The day did not improve. After lunch, she did what she usually did when her mood was foul and visited the stables. Horses, she'd discovered, spoke a quiet, foreign language of posture and emotion. After a while immersed in it, she found her very human concerns beginning to fade. This visit, however, she discovered that Peg's right hind hoof was developing a crack about a horseshoe nail, and the shoe would need replacing.
The blacksmith's shop occupied a large, covered area to the stable's rear, facing directly onto the inside of the looming city wall. There were several blacksmiths, in fact, and they were clearly busy, their furnaces roaring, hammers clanging and new, glowing red horseshoes and nails being added to respective piles. Many horses occupied the hay-strewn floor, some worked upon by their riders, others waiting their turn. Sasha found Peg a spot at a water trough, found some tools and went to work.
Peg hated blacksmiths and holding his huge leg still was no easy thing. The nails came out with difficulty. The heat from the fires was intense, and the day was warming, so she removed her bandoleer and sword, then the jacket and long-sleeved outershirt. The short-sleeved undershirt was too loose at the waist and hung out when she bent, so she gathered the hem into two tight fistfuls and tied them in a knot beneath her breastbone, leaving her midriff bare.
She was starting on the third nail when she heard female voices coming along the row of horses, raised above the clamour of hammers. Baen-Tar ladies came to the stables often enough to admire the horses. There were male voices too-of course, she thought dryly, a true lady would require an escort. Peg tried to move his leg once more and she gripped it firmly between her knees.
"A little patience, please?" she asked him loudly, repositioning the nail. Peg snorted.
"Oh, look at that big black!" she heard then from the approaching ladies. "Isn't he gorgeous!"
Great, that was all she needed. She got the nail head in and started hammering. The hammer was heavy, but gave no real trouble to a swordfighter- as always, it was a question of rhythm, balance and timing. No sooner had the nail gone all the way in than there was a female voice directly behind her, coming from Peg's front.
"Excuse me? Rider? Could you tell me this horse's name and his owner?"
Sasha sighed, dropped the hoof and hammer, and turned to face them. "His name's Peglyrion," she said shortly. "I'm his owner."
The young ladies before her gasped in shock. They wore dresses of the Torovan fashion, one predominant colour with embroidered trimmings offset with an opposing-coloured sash tied at the waist. Some wore their hair done up with curls and combs, others straight and long down their backs. There were five immediately present, and one in particular, in a red gown with green sash and silver jewellery, was staring at her with contemptuous disbelief.
"You!" exclaimed Alythia. The sisters locked stares. "Good lords, Sashandra, you really have no shame at all, do you? Look at you! You're dressed like a… like a…"
"Like a woman trying to shoe her horse?" Sasha offered.
"Like a disgrace! Have you no respect for local sensibilities?"
"None," Sasha said bluntly. "Now, are you just going to stand there and hurl insults, or can I get back to my horse?"
One of the ladies murmured something to her companions, who giggled. They eyed Sasha's bare, sweaty arms and hard stomach with scandalised disbelief.
Alythia's dark eyes blazed. "Have you any idea of the number of people you've managed to offend?" she exclaimed. "To say nothing of Father, disgracing his name in this… this appalling fashion…"
"Father is both man and king enough to speak for himself," Sasha said darkly, "he does not need you to do his complaining for him." Sometimes Alythia worked her temper to boiling. But today, somehow, she just couldn't be bothered. It was all too predictable, too tiresome and far, far too silly. "Alythia, I'm really not interested. Enjoy your little day's outing, try not to step in anything foul…"
She was about to turn her back when a new figure appeared, escorting another lady. The man wore a dark jacket with bright silver embroidery, and pants that puffed out at the thighs before tapering to tight, slender calves and boots. He wore a slim sword at the hip with a fancy silver handguard, and a wide-brimmed hat upon his head… with a feather in it, no less. His goatee was neatly trimmed, and dark curls fell about his neck. Several other men in similar dress followed, each escorting another lady.
Bacosh, Sasha realised. Irritation at her prissy sister quickly vanished.
"Ah," said the man, seeing Sasha. "This must be the Lady Sashandra. Princess Alythia, would you mind ever so much for a formal introduction? I have heard… so many things… about your sister." The accent was very smooth and melodious, and ever so charming. The dark eyes, however, felt… cold. The smile, Sasha thought, did not touch those eyes. An older man, perhaps nearer to fifty than forty, though well-hidden beneath make-up and hair-dye.
"Certainly, Duke Stefhan," Alythia said primly. "Sashandra, this is Duke Stefhan of the Larosa province of the Bacosh. Duke Stefhan, Sashandra Lenayin, my sister."
The duke stepped past the water trough and reached for Sasha's hand. Sasha seriously considered withholding it. But that was needless provocation. They were only formalities. She extended her hand and repressed a shudder as the duke grasped it lightly and placed it to his lips. His grip lingered, unpleasantly. Possessively.
"M'Lady Sashandra," said the duke. "Your fame precedes you. Even in my nation, we have heard tales of your exploits."
"In my nation too, we have heard tales of yours," Sasha said coldly.
The duke smiled. "They say that you fight like the serrin ladies. If any serrin can truly be said to resemble a lady." With a flashing smile at the ladies present, who laughed obligingly.
"After your armies are through with them," Sasha replied, "I doubt they could be said to resemble anything."
That provoked the first response from the duke's eyes yet-a slight widening beneath the hat's brim. A flash of recognition. "How true," he replied. Slyly, almost mockingly. "But do not feel too sorry for them, my Lady. They have no souls, you know." And he lowered his voice, with a glance behind, as if concerned someone back there would overhear. "That is why they try to steal our souls, you know. They lack their own."
It took every measure of Sasha's fragile restraint to keep her from smashing his smug, arrogant face with her fist. He knew which Larosa exploits she referred to. He found it amusing. Torture, rape and mass slaughter. And her father and Koenyg wanted Lenayin to go to war, and fight for men like this, against the serrin? Even in retaliation, the serrin had only ever killed soldiers and those who commanded them. All of those soldiers, it was true… but then who could blame them?
"Have a care, Duke Stefhan," Sasha said quietly. "You must still return home, through Goeren-yai lands. Many Goeren-yai think highly of the serrin. And some Lenay Verenthanes also accuse the Goeren-yai of lacking souls… Perhaps, were you to see what they do to men who attack their friends, you might understand why." And she smiled, dangerously. "Perhaps you shall. Should someone who knows your route send word to them."