“If you know as much as you seem to about armament, you must have good survival skills. Precious Wind would know that, wouldn’t she?”
“Even Precious Wind says she worries because I’m untested. She’s right. I know what I should do, but I don’t have the habits of doing it. Oldwife will worry, too.”
“And you’ll be armed when you ride to meet me, promise.”
“Of course I will.” They sat for a long moment, side by side, Abasio thinking of things he knew very well he wanted to say to Xulai, she thinking of things she wanted to say to Abasio. Neither of them spoke. If they began they would not stop the telling, and there was too much else going on.
The following morning, they exercised the horses once again, then parted, casually, where others could see them, and again privately with much the same wrenching, uprooted pain Xulai had felt on leaving Woldsgard. Abasio went to visit Brother Winger with a bottled gift for the old man and couple of messages to be sent “later.” He left with a supply of grain and three abbey pigeons in a cage. Brother Winger had no difficulty in promising not to deliver any message he received from Abasio if Bear was still at the abbey. Bear had not endeared himself to the residents to begin with, and of late it had been rumored that he was named Bear not for his valor in battle but because he had a temper like one.
Abasio spent the rest of the day greasing axles, packing odds and ends, tying things down. Toward evening, he said he thought he’d travel on south, see what the country was like down there, and since he liked traveling by moonlight, he’d go this evening. He said good-bye to this one and that one, drove out the gate just before the night watch locked it for the night, and jingled away down the road. Once out of sight, he tied down everything that jingled and went on quietly. By morning, he and Blue had maneuvered the wagon into the old, wrecked house, masked it with leafy branches, and made themselves as well hidden as a wagon, horse, and man could be.
In the abbey Xulai kept to the plan and set out toward the stables to go practice her horsemanship with Flaxen. As she turned into one of the corridors that led to the stables, she encountered Derris, the guide. “That fellow, the dyer, he left something for you. Told me to invite you down to get it this morning.”
“I was going down to the stables anyhow,” said Xulai, wondering a little at this oddity. “I need to exercise my horse before school.”
“Well then,” he said, leading the way. “There’s a shortcut through here. It’ll save you some time.” He led her through a couple of doors into a long, empty, and silent corridor.
She didn’t see the sack that came down over her head and body and only smelled the terrible smell for one conscious moment before her mind went utterly blank. In that moment, however, she heard Derris asking, in his cocky voice, “Twelve gold pieces, wasn’t it?”
And Jenger’s voice: “Well, since you’ve already shown me the secret way out, here’s your pay, boy.” Then there was a stifled cry, followed by Jenger’s quiet laughter.
When she next knew anything, she was riding a horse, backward. It took her a moment to realize she was tied on Jenger’s back, a rope around her arms, another around her hips, a third around her legs. The sack that covered her prevented her seeing anything, but it did let the air through so she could breathe. A tiny, cold nose touched her cheek.
“Fisher,” she breathed.
The nose moved up and down, a nod.
“Can you get out of here?”
Another nod.
“Find Abasio and tell him what happened. Or . . . maybe we should wait until we get where we’re going so he’ll know where—”
“I can find you anywhere,” breathed Fisher. “I’m part of you. I always know where you are.” He slipped down her body, between her feet, found the small hole left when the drawstring was pulled closed, and slipped away.
Evidently his going startled the horse, for it shied to one side. Jenger cursed. “Damned nag. Keep on the path or you’ll have both of us into a drift up to our necks.”
She could see some light through the sack, not much. He must have carried her out of the abbey in this sack. She had done nothing, nothing to defend herself! She had been taken totally by surprise. Precious Wind would be ashamed of her. Her eyes filled at the disgrace of it, and she turned her head to wipe the tears against her shoulder. As she did so, the light dimmed. Straight ahead and up a little was brightest. Either before or after noon. Time would tell. As it did. The light decreased as they went on: she was no longer facing it. They were headed west.
