“Fine,” I said. “Kneel down.”
I grasped the netting and hauled myself onto his back. As the harness creaked and groaned, I was reminded again of how feeble an imitation it was of the ones devised by Moaradrid’s troops. The best I could hope for would be to hang from Saltlick’s back, my head just above his shoulder to afford some view of what lay ahead.
I took a deep breath. The next few hours weren’t going to pleasant for either of us. I was about to say “let’s go,” but Saltlick didn’t give me the chance. With a muscle-wrenching jolt, we were off.
The countryside didn’t improve as the day wore on.
That was my impression, anyway, based on the sliver I could see of it: grass and more grass, the land still undulating faintly beneath an overcast sky, the sea still whipping itself into frenzy against the rocks to our left. Here at least there was a little variation, for the cliffs appeared to be petering out as we headed north, often broken by beaches like the one where we’d inadvertently landed. None of it, however, was the least bit engaging or distracting; and if I’d ever needed a distraction, it was then.
The harness Saltlick had worn when we’d escaped from Moaradrid had been bad enough. Compared with Navare’s makeshift alternative, it might have been a carriage lined with goose-down pillows. I was literally hanging from Saltlick’s back, held by nothing except my feeble grip, and flung against his shoulders by his every stride. Not trusting to my flagging strength, I’d wrapped my wrists inside the thick cord, so that even if I was fortunate enough to pass out I’d still remain hanging. But what aided my survival did nothing for my circulation, so that the prospect of tumbling from a fast-moving giant seemed more attractive with each passing minute.
All the while, Saltlick’s limp was worsening. As much as he tried to compensate, to carry his weight on the other leg, I could feel his mounting distress with every bound he took. He was keeping up a startling pace, but I couldn’t shake the doubt that he’d never do it again; that perhaps he might never even walk for the harm he was doing himself today.
But what could I do? He wouldn’t stop now, not even if I pleaded with him. My only option lay in not thinking about Saltlick, in concentrating as well as I could on our journey and its goal.
Yet only as the day ebbed towards evening did I think to consider the obvious. I didn’t know much about the far north or its denizens, but I’d heard they were nomads, living in tents and moving whenever the mood struck them, perhaps in forlorn hope of finding some part of their land that wasn’t drab and ugly. Probably the chance of our running into Kalyxis and her tribe was almost non-existent; likely the encampment I was seeking had long since been packed up and moved to some other equally dismal corner.
I should have known I didn’t need to worry. When had I ever had to look for trouble when trouble was so very good at finding me?
I’d demanded a break, supposedly to consider our route but in truth because I couldn’t bear another moment of being tenderised against Saltlick’s back. As I stood massaging bruised wrists and staring north along the diminished coast line, I thought I felt the barest tremor through my feet.
I was about to dismiss it as imagination when the riders appeared — came out of nowhere. One moment there was nothing but the barren wilds, their rich green drained almost to blue by the daylight’s fading. The next, there were a dozen riders thundering towards us — and as I turned, thinking vaguely of escape, another ten behind us, arriving impossibly from the direction we’d just come.
With the cliff at our backs, there was nowhere to go; nothing to do but wait. They surrounded us in a half-circle, gliding into place without a word. The party that had arrived behind us carried the delicate bows of horse archers — not loaded as yet, but I had no doubt that they could arm and fire in half the time it would take me or Saltlick to reach them. The others kept their free hands loose at their sides, close to the hilts of narrow scimitars in fur-trimmed sheathes.
Even if our location weren’t a sure giveaway, I’d have recognised them easily as northerners. Their skin was a good shade darker than my own olive brown, and deeply marked by a life in the open. Their hair was braided and bound with wire. Nowhere could I see a scrap of material that hadn’t begun as a living thing; they wore leather and fur aplenty, but not so much as a ring of metal or a neckerchief of cloth.
They didn’t seem nervous at the sight of Saltlick. In fact, their expressions gave nothing away at all. I waited a few seconds in the hope that one of them would say something, if only to give some indication of whether they’d come to greet or murder us. Then I raised a palm in tentative greeting, flinched as twenty hands clenched on bows and sword hilts.
“Ah… good evening,” I said. “We’re looking for a lady by the name of Kalyxis. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to point us in her direction?”
As it turned out, they would.
For once something had gone right for me — if being captured by barbarians and escorted under armed guard could possibly be considered right. Since it got us where we were going, I was willing to give this latest twist of fortune the benefit of the doubt.
One moment there was nothing but empty prairie, the next we were cresting what appeared to be the shallowest of rises and abruptly there was a whole town spread beneath us, its low structures altogether hidden by the wide basin it occupied. The town extended all the way to the shore, and most unexpected were the two long jetties protruding there and the fleet of boats clustered round them. I’d never even suspected that the northerners might have boats; I’d always imagined saddling horses to be the length and breadth of their technology.
Only as we descended did I begin to realise that large though the town was, it was by no means permanent. There were carts and horses everywhere, along with a few burly oxen. I saw that what I’d taken for buildings were in fact large, circular tents patched from dyed and painted skins, though they looked as solid as if they’d been built from wood and stone. It occurred to me that this whole place must be portable, just as I’d expected; I’d been right in principle, but completely failed to grasp the scale.
Then again, how did that explain the harbour, and the boats moored there? Those could hardly be taken apart and hauled away. No, this was something more than a temporary dwelling, a brief pause in a life of nomadism.
Worries for another time — for it was apparent that we’d reached our destination. Having marched us through the unpaved streets, our escort had come to a halt before a tent considerably grander than those about it. In front was a low plinth, and on that sat a dozen chairs. All but the centre two seated men of various advanced ages; the middle pair, however, raised somewhat above the others, were occupied by a strikingly tall woman with chalk-white hair and a skinny youth who didn’t even look up at our approach.
Still some distance away, our escort dismounted and approached on foot. They stopped when they’d halved the remaining distance, and each man dropped abruptly to one knee. “Strangers,” one said. “Found approaching from the south. They asked for you by name, lady.”
That settled any doubts: the woman was Kalyxis, mother to Moaradrid and former paramour of King Panchessa. For all that her hair was so starkly white, her skin showed no lines, and her face still possessed a stern elegance that might in flattering light be taken for beauty. It was certainly hard to credit that she was old enough to be anyone’s grandmother.
At that thought, I spared a glance for the sour-looking youth beside her, who sat with his shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on one unexceptional patch of dirt. He looked to me like a northern variation on the template of anonymous street ruffian, with nothing distinguishing in his morosely set features. Yet he was dressed almost as finely as Kalyxis herself, in a cloak of rich, dark leather hemmed with black fur and studded with beads of silver. I could only assume that here was the notorious Bastard Prince — and that the epithet had been chosen as much for his temperament as his parentage.