I'd been through Casta Canto any number of times. As one of the main links between the halves of the Castoval, it was difficult to avoid. A generally quiet town, it was occasionally enlivened by the loggers gathering for wild and random-seeming celebrations, which left everyone else cowering for a couple of days while they drank the town dry. It was a place to pass by for most, not one to stay at — which made the bright hem of tents around its eastern edge all the more suspicious.
I glanced at Estrada, who replied with a nod. Then, her eyes apparently sharper than mine, she pointed out a brown smudge bobbing near the dock. I concentrated, and decided that she was right: it was a single-masted skiff, just what we were after.
"I think we can reach it. If we come in from the north we'll be out of sight of the camp."
We began our descent, heading not so much towards Casta Canto as to a point a half mile above it. A dry streambed took us much of the way down, and made the travelling easier than it had been. Still, it was sluggish work. It seemed at times like some surreal game, as we picked our way from rock to copse and copse to shaded hollow, trying to find a route that kept Saltlick's bulk invisible. Even where the cover allowed Estrada and me to move freely, he mostly had to crawl on hands and knees. By the time we were drawing near the river, he'd fallen far behind, and my patience was wearing thin.
It must have shown. Just as I was about to lose my temper altogether, Estrada whispered, "Do you remember what you said earlier?"
"'Earlier' when? I've been saying things for most of my life."
"You said you don't scheme, or manipulate people, or pretend to value anyone you don't care about."
"I remember."
"That wasn't exactly true, was it?"
I thought about it. "Perhaps not entirely. It's possible I was exaggerating for offence."
Estrada threw a significant glance towards Saltlick, who was currently trying to hide behind a shrub that rose to about a third of his height. "You've manipulated him. You used him, and then tried to abandon him. When that didn't work you lied to him some more, telling him you'd help protect his family."
"I never said that." Then I remembered. I had said something along those lines, in the cave after our rescue — and before that as well, in Moaradrid's camp. I cursed beneath my breath. "That's hardly the same thing."
"Oh? Because he's a giant?"
"Because he's an idiot."
Estrada nodded, one of those characteristic halfsmiles shaping her mouth. "You've never really tried talking to him, have you?"
"I haven't had a full day free since we met."
"I think he does well, considering that he's selftaught, and that he's only been learning our language for a couple of weeks."
That stopped me in my tracks. It had never crossed my mind that Saltlick was anything but an oversized dolt. What must it have been like to be taken from his home, thrust into a world where everything down to the simplest word was incomprehensible?
Saltlick chose that moment to catch up, and looked at us bemusedly.
Estrada whispered, "I'm not trying to pick another fight, Damasco. I'm just asking you to have a little more patience." Aloud she said, "Not much further."
She was right. We'd practically reached the base of the hill. A labyrinth of pines stretched around us, with Casta Canto just visible to the south, carved into slivers by the trunks. We continued to skirt around the town, keeping our distance. The noise of the river was loud enough to drown our voices by the time it came into view, a torrent of muddy grey and foaming white. We clambered to the narrow strip of gravel beach that ran beside it and then, with the shoreline embankment concealing us from observers above, started towards the town.
As we crept nearer, so did the ferry, skulking spider-like along its chains. It was largely empty of human cargo: two men, presumably merchants, stood at the front, lazing against the barrier and smoking pipes. All the remaining space was taken up with horses, which stared with panic-shot eyes at the water and whickered piteously. There wasn't even need for a pilot, since pulleys and half a dozen hard-working ponies in the shore station propelled the craft. The system was impressive in everything but speed. That tended to provoke amusement more than admiration, or frustration for anyone in the slightest hurry. The idling merchants evidently weren't in that category. Nor, thankfully, were they inclined to look in our direction.
Their presence did highlight a flaw in our plan though. We might be well hidden from Casta Canto and the encampment outside it, but from the river and the far bank, we'd stand out like belly dancers at a funeral. Estrada signalled a halt as the ferry limped the last stretch into port. We were close enough to make out the merchants' voices over the racket of their horses. One had propped up the gate bar while the other struggled to manoeuvre the traumatised animals, which were determined to find a way off that didn't involve going near the river or each other. Though it looked as if it must all end in disaster, the merchants knew their business. Their charges stumbled one by one onto the dock and milled about, grumbling in high-pitched whinnies.
"Here's our chance," I said. "Even if we're seen there's no way past that lot."
Estrada nodded, and we hurried the last distance to the dock. A set of crude steps connected the ramshackle platform to the beach. I went up first, and peered towards Casta Canto. The air was heavy with the tang of sweating horse. A road led up beyond the harbour and a small, timbered plaza, towards the main part of town. There were large drying sheds on both sides, and all the space between was a heaving sea of equine bodies.
The scene was a mass of confusion. There seemed far too many horses to have departed the ferry.
I realised why.
There were other horses, almost as many as had just crossed the river, and these with riders, coming towards us from the far side of town. The two parties had met and ground to a halt against each other, with much raising of voices and waving of arms.
It was fortunate for us, because otherwise Moaradrid's men would have been on us in seconds.
"Run!"
I took my own advice, not looking to see if Estrada and Saltlick followed. The boat we'd picked out was the last on the docks. It crossed my mind that we might be better to hide, but I'd no idea whether they'd seen us. Even if they'd missed Estrada and me, could they have failed to notice Saltlick? And there was another worry. The closer I got, the more I doubted the fragile craft could take his weight.
I realised, when we arrived panting at the far end of the pier, that we had an even more immediate problem. Just getting Saltlick into the boat was going to be a tribulation. A glance told me Moaradrid's party had made it through the opposing traffic. There were a dozen of them, and they were too engaged to pay us any attention. They'd dismounted to lead their mounts onto the ferry, and were having as much difficulty as the merchants had had performing the exercise in reverse.
Our luck couldn't hold much longer.
"Saltlick, you go first."
If he was going to capsize our vessel, it was better to find out now. As he made tentative motions toward the craft, it looked as though that was exactly what would happen. It bucked alarmingly when he put the least weight on it. Water sloshed in every direction. He tried one foot then the other, first standing then crouching. I could see his mounting panic. Each attempt sunk our one hope of escape a little further.
Despite my anxiety, I remembered Estrada's lecture. I actually felt a little sorry watching him, for all that his clumsiness was about to cost our lives.
Therefore, to everyone's surprise, it was Estrada who settled the predicament. "Damn it, Saltlick, get in!"