Xulai tried to do what she should have done when she met Derris. She should have been alert, ready for anything. Right now that meant staying motionless. This did not seem to surprise her captor. Perhaps whatever he had used to make her unconscious was supposed to go on acting for some time. In fact, it was still acting, for she was vaguely aware that being fearful would be more suitable than being disinterested and very sleepy. Fear, however, refused to materialize. So she told herself she would wait it out and did not fight the drowsiness that slid her into sleep once more.
At the abbey, when Xulai didn’t show up at the school, someone was sent to inquire. During the ensuing search, Derris’s body was found. The houses behind the abbey were searched. Oldwife told them what Xulai had been wearing: her riding clothes, a split skirt, a jacket, boots. Oldwife had no reason to think of counting underwear, shoes, or cloaks. Bear made his presence loudly known everywhere, looking in corners, on roofs, in unlikely places others might have missed. Precious Wind watched him out of the corner of her eye. Something in his activity felt like pretense, as though he were acting. And yet, when he heard Xulai was gone, he had been truly surprised. She did not like any of it, not Bear’s announced intention of leaving them, not this oddness in his manner, not his talk of the bride-price he had to raise before he could marry.
Had he planned this to happen? Had someone paid him to let it happen? She thought not. He had seemed truly surprised when he heard she was gone, so he had not planned it, or, more likely, had not planned it to happen yet!
“It’s possible she decided to go on to Merhaven by herself,” he declared at the end of the day.
“No,” cried Oldwife. “That is not possible. She would not have left us without a word.”
“She spoke to me once of doing just that,” said Bear. “Even though it may seem unlikely, I’m going to ride south. There are plenty of others searching here.”
They argued, Oldwife and Nettie Lean positive that Xulai would have done nothing of the kind, positive that the murder of the young guide showed she had been abducted.
“It shows only that abduction may have been attempted,” said Bear. “Such an attempt would be the very thing that would push her onto the road herself, to get away from whoever it is.”
“Without her horse?” cried Precious Wind in exasperation. “You’re saying she went on foot?”
“It’s easier to hide without a horse,” said Bear. “We taught her that! In any case, it will do no harm to check. If I don’t find her in a few days, I’ll return.”
This last statement was certainly false. He had no intention of returning. Precious Wind was convinced he had merely found a convenient argument for doing what he had intended to do all along, but she said nothing. Saying anything would only put her in danger and do nothing to help Xulai. Better to let him think he was above suspicion.
Early the following morning, she was standing on the wall of the abbey, half-hidden behind a crenellation, when he went out the gate and rode south at a steady trot. She became aware that an old, one-armed man was standing beside her.
“Do you think he’s coming back?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “That man left a lot of enemies.”
“Why is that?”
“Me’n the men figure he’s so used to winning fights, he thinks he’s meant to win everything. He plays cards like a drunk. Stupid. He loses. He gets mad, says things, threatens people. Nobody’ll play with him anymore. We’re glad to see him go.”<
br />
Precious Wind reflected that his habit had not been that bad when they were at Woldsgard. Something had set the man off, far off. She hoped he was riding out of trouble, not into it.
In the bird tower, without a word to anyone, Brother Solo Winger picked out a pigeon from Woldsgard and another from Etershore-Across-the-Water. He took from his pocket two messages left with him by Abasio, inserted them into the little tubes, attached the tubes to the pigeons’ legs, and let them go. He read them first, of course. He always read everything, going and coming, including the abbot’s messages that were marked personal. In Winger’s opinion, it was high time somebody caught on to what either the abbot or somebody close to the abbot was up to. And wasn’t this business at Woldsgard going to be interesting!
Xulai came to again as she was thrust down on a stony surface, a raised surface, a bench or table. Before she could catch her breath, the sack was pulled up from her legs, which were abruptly shackled to the wall. Hands were next, then the sack came away from her head. The man, Jenger, stood looking at her.
“Why did you do that?” she complained in her most childish, feminine voice. “That’s not a nice thing to do at all.”
