“Do it.”
Brenner bounced by, stiffly, an expression of frozen horror on his face. He hadn’t been able to get down, either, and apparently any attempt to control his horse had failed utterly. The mare smelled food, and was roaming the yard looking for it.
Learned Edmund looked at Brenner. Brenner smiled horribly at him. His mare made another circuit of the yard.
Slate’s horse sidled as the mare passed. Caliban put his fingers around the stirrup to hold it in place—Slate noticed with mild interest that she couldn’t feel her ankles, and was wretchedly grateful—and turned back to the scholar. “Perhaps, Learned Edmund, you could bespeak us a meal and see when the ferry first runs tomorrow morning?”
The dedicate gave all three of them a suspicious glance, as if expecting them to be plotting behind his back, then inclined his head and went inside.
Caliban waited until he was gone, then dove for Brenner’s reins, and managed to catch them. The horse brought up short, and Brenner lurched in the saddle and let out a sound that was just sort of a sob.
“I’ll kill the beast,” the assassin rasped. “I’d cut his throat right now, but I don’t think I can get off if he falls down.”
“It’s a her,” said Caliban.
“You think that’ll stop me, god-boy?”
“Horses are expensive,” said Slate, who knew to the penny how much it cost to house and feed a horse, although she had only a vague notion of what they actually ate.
“Oh. Hmm. Damn.”
The knight got both sets of reins together, and led the horses to a rail, where he tied them up. He turned back, hands on hips. Brenner and Slate stared down at him glumly.
“When did you two learn to ride?” he asked.
“Nineteen years ago.”
“This morning.”
Caliban put his hands over his face. “We’re going to die.” His voice was surprisingly calm, but it had a hysterical edge to it.
“I’ve beentellingyou,” said Slate, much aggrieved.
He raked his hands through his hair and muttered something under his breath. Slate wouldn’t swear that it hadn’t been, “Ngha, ha, ngha…”
“Okay. Neither of you can get down?”
“No.”
“Not if I don’t get to kill the horse.”
Caliban stared upward and uttered a particularly vile curse to no one in particular.
“I didn’t think they knew words like that in the temple,” said Brenner, sounding rather pleased despite it all.
The paladin ignored him, squared his shoulders, and walked to the side of Slate’s horse. He reached up and caught her around the waist. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She obeyed, and he dragged her off the horse and set her onher feet. Her knees buckled immediately, but he’d apparently expected that, and held her up by main force.
Slate found her face pressed into his chest, which smelled very strongly of dust and metal and horse. Chain clinked. She got a powerful whiff of rosemary and sneezed wretchedly.
He sighed—she felt it more than heard it—held her up with one hand, and dug out a handkerchief with the other.
Her knees grudgingly admitted that they could probably hold up on their own now, and she stepped away, clutching the handkerchief. “Thangkks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“DoIget to do that?” asked Brenner snidely from horseback.
