PART TWO: THE COAST ROAD

Chapter 6
Stealing Penthesi

The rain stopped at last. Perrin had almost given up hope of finding Doughty and the boat when he heard the rush of the river. The boy and the girl argued in whispers behind him; the boy was complaining about his feet. Thank the gods, they were nearly there. Now Doughty could take over. Doughty would know what to do.
Perrin was exhausted; he almost looked forward to hearing the bark of orders again. Orders from Doughty were one thing, but he was damned if he'd take any more bossing from that laundry-maid. He wondered how the boy king had come to choose a laundry-maid for a girlfriend. He had to admit she'd been useful, smuggling them out of the Palace. She'd led them through a maze of dark passages that stopped and started and wound back on themselves like a burrower's tunnel. And she'd been scared to death, too, that was obvious; she was so relieved when they emerged into the clean damp air of the woods that she'd squeezed Perrin's hand nearly to pulp.

But there was no place for a girl on a mission like this, especially a Balt girl, even if she did know how to handle a sword. Well, she was Doughty's problem now. With Doughty and the boat, maybe, just maybe, they'd make it home after all. Swordsman Perrin, survivor of a dangerous mission — rescued the boy king single-handed — Hero of Rengan —
They were at the edge of the woods. Perrin could hear the rustle of the tall reeds, and the lap and gurgle of the lazy river.
He stopped abruptly. There was a light on the water.
The boy and the girl came up behind him. The girl breathed, "What's that?"
Doughty would never light a lamp. Never.
"Down!" Perrin shouted. He grabbed their arms and pulled them forward into the river as the shower of arrows whistled around them. The boy spluttered as his head went under, and the girl cried out. Perrin dragged them deeper into the current. Now he could see the boat in flames, and the soldiers silhouetted along the bank, their bows raised and arms pulled back. Someone shouted, and arrows rained down. The boy flailed in panic beside him, and the girl struggled and shouted; at last Perrin realised she was crying out, "Let go!"
Promptly Perrin released her and turned his attention to the thrashing boy. "Can you swim?" he hissed.
"I learned on the farm." The girl was treading water beside him.
"Not you!"
The boy gulped and spluttered. "A bit — no, not really — " He gasped as his head went under again; Perrin reached out to grab him.
"Stop splashing, you frugging idiot, keep still and I'll tow you. We've got to swim, it's our only chance. They won't follow, they've got too much gear."
"I can hold my breath…"
"Then hold it."
Another shower of arrows shrilled around them. If they could shelter behind the burning wreck of the boat — where was Doughty? — they might be all right. The Balts couldn't swim, Tugger told them that. Yeah, and man-monsters guarded the Palace, too, and here was the frugging laundry-maid paddling away beside him like a frugging otter, even with her knapsack on, hair plastered to her head. Still, safer in the water than on the bank…
The boy lay limp as a corpse with Perrin's hand cupped under his chin; one slow stroke at a time, Perrin hauled him toward the burning boat. The flames painted the river with dancing orange. They were nearly there; they were going to make it. The boat was burned nearly to the waterline; there'd be something to grab onto.

He saw the girl duck as yet another volley of arrows spat into the water. Perrin felt a searing pain in his right hand, as if he'd caught a burning coal. He doubled over in the water, letting go of the boy.

"One down! One down!" came the shout. "Sarge, I got one!" There were big splashing strides along the river's edge.

Moaning with pain, Perrin kicked himself through the water toward the wreck. The flames were dying; there was nothing left but a blackened shell. An oar floated past him, and he threw his arm over it; it bobbed and spun, and he swallowed a mouthful of water. It tasted like dead leaves. He rested his chin on the oar and kicked until he was on the far side of the boat; he wedged the end of the oar between the planks, and rested, gulping air as the cold, lazy current tugged at him.

