at least we were cut off from the wind. We ate a scanty dinner from our provisions and set a small, sputtering fire. I picked a patch of ground that looked less stony than the rest, did my best to arrange my cloak and a blanket into something approaching a bed and settled down to snatch what rest I could.
I woke, chilled and stiff to the bone, to wan grey light and the sight of Alvantes already packing his bedding away. He had his back to me. Lacking energy or motivation to call out, I chose to watch him struggle instead. One last blanket didn't want to fit, and its resistance was clearly working on Alvantes's nerves.
As the struggle drew to a climax, I became steadily aware of something nagging at my attention. I couldn't say what at first; it was just the vague sense of a detail not right. Then I saw. Every time Alvantes tried to thrust the blanket inside, the contents of the bag shifted, and the sides moved correspondingly – except for the lowest segment, a finger's length in depth. That bottom portion always stayed perfectly rigid.
I mightn't have noticed it if Alvantes hadn't asked his cryptic question and borrowed my needle and thread. Laying there though, barely awake, I nevertheless felt certain beyond doubt: Alvantes had hidden something in the base of his saddlebag.
He cursed, strapped the bag clumsily shut over the offending blanket, and turned around. Seeing me, he started almost guiltily. "You're awake. Let's get moving."
Saltlick was already up too, and had stripped one tree nearly bare for his breakfast. I had time for a brief snack of my own before we were on the road again. Within an hour, we'd left the narrow highway for the Hunch-proper, the great tableland that spread from the east mountains to where the Casto Mara sliced a gully through its western edge, leaving the plateau's end a rocky wedge on the far bank. Though there were a few large farms and many villages scratching out a living, the Hunch was barren compared with the valley floor. It was a region of dry red soil and juts of stone, desiccated brush and the occasional skewed cactus, and it only grew more desolate as we followed the dirt road north-west towards its farther corner.
As usual, Alvantes was marginally less conversational than my horse. I started when out of the blue he said, "We won't reach Saltlick's tribe today."
Numbed by boredom, I'd hardly considered the next stop on our itinerary. I'd only been vaguely aware that all this while I'd been retracing my route, from that fateful day I'd somehow imagined stealing from Moaradrid to be a sane and sensible idea.
That meant we were close to where Saltlick and I had last seen the captive giants – though as Alvantes had said, not so close that we'd arrive today. In the meantime, we'd need somewhere to pass another night. Memories of the last time I'd crossed the Hunch, and the frantic flight from Moaradrid's riders I'd made carried on Saltlick's shoulder, pried their way into my mind. With them came another image I'd sooner have forgotten: the sight of Reb Panza burning on the horizon.
"I know a village," I said. "If it's still here, that is. I'm not sure how pleased they'll be to see me, but I'd like to go there."
"If we have to find a village where they're pleased to see you, we'll be up all night."
"Ha! There's that famous, lightning humour again. No wonder they call you the Jester of Altapasaeda."
"No one calls me that."
"Not to your face."
Alvantes snorted. "Very well then. We'll go to this village of yours, and see if they can tolerate your company any more than I can."
After that, I was grateful for his stubborn silence. We kept a steady pace upon the rough road and the day wore on by slow degrees, as tedious as the landscape we passed through and Alvantes and Saltlick's taciturn company.
The sun was setting before we drew near Reb Panza. The horses were growing weary, and even the usually indefatigable
I woke, chilled and stiff to the bone, to wan grey light and the sight of Alvantes already packing his bedding away. He had his back to me. Lacking energy or motivation to call out, I chose to watch him struggle instead. One last blanket didn't want to fit, and its resistance was clearly working on Alvantes's nerves.
As the struggle drew to a climax, I became steadily aware of something nagging at my attention. I couldn't say what at first; it was just the vague sense of a detail not right. Then I saw. Every time Alvantes tried to thrust the blanket inside, the contents of the bag shifted, and the sides moved correspondingly – except for the lowest segment, a finger's length in depth. That bottom portion always stayed perfectly rigid.
I mightn't have noticed it if Alvantes hadn't asked his cryptic question and borrowed my needle and thread. Laying there though, barely awake, I nevertheless felt certain beyond doubt: Alvantes had hidden something in the base of his saddlebag.
He cursed, strapped the bag clumsily shut over the offending blanket, and turned around. Seeing me, he started almost guiltily. "You're awake. Let's get moving."
Saltlick was already up too, and had stripped one tree nearly bare for his breakfast. I had time for a brief snack of my own before we were on the road again. Within an hour, we'd left the narrow highway for the Hunch-proper, the great tableland that spread from the east mountains to where the Casto Mara sliced a gully through its western edge, leaving the plateau's end a rocky wedge on the far bank. Though there were a few large farms and many villages scratching out a living, the Hunch was barren compared with the valley floor. It was a region of dry red soil and juts of stone, desiccated brush and the occasional skewed cactus, and it only grew more desolate as we followed the dirt road north-west towards its farther corner.
As usual, Alvantes was marginally less conversational than my horse. I started when out of the blue he said, "We won't reach Saltlick's tribe today."
Numbed by boredom, I'd hardly considered the next stop on our itinerary. I'd only been vaguely aware that all this while I'd been retracing my route, from that fateful day I'd somehow imagined stealing from Moaradrid to be a sane and sensible idea.
That meant we were close to where Saltlick and I had last seen the captive giants – though as Alvantes had said, not so close that we'd arrive today. In the meantime, we'd need somewhere to pass another night. Memories of the last time I'd crossed the Hunch, and the frantic flight from Moaradrid's riders I'd made carried on Saltlick's shoulder, pried their way into my mind. With them came another image I'd sooner have forgotten: the sight of Reb Panza burning on the horizon.
"I know a village," I said. "If it's still here, that is. I'm not sure how pleased they'll be to see me, but I'd like to go there."
"If we have to find a village where they're pleased to see you, we'll be up all night."
"Ha! There's that famous, lightning humour again. No wonder they call you the Jester of Altapasaeda."
"No one calls me that."
"Not to your face."
Alvantes snorted. "Very well then. We'll go to this village of yours, and see if they can tolerate your company any more than I can."
After that, I was grateful for his stubborn silence. We kept a steady pace upon the rough road and the day wore on by slow degrees, as tedious as the landscape we passed through and Alvantes and Saltlick's taciturn company.
The sun was setting before we drew near Reb Panza. The horses were growing weary, and even the usually indefatigable
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