Page 169 of Swordheart
Fisher had retired before the end. He hadn’t thought of that in years. All the rest of his gallant troops, Boll and Kithrup and Ceri and everyone, had fallen with him at the end. Angharad and the Dervish had fallen even further than the rest. But Fisher had said he was old and he was done and he’d gone back to his little fishing village to live with his daughter.
Perhaps his daughter had had a daughter of her own. Perhaps somewhere still, there was a clan who could put a bolt in a man’s eye from a hundred yards and weep and draw the string back and do it again.
The thought gave him a strange peace. He took a deep breath and straightened and turned back to Nolan, ready to sell his memories for bargaining power once more.
CHAPTER 55
Halla had never ridden a horse. Halla had ridden a donkey, and she had always assumed that it was mostly the same thing.
It was not.
The gait of a horse was smoother, no question. And the donkey could not possibly have carried two riders, particularly not at any speed. But she also had never ridden the donkey for hours and the horse was a great deal larger and also Halla was now fifteen years older than the girl who had climbed on the back of the donkey and her hip joints let her know it.
“We can’t gallop to Amalcross,” said Mare, who was, ironically, riding a gelding. “The horses would drop dead under us. But we can make good speed, particularly compared to… ah…”
“A gnole doesn’t want to hear it.”
Brindle stayed with the wagon, of course, and Jorge stayed with him. He’d grumbled a bit, but Mare pulled rank and told him he wasn’t going to be exorcising anything with his arm in a sling. “Your sword’s a fancy paperweight right now,” she told him. “You can’t swing it. Guard the wagon, and keep those blithering idiots from the Motherhood from impounding it or setting it on fire or whatever they feel like doing.”
“I thought I couldn’t swing a sword,” said Jorge.
“You don’t need to stab the Motherhood. Just glare at them and rattle your armor a bit. They’ll back right off.”
“Fine, fine…”
So they did not gallop to Amalcross, but they trotted frequently and then they walked and the humans walked alongsidethe horses, and then they trotted again. Halla rode behind Mare on her sturdy gray gelding. Mare was wearing a great deal of armor, more than Sarkis wore, and every time they broke into a trot, Halla’s face bashed into Mare’s mailed back. The paladin was wearing a wool tabard, which was the only reason that her face still had any skin on it.
But they did move a great deal faster. Zale was riding with the other paladin—Halla still hadn’t caught his name and was now at the point where it would be too embarrassing to ask—and they made it halfway to Amalcross in a single day.
Zale spent the Rat’s money recklessly and rented a room at the inn with a bathtub.
“Only one bed,” said the innkeeper.
Zale and Halla looked at each other.
“I just don’t care anymore,” said Halla. “You?”
“Rat’s teeth, no. As long as there’s a mattress, I’d share a bed with the Hanged Mother herself right now.”
“Tactful. Very tactful.”
“Tactful Zale was jostled to death somewhere a few miles back. Now you get tired, cranky Zale.”
“Do you want the room or not?” asked the innkeeper.
“We’ll take it.”
They took turns using the bathtub behind a wooden screen, and Halla’s only consolation was that the priest made just as many noises of wincing agony as she did.
“I’m old,” said Zale, staring up at the ceiling. Their narrow face seemed to have more lines than when the day started. Halla doubted she looked any better.
“We’re old.”
“I’m older than you.”
“Don’t make this a contest.”
“Sorry. Lawyer, you know.”