His hand throbbed where the arrow-shaft stuck through it. His right hand; of course it had to be his right hand, his harp hand, his sword hand. He was outraged. He'd never been wounded before. He'd even come through the Battle of the Falls without a scratch. Perrin's luck, they said; men fought to stand beside him in the line. He knew he ought to pull the arrow out, and try to stop the bleeding, but he could hardly do that in the middle of the frugging river, could he? He felt faint; his mouth and nose slipped under the water. No — no. He mustn't drown, he didn't want to die that way. Like Doughty? No, Doughty was safe somewhere, hiding in the reeds on the other bank. They couldn't all be dead.
For the first time since the arrow hit him, he wondered what had happened to the boy and the girl. He couldn't see them. Maybe they'd drowned. At that moment, he didn't care; he had his own skin to save. He tilted his head back and stared up at the starry sky. The stars were always brighter at moondark. The clouds had melted away. Water filled his ears, blurring the noise of yells and splashes. Breathe, Perrin. That's an order.

Tansy saw Skir go under as the Gani writhed in the water; it took her a moment to realise what had happened. She duck-dived as the arrows sizzled around them; down into the cold, rushing water she burrowed, down and down, until she thought her lungs would burst. An image flashed through her mind: the luckpiece Wanion had given her, blazing into flame and then drenched with water. Fire then water. The Gani's boat was on fire, and now she was drowning. Wanion's magic was punishing her after all — Cold fingers pinched at her heart.

As she came up she banged her head hard against something. Skir had stamped on the luckpiece, and now the Witch-Woman was stamping on her head — But she pushed out blindly with her hands and felt the wreckage of the Gani's boat. She gasped for breath, eyes squeezed shut, groping along the side of the boat with her hands. Skir couldn't save her now. Tansy clung to the wreckage with her fingernails, and waited for Wanion's death to claim her.

When Perrin disappeared, Skir had just enough presence of mind to gulp in another lungful of air and kick out hard, away from the hail of arrows. It was true he could swim a little; Beeman had insisted on trying to teach him, but the Baltimarans were horrified by the very idea, and it had been difficult to arrange many lessons. The knapsack dragged him sideways, but Tansy had pulled the straps too tight, he couldn't wriggle out of it. Skir kicked and splashed blindly until he ran aground; he staggered to his feet and found himself some distance upstream, in the shallows by the riverbank, face to face with a startled Palace guard, his blue and scarlet uniform daubed with mud, waving a short sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other.
"Don't move!" He was young, no older than Skir himself, and the sword shook in his grasp. He yelled, "Sarge!"
Skir raised his hands. He felt oddly calm. "It's all right. You mustn't hurt me. I'm the Priest-King of Cragonlands. I'm valuable property."
The young guard took a wobbling step forward and ran his tongue over his lips. In the livid light of the torch, his face flickered copper and bronze. "I said, don't move! One step and I'll run you through."
"You know you can't do that." Skir took a step back into the river. The water was up to his waist.
"Sarge!" bawled the guard, but there was no response, only some yells and a fierce, unearthly squeal from the direction of the woods. The young guard's head jerked round, just for a heartbeat, and silently Skir slipped under the water and vanished.
The guard swore. He took one more hesitant step into the river, then jumped back with a shudder. "Sarge! Sarge!" He held the torch high, frantically scanning the water. Nothing. No, wait, what was that? It might have been a log, turning in the current. But then he saw the glint of red hair in the wavering light of the flames. The body floated face down; it was drifting downstream, further out of reach with every moment.
"Sarge! Where is everybody?" The guard swore again, and let his sword dangle by his side. He watched for a while longer to see if the kid was really dead. "Sarge! We lost one — we need nets, at the footbridge — Sarge!" The guard swivelled round and hared off along the riverbank to find someone who could take charge.
Skir let himself swirl in the water as long as he could before he risked snatching another breath. He was close to the boat. He dropped his head back into the water. He might not have the power of chantment, but he was well trained, first by the priests of the Temple at Gleve, and then Beeman. One thing he could do was to hold his breath for a long, long time.
A hand grabbed the strap of his knapsack and hauled him closer, and his head reared up, spluttering.
"Ssh!" hissed Tansy. "It's only m-me."
He could see her face dimly; it was starting to get light. They were on the far side of the charred wreckage of the Renganis' boat, hidden from the soldiers. Tansy's teeth were chattering, and one of her hands was thrust into a gap between scorched boards to keep herself afloat. Skir found a handhold and they trod water side by side.
"You all r-right?"
"I think so."
"Ssh!"
Voices carried across the water. " — no time to find nets. Get some poles to drag the body in from the bridge."
" — almost sorry for the poor kid — "
"More sorry for old Hooksey. Wouldn't want to be the one to make that report."
"Did you hear about what happened in the woods?"
The voices lowered, sober. Tansy could only the words boar and two men. Then the voices faded altogether. Everything was quiet. No shouts, no splashes.
"They think I've drowned," whispered Skir.
"Thought I was going to, too." Tansy's face was pale. "That was her. Madam. We shouldn't never have hurt that luckpiece."
Skir had nothing to say to that. Instead he said, "They shot him, you know — the Rengani."
But Tansy shook her head. "He's holding on over there."
Now Skir saw, in the strengthening light, a hunched shape attached to the side of the boat. "Is he all right?"
Tansy shrugged. "He ain't let go."
Skir half-paddled, half-pulled himself along the side of the boat until he reached Perrin. The Rengani's head turned sharply and his teeth flashed white as he grinned. "Well, well," he said softly. "Long live the King. They've all gone off to fish your body out of the river. Good time to swim to shore, while it's all quiet."
"You're not too badly hurt then?" asked Skir timidly.
Perrin held up his hand with the arrow shaft sticking through it; the flesh around the wound was swollen, raw and seeping blood. "Think I can make it." His voice changed. "No such luck for Doughty."
"Doughty? Your friend?"
Perrin jerked his chin. The boat dipped and swayed as Skir heaved himself up to peer in. A swollen shape bumped about in the water at the bottom of the boat; it looked like a mattress rolled up and tied with string. Skir lowered himself back into the river.
He whispered, "I've never seen a dead body before."
"Really?" said Perrin acidly. He'd lost count of the bodies, and parts of bodies, he'd seen since he joined the Army. Tugger, with his throat ripped out… Perrin bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. "Well, can't hang around here all day, it'll be light soon. Better hold onto this." He shoved the end of the oar at Skir.
"What about Tansy?"
"Your girlfriend isn't part of my mission. She'll have to take care of herself."
"She's not my — "
Tansy had hauled herself hand over hand until she was beside them. "I can take care of myself," she whispered furiously.
"Good," said Perrin blandly. "You might want to take Doughty's dagger. He won't need it any more." And he struck out one-handed for the riverbank.
With rather more splashing than Perrin would have liked, the three managed to struggle back to the shore. The sun had fully risen now, and already heat pulsed from it as if from an open stove. It was going to be a blazing hot day.