“I thought you were the other one,” he snarled. “The little one! She wants all you Tingawans, but especially the little one. How many of you are there? You’re not the one who was driving the carriage.”
“There are five of us.” Misleading him even a little was well worth doing. “The little girl and Yellow Bamboo have already gone to Elsmere, then there’s Blue Pearl and Great Bear, and me, I’m the cook.”
“And what’s your name?”
“I’m Green Bamboo. Yellow Bamboo is my sister.”
Jenger felt both anger and fear at hearing the child was gone. He hadn’t spoken to Bear about the child in some time, but the duchess still wanted her more than the others. Now the whole situation had changed!
“Well, we’ll see what my employer has to say about this. You’re not the one I’d arranged for, but she’s been so busy twisting your Bear’s mind toward his girlfriend in Tingawa, I was afraid he’d head south before we concluded our deal. Your Bear promised he’d have the child where I could get her within a day or two. He didn’t tell me she was gone.”
“She’s been gone since a few days after we got there. She’s in Elsmere by now.” Let them search in all the wrong places, she thought. They’d probably find Bear. At least they’d have a fight on their hands.
He grabbed her arm, checked the shackle to be sure it was tight, then the other arm, then each foot, letting his fingers move up her leg, under the split skirt she’d put on for riding. “I can’t take you to my employer for days. I barely made it here myself. I can send a bird to ask what she wants me to do with you, though I already know what I’m going to do with you tonight.” He sniggered, a nasty sound. Xulai had heard the same snigger from a stable boy who had made some remark about her to the Horsemaster. She had never seen him again, though the Horsemaster had mentioned that he had been “unsatisfactory.”
The intrusive hand was getting far too close to certain hidden weaponry. She chose to distract him. “Your employer? Who is she? And why would she want to do anything with me? She doesn’t even know me.”
He sat back, looking both sulky and fearful. “Doesn’t matter. She wants all Tingawans in her territory dead, and since you’re not the girl or the driver that she plans to play her games with, she’ll probably tell me to drop you down a shaft somewhere. Don’t despair, though. It’s a long night. We’ll have some time together.”
He went away, locking the door from the outside. She looked at the room, built as a cell. When Jenger went out, she had had a glimpse through the cell door. The tower door was lower, with something built at the side of it, a tank of some kind, and the tower floor was shiny and wet. The cell level was three or four steps up from the tower floor, probably so the cell floor would stay dry. The door was heavy timber, banded with iron; the two straight walls and the one curved wall were stone; the floor was stone. The ceiling was too high to reach, even if one were free to try. She was in a stone box with only three irregularities: the door, the stone bench she was shackled to, and the high, grilled opening that admitted a dull but fiery light. Fading red. Past sunset. Same day. The fisher wouldn’t have had time to find Abasio.
“Not as a fisher,” she said aloud, surprised by the sound of her own voice. “As a hawk, he’ll be there by now.”
Certainly if he could be a fisher, he could be a hawk. He had started out as a chipmunk. Perhaps it was all a vain hope. No matter when the fisher or the hawk or the whatever got to Abasio, Abasio could not grow wings. He wouldn’t have time to get here before Jenger decided to amuse himself, and the thought of that amusement sickened her. Precious Wind had told her about rape. How to defend against rape. Difficult to do with one’s arms and legs shackled. It had taken Jenger almost a full day to get here from the abbey, and Abasio was a good bit farther away than that.
She pulled against the shackles. They were iron, with their anchors deeply buried in the wall. Her hands were far apart, so one hand couldn’t free the other. Same with the feet. She had weapons hidden on her, but she’d been too dizzy and stunned to use any of them, and Jenger hadn’t even looked.
“What is the first thing?” she asked herself.
First thing always: restore mind.
Strangely enough, Bear had taught her that.
Close eyes. Shut off all surroundings. Make mind shallow, peaceful, like puddle of water, calm surface, like mirror, unmoving. Still. Concentrate on mirror, picture self in mirror. See oneself as one is: hand, shackle, hand, shackle, foot, shackle, foot, shackle. What is reality in this situation?
