"The sick and injured are exhausted. Some haven't eaten. If we keep on like this we won't need Moaradrid to finish us." Her voice was hard, and rising.
Mounteban looked as if he was about to tell her what she could do with her sick and wounded. Instead, he made a choking sound, as though forcing down the half-formed words, and muttered, "It's on your head, Marina."