"I'm used to that," said Alec, dismounting. "I will borrow a horse, though, and leave my pack here. I'll be back for Patch before dark."
He was underwater. Looking up, he could see the surface shimmering just above him, a shifting silver mirror that reflected nothing. Just beyond the surface something dark moved, like a man standing against the sky.
Seregil uncurled with a startled grunt as something prodded him roughly between the shoulder blades.
"Told you he was alive!" he heard a woman say.
Two bluecoats were looking down at him from horseback, early morning light glinting from their helmets. A third stood over him holding a truncheon in both hands.
"Come on, you. On your feet," the one with the truncheon growled, looking like he'd just as soon give a beggar another good jab for good measure.
"Maker's mercy and blessings on you," Seregil whined.
"Keep your blessings, you Dalnan mudlark."
Seregil pulled his dirty rags closer about him and got stiffly to his feet, wondering how in hell he'd let himself doze off in the middle of the east end stews.
He'd been watching a nearby slophouse, hoping to snag a certain informant who often drank there. The dingy establishment was shuttered now, his man long gone.
Grabbing Seregil roughly by the arm, the bluecoat marched him past the horses to a high-sided cart.
"Get up there and be quick about it."
Scrambling over the tailboard, Seregil found half a dozen sullen beggars and whores already huddled inside.
Disgusted with himself, Seregil clung to the hard bench as the cart lurched on. Something nagged at the back of his mind, some dream he'd been having when the bluecoats had woken him. But it was gone. Time now to deal with the present situation.
"I ain't done nothing," he protested querulously, tucking his chin down against his chest.
"I've done nothing a'tal. What are they at, taking a poor cripple up like this?"
"Haven't you heard?" a ragged girl asked tearfully. "Word come that war's started. It's the Beggar Law for us!"
Seregil stared at her mutely as the irony of the situation struck home. Ancient and time-honored, the Beggar Law stated that in time of war all vagrants, beggars, and criminals were to be either pressed into military service or cast out of the cities to fend for themselves. In the event of a siege, no precious stores would be wasted on societal parasites.
Looking around at his fellow unfortunates—the tearful whore, a pair of vaguely familiar thieves, a one-armed drunken giant covered in sour vomit, a half-starved boy—Seregil had all he could do not to laugh at his own unwitting miscalculation in choosing a disguise.
Stay with this lot and I'll find myself facing down a Plenimaran cavalry charge with nothing but a pike in my hands, he thought grimly. still might just as well have taken a pleasant ride out to Watermead with Alec for all the use I've been so far.
Alec didn't see the otters as he rode past their pool, although there were footprints and slide marks enough to show that they were still in residence there.
Beyond the pool, the trail grew steeper, winding steadily uphill around thick fir trunks and boulders bigger than his borrowed mare. Crusts of snow still lingered under roots and rocky overhangs, but the air was sweet with the scents of tender new growth and moist earth. Despite the rain already pattering down through the boughs, it felt good to be in the woods. After a winter spent mostly in the confines of Rhiminee's intricate streets, the simple task of following a disused woods trail held a comfortable familiarity.
Spring runoff and fallen needles had obscured long stretches of the trail. In other places, it crossed open expanses of bare ledge with nothing but the tumbled remains of a few small cairns to show the way.
The forest grew thicker as he went along. Thick stands of hemlock and fir laced their branches overhead, shutting out what little light the day had to offer. Winter storms had felled trees across the trail, forcing him to dismount frequently and lead his horse around or over.
After an hour of struggling along, he still hadn't seen any sign that he'd reached the pass Ranil had spoken of. The wind picked up suddenly, lashing a torrent of icy rain down through the trees. Cursing, Alec pulled his cloak around him and tucked it under his thighs to keep out the wet as long as he could.
At last he reached the crest of the pass. From here the trail seemed to open up a bit, but before he could make up any lost time he rounded a bend and found himself faced with the worst deadfall so far.
The ground was steep here, and the path hugged a small cliff face to the left. A thick hemlock had fallen across against the rock face, its thick branches forming a dark green palisade higher than Alec's head.
He could have wormed his way through, but the horse was another matter. Cursing Ranil again, and himself for listening, he dismounted again to look for a way around.
Trees groaned in the wind around them as Alec led his horse off the trail, following the trunk to its base. A tangled network of roots twenty feet across lay exposed there, torn from the thin, stony soil in some past storm.
His horse shied as they went around it, spooked perhaps by the gnarled fists of the roots or the roar of the storm.
Gripping the reins in one hand, he pulled the animal's head down and threw his cloak over its eyes. By the time he'd climbed the bank back up to the trail he was soaked to the skin and covered in mud.
He had one foot in the stirrup to mount when the mare shied again. Alec staggered awkwardly, pulling his foot free in case she bolted.
The move probably saved his life. He'd just gotten both feet on the ground when he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of one eye and instinctively flinched.
Something struck his left shoulder hard before he could turn, hard enough to knock him sideways.
Scrabbling backward, he tugged his sword free and got it up in time to make his attacker pause.
The ragged bandit held a club in both hands, grinning wolfishly as he circled for another strike. He was gaunt but sinewy, with a long reach behind the long club he wielded. Alec suspected he was overmatched, but that his sword had surprised the man, judging by the wary way he watched it, still not pressing the attack.
"What do you want?" Alec demanded as the first shock of the attack passed.
The bandit gave him a nasty, gap-toothed grin.
"What else you got?" he sneered, jerking a thumb down the trail. "We already got yer 'orse."
Alec glanced quickly in that direction and saw a harsh-faced woman leading his horse away.
"I have gold," Alec told him, ignoring the dull pain that ran down his left arm as he pulled his purse from his belt and shook it so the coins inside jingled. "You're welcome to it, but I need that horse."
"Did you hear the fine young gentleman's offer, me love?" the bandit exclaimed gleefully. "He wants to buy back his 'orse!"
The woman gave a listless shrug and said nothing.
"Give us the bag, then, and we'll shake on the bargain," the bandit offered, sidling closer.
Alec lowered his sword and held out the purse, as if he'd been gulled into the bargain. As he'd-expected, the bandit immediately struck at him.
Jumping back, he blocked the blow and swung a slashing stroke that opened the front of the man's jerkin and some of the skin below.
"Bilairy's Collops, the little bastard cut me!" the bandit snarled in surprise. "Got teeth, have you, you whelp? I'll soon blunt 'em!" Gripping his club in both hands, he flew at Alec and swung another blow at his head.
The bandit was strong; blocking the swing with a two-handed parry, Alec felt a nasty jolt down both arms. Pushing him away, he fell back, letting the man push him toward the deadfall. Rain ran down into his eyes as he blocked blow after blow, hoping to make his attacker think he was a novice swordsman.