Perrin crawled over the mud until he found solid ground to rest on, and considered his hand again. By daylight, it didn't look too bad; he'd seen far worse on the battlefield. Just a scratch, really. If Tugger and the lads had seen him fussing over that last night, he'd never hear the end of it.
But Tugger was dead.

Again Perrin pushed the knowledge away. They could hardly have stuffed it up worse. He wondered if High Command would believe it wasn't their fault. Still, the boy was alive, and while he was alive, so was the mission. Perrin had orders to follow.

He found a flat rock, and turned his hand so the arrow head pointed to the sky. Swiftly he banged his hand down on the rock so the arrow-shaft was forced up through his palm. "Shite!" He tugged on the arrow-shaft and it slid free with a gush of blood and liquid. The two kids just stood there and watched. They were bedraggled, and Perrin knew he was no better. The boy's long hair was in rats' tails. There was a gash across the girl's cheek, and a swelling bruise where she'd bashed her forehead on the boat. Perrin tried to tear a strip off the bottom of his shirt for a bandage with his teeth and one hand, but the cloth was too tough and he was shaking too hard.

Without speaking the laundry-maid ripped a long band from the bottom of her own shirt and held it out to Skir.

He shied away. "I don't know how."

Tansy snatched back the length of cloth and said to Perrin, "Give me your hand. Is it clean?"

"You tell me. You're the laundry-maid. Ow! That's too tight."

"It's got to be tight. Can you walk?"

"I was shot in the hand, not the foot. Of course I can walk."

"Get up then. I might be just a laundry-maid but I got an idea."

