Act of Will by A. J. Hartley Page B

other than those that preserve your worthless hide.”
    She turned to me to say that, and her blue-grey eyes blazed into mine. Her voice had a strident edge to it, since she was speaking over the noise of the horses, but her tone was calm. I stared at her and tried turning on the charm.
    “You don’t mean that.” I beamed mischievously.
    “Don’t bet on it.”
    “You can’t mean, for example, that I am physically ugly! Many women—”
    “I mean exactly that,” she said bitterly. “Look at yourself. Skinny and with the belly of an old frog. You’re what, eighteen?”
    “About that.”
    “You have the physique of someone twice your age. Look at that!”
    She poked my stomach with her index finger until it hurt. I wanted to slap her but I was too chivalrous, and didn’t want the further humiliation of her beating me up.
    “That’s nothing a little exercise won’t fix,” I breathed, pushing her hand off my gut testily.
    “You never do any exercise.”
    “I carry wood and stuff,” I said in an injured tone.
    “That’s not exercise, that’s light work,” she snarled. “Call yourself a man?” she sneered. “You’re an actor . A professional liar. You’ve never done a day’s work in your life.”
    “Just because I don’t use my biceps all day doesn’t mean I don’t work. Can’t a man earn his keep with his brain instead of his arms?”
    That ought to get her , I thought.
    “Of course he can, if the work is honorable.” She sat back, pleased with herself as if she had said something unanswerable.
    “Honor!” I spat. “A fine, airy nothing to get yourself killed for. Honor, God help us! If, according to your honor, I am damned for acting on a stage, but you and your brother are praiseworthy for theft and murder, then you can keep it. Better still,” I added, warming to my subject, “you can stick it right—”
    “That’s enough,” said Mithos, who had appeared trotting at my side. “You two had better learn to live with each other for a while. And Renthrette?”
    “Yes,” she said, a faint pout puckering the slim pink line of her mouth.
    “Mr. Hawthorne is our guest.” At that her lip began to curl and he, catching her look, spoke more forcefully. “Conditions will not be good until we reach Stavis. Some degree of harmony is essential. Drink.”
    He indicated the cloth-covered bottle and I passed it to her. She took a long, slow mouthful and I watched her throat as she swallowed. Passing it back to me, she caught the hard glitter of Mithos’s black eyes and forced a smile.
    “There you are, Mr. Hawthorne.”
    “Thank you ever so much, Renthrette,” I said.
    Mithos nodded and rode on. She watched him go and said, “In future, Mr. Hawthorne, have the dignity to fight your own battles.”
    I felt I had cause to protest at this, but the conversation was clearly a circular one. I fell silent and looked at the unchanging road ahead.
    When we stopped to eat, Orgos caught me by the arm and beamed into my face.
    “Had a romantic ride?” he asked.
    “Get lost, Orgos,” I replied. He gave his characteristic whoop of laughter and I grinned at him despite myself.

    In the second half of the week in the Hrof, I started secretly doing exercises at night, when it was cool and I was on watch. The others, Renthrette in particular, were asleep, so I could move away from the wagon and wheeze my way through some sit-ups and push-ups. There were no improvements in my physique, but I felt virtuous and that was enough at present. One night Orgos interrupted me. “You don’t exactly tax yourself, do you?” He smiled.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied, insulted.
    “You’ve barely broken a sweat. There are a few weights in the wagon. Want to use them?”
    “Er, yes, all right,” I agreed reluctantly. He went into the wagon and reappeared with a pair of small dumbbells, a four-foot bar, and a set of weights, all carried with irritating ease. In order to stave off actually having