When she’d been with Precious Wind and Oldwife, coming through the forest, what had been the reality of that situation? Something winged might have been looking for them. What would the winged thing see, or smell, or . . . ?
If they were in the open they could be seen, certainly. If they were under cover, they couldn’t be seen. They could be smelled, but only carrion birds hunted by smell. They could be heard. Owls flew at night, and they hunted by sound. Vultures hunted by scent. Eagles and hawks hunted by sight. It would be night, so most likely it would be an owl. Horses didn’t sound like deer, they breathed differently. She had to convince the horses they were deer, just for a while: they’d have to lie down instead of sleeping standing up. Deer often lay down, horses more rarely. They wouldn’t eat while they were lying down, so there’d be no munching noises. They’d crush the greenery a little more, however, lying on it, and the smell of the crushed forbs would reinforce the idea of animals lying on them, if smell mattered. Sound would, so their breath would have to come a little faster; smaller animals breathed faster. Then, too, the trees’ trunks would be a little warmer lower down, as would the soil around the roots, which meant the sap would move differently in the trees around them. Probably birds could not hear sap move. The horses had emptied themselves just before they’d reached the grove, so if smell mattered, the smell was over there, not where they were among the trees.
So she had reached into horse minds, searched deeply to find their monsters—every creature has its own monsters. She had evoked their possible presences, convinced the horses for their own safety that they needed to lie down, not eat, breathe lightly. Hide. Be quiet.
As for Precious Wind and Oldwife, that part was easy. She’d actually had cats with her, actually had a chipmunk whose job was to tempt the cats into moving around a little, while the cats themselves made little cat noises. Wildcats weren’t that different in smell from other cats, if that mattered. The tree they slept under was dead, and there’d be the same warmth beneath it from cat bodies as from human ones. The owl would hear the chipmunk moving, hear the cats, sense the warmth perhaps. She remembered staying awake a long time that night, mentally telling Oldwife not to snore, and on that night, the old woman had breathed almost silently.
In this case, hands and fe
et in shackles, she didn’t have to convince a tree or a horse or an owl. She had to convince herself.
What was the reality of her situation?
Her hand was too big to come through the iron bracelet.
Why was it too big?
Because it had all her fingers on it.
Suppose she could convince herself it didn’t have all the fingers in one row like that. Suppose the hand had only two fingers, the little finger and the ring finger. In her mind she saw them separating from the rest of the hand. Too bony to separate? Bones are too real. Convince yourself the bones are flexible, like a willow wand. She could feel it happening, feel the hard bone deciding to become more supple. Somewhere down her arm another brain was actually telling her hand what to do. It wasn’t her brain, not her big brain in her head, but another, smaller brain, down the arm, one of several little brains like a string of beads down her arm, a little necklace of brains saying, Let’s pull our arm out of this shackle very gently, softly, then let the other part of the hand become equally soft, equally pliable, and out it slides, slippery, easily, the two parts of her arm caressing one another, rubbing away the soreness where the shackles had chafed the wrists. . .
We dreamed this, she told herself. We dreamed of the tree branches splitting just like this. The roots reaching down and the branches splitting. . .
Now, now the other hand, it’s already moving, the hand splitting painlessly, the wrist opening down the center, the flesh rejoining seamlessly, the arm bones gone, all gone, the arms coming out of the shackle, out of the sleeve. Now the feet! Too bad, feet are in boots, so we have to divide inside the boot and leave the boot behind when we come out of the ankle shackle. Now the other leg. Now all that’s left is the head, but we don’t need to worry about the head, the arms and legs can unfasten the thing that’s holding the head. No key, just a pin in the shackle, quite enough to hold a prisoner unless the prisoner has eight extremities and a skull that has suddenly gone soft and malleable and a lot of little minds up and down her body and has decided to leave the clothes where they are as her body oozes out of them, then off of the bench, across the floor, then, slowly, up the wall beside the door, effortlessly up the wall to a position over the doorway.