When it was done and he took the mess away to bury, I lay back and breathed deeply, doing my best to settle my boiling stomach. "All right," he said, "that's that. Now it's time to go, if we're to reach Lumm by green-change." He whistled, and the dapple-gray trotted obediently up, head tossing.
I realized I ought to have been more observant about chances for escape, and I wondered if there were any chance of taking him by surprise now.
First to see if I could even stand. As he went about the chore of resaddling the horse, I eased myself to my feet. I took my time at it, too, not just because my ankle was still protesting its recent rebandaging; I wanted to seem as decrepit as possible. My head felt weirdly light when I made it to my feet, and I had to hang on to a branch of the oak--my foot simply wouldn't take any weight. As soon as I tried it, my middle turned to water and I groped for the branch again.
Which meant if I did try anything, it was going to have to be within reach of the horse. I watched for a moment as he lashed down the saddlebags then rammed the rapier into the saddle sheath. There was already that knife at his belt. This did not look promising, I thought, remembering all the lessons on close fighting that Khesot had drilled into us. Well, the fellow had to be tired if he'd sat up all night, I thought, looking around for any kind of weapon.
The branch he'd handed me to hang on to was still lying at my feet. I stooped--cautiously--and snatched it up. Dropping one end, I discovered that it made a serviceable cane, and with its aid I hobbled my way a few paces, watching carefully for any rocks or roots that might trip me. Then a step in the grass made me look up. The Marquis was right in front of me, and he was a lot taller than he looked seated across a campfire. In one hand were the horse's reins, and he held the other hand out in an offer to boost me up. I noticed again that his palm was crossed with calluses, indicating years of swordwork. I grimaced, reluctantly surrendering my image of the Court-bred fop who never lifted anything heavier than a fork.
"Ready?" His voice was the same as always--or almost the same. I tipped my head back to look at his face, instantly suspicious. Despite his compressed lips he was clearly on the verge of laughter.
For a moment I longed, with all my heart, to swing my stick right at his head. My fingers gripped…and his palm turned, just slightly; but I knew a block readying when I saw one. The strong possibility that anything I attempted would lead directly to an ignominious defeat did not improve my mood at all, but I dropped the stick and wiped my hand down the side of my rumpled tunic. Vowing I'd see that smile wiped off his cursed face, I said shortly, "Let's get it over with."
He put his hands on my waist and boosted me up onto the horse--and I couldn't help but notice it didn't take all that much effort. I thought as I winced and gritted my way through arranging my leg much as it had been on the previous ride. …He mounted behind me and we started off, while I indulged myself with the image of grabbing that stick and conking him right across his smiling face.
I realized I ought to have been more observant about chances for escape, and I wondered if there were any chance of taking him by surprise now.
First to see if I could even stand. As he went about the chore of resaddling the horse, I eased myself to my feet. I took my time at it, too, not just because my ankle was still protesting its recent rebandaging; I wanted to seem as decrepit as possible. My head felt weirdly light when I made it to my feet, and I had to hang on to a branch of the oak--my foot simply wouldn't take any weight. As soon as I tried it, my middle turned to water and I groped for the branch again.
Which meant if I did try anything, it was going to have to be within reach of the horse. I watched for a moment as he lashed down the saddlebags then rammed the rapier into the saddle sheath. There was already that knife at his belt. This did not look promising, I thought, remembering all the lessons on close fighting that Khesot had drilled into us. Well, the fellow had to be tired if he'd sat up all night, I thought, looking around for any kind of weapon.
The branch he'd handed me to hang on to was still lying at my feet. I stooped--cautiously--and snatched it up. Dropping one end, I discovered that it made a serviceable cane, and with its aid I hobbled my way a few paces, watching carefully for any rocks or roots that might trip me. Then a step in the grass made me look up. The Marquis was right in front of me, and he was a lot taller than he looked seated across a campfire. In one hand were the horse's reins, and he held the other hand out in an offer to boost me up. I noticed again that his palm was crossed with calluses, indicating years of swordwork. I grimaced, reluctantly surrendering my image of the Court-bred fop who never lifted anything heavier than a fork.
"Ready?" His voice was the same as always--or almost the same. I tipped my head back to look at his face, instantly suspicious. Despite his compressed lips he was clearly on the verge of laughter.
For a moment I longed, with all my heart, to swing my stick right at his head. My fingers gripped…and his palm turned, just slightly; but I knew a block readying when I saw one. The strong possibility that anything I attempted would lead directly to an ignominious defeat did not improve my mood at all, but I dropped the stick and wiped my hand down the side of my rumpled tunic. Vowing I'd see that smile wiped off his cursed face, I said shortly, "Let's get it over with."
He put his hands on my waist and boosted me up onto the horse--and I couldn't help but notice it didn't take all that much effort. I thought as I winced and gritted my way through arranging my leg much as it had been on the previous ride. …He mounted behind me and we started off, while I indulged myself with the image of grabbing that stick and conking him right across his smiling face.
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Crown Duel ]
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