Skir gazed at her eagerly. "What is it?"

"You still got that money? Well, I thought we might borrow something else from the King."

The old groom, Ingle, had slept badly; the Palace guards messing about in the woods kept him awake half the night. First thing, he hobbled down the rutted lane from the stables to check on the King's purebred hunters in the Long Field. If he found an arrow stuck in any of those horses, there'd be more to pay than a soldier's wage, and no mistake.
The Long Field was bordered by thorn hedges so high that not even the hunters would jump them; Ingle could barely peer over. He glimpsed Warble and Jasper and Peak, and there was Thunderer, the big black stallion. They looked all right. Ingle limped along to the gate for a better view. The horses' heads were turned to the bottom corner of the field, where it bordered the woods. Ingle craned to see. There were two horses right down in that far corner, heads poked over the low hedge like a couple of old women gossiping: Sedge, the chestnut mare, and Penthesi, matched pair to Thunderer. The other horses all had their ears pricked, as if they were listening to something that Ingle couldn't hear. Then, in unison, they too trotted down to the far corner.
Show the horses something new and Penthesi was always the first to trot over and investigate. Curious as a kitten, that one. Maybe a soldier still in the woods, up to some army foolishness. But an uneasy instinct pricked at Ingle.

Then he heard it: a faint snatch of song borne on the breeze from the direction of the woods.

Old Ingle hobbled to the gate as fast as his stiff legs would carry him. But before he could reach it, the horses flew toward him: Penthesi, mane and tail fluttering like black flags, a fair-haired figure crouched low on his back — no, there were two of them, a red-haired lad as well. And behind Penthesi was the chestnut, Sedge, with a dark-haired young man clinging lopsided to her back.

Ingle could only watch helplessly as the two horses galloped on, faster and faster. Then in a smooth, gathered movement, they leaped the thorn hedge, thundering past him and away down the lane. Sedge's rider bumped and swayed, leaning low over the chestnut's neck.

Too late, Ingle waved his cap and shouted. He recognised the fair-haired one: it was no lad, it was the little missy who'd come down to ride in secret, Tern's little friend from the kitchens, was it, or the laundries? And he knew the red-haired lad, too. It was that foreign-blooded boy who came for riding lessons. Ingle was supposed to call him "Highness," but to Ingle, no one outside the King's own family was "Highness," and certainly not some strange skinny little foreign lad.

Grimly Ingle bunched his cap in his weathered hands and trudged back down the lane.

"Was that old Ingle waving and yelling at us?" Skir dodged a branch; they were bumping through the woods. "He knows me."

Tansy turned her head, one hand twined in Penthesi's mane. "Old Ingle likes me. Maybe he won't tell."

But even as she spoke, they heard the horns ring out. Ingle had reported the theft of two of the King's horses to the Palace guard, but even he was surprised at the speed of their response.

"Doesn't like you as much as you think, obviously," panted Perrin as he fought for balance on Sedge's back. They were near the edge of the woods now.

"Hold tight, Skir!" cried Tansy. "Time for a gallop."

"Aren't we already — ?" jerked out Skir in alarm, but then Tansy leaned over the horse's neck and urged it from a trot into a run. Skir fell forward and wrapped his arms even tighter around her waist; at any other time he would have enjoyed wrapping his arms round Tansy, but he was jolting too hard to even think about it.
They broke from the cover of the trees and the horses' hoofs thundered across soft turf. The shallow hills of southern Baltimar rolled gently away like the billows of a green sea, as far as the horizon. And Tansy was whooping — cheering! With the Baltimaran Army on their heels! Skir could just hear Perrin's slight chuckle as he encouraged his mare into a gallop, leaning low and holding hard with his one good hand.
And now they flew. The strong muscled machine of the black horse gathered power beneath them, and the ground blurred; the drumbeat of hoofs rang in Skir's head and vibrated through his body, and all he could do was hang on.

The hot summer sun rose higher on their right hand side, turning the dull green hills to warm gold with lakes of shadow between, and the horses galloped, strong and glad and free, even with the weight on their backs, glad to run, as if they knew that even the Baltimaran Army could never catch them.