Path of the Eclipse by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

distress me so. He said nothing I have not heard before.”
    “Perhaps,” Saint-Germain suggested as he watched the rutted trail winding ahead of them, “it was because you wish to defend your region, and he would not do his part, that you lashed out at him. Oh, yes,” he went on quickly, “you certainly did that. He has paid dearly for his recalcitrance.”
    “Better that now than betrayal later.” The words were harsh but her tone was colored by doubt.
    “Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed at once. “It isn’t pleasant to condemn pigheaded old men, but you cannot expose all the others in your district to the hazard he has become. His rancor has festered too long and you can no longer change it.” This was, he sensed, the only comfort she would accept from him, and he told himself that it was honest, since nothing he said distorted the truth. Yet he felt a surprising compassion for the Warlord T’en. He could hear in his thoughts the way Rogerio would upbraid him if he knew of Saint-Germain’s interest in this woman, and he chuckled.
    “You are amused?” Chih-Yü demanded, her ire still warm enough to give her words heat.
    “By myself, T’en Chih-Yü,” he said, continuing in another voice, “You wanted to speak to the forester and his family, didn’t you?”
    Chih-Yü glanced up at the sky. “It is getting late. I doubt we could find them before sunset. Tomorrow I will send Jui Ah to the forester.”
    Saint-Germain realized that was not her only reason, that she feared another encounter like the one with No-ei. Instructions from Jui Ah would be more acceptable. He looked at the branches and shadows overhead: the sun was well over his left shoulder, dropping into the western mountains. “We’ve come quite a distance into the hills,” he allowed, “and it is most unwise to be abroad at dusk.”
    “It is,” she said gratefully, and gave her attention to picking a way down the slope.
    They were in a rocky, shallow gully where a freshet tore at the muddy banks, when there was an unexpected sound—sharp, like a tree limb cracking, but more metallic.
    Chih-Yü looked around quickly. “Where was that?”
    Saint-Germain shook his head, listening. Was that a footfall? he asked himself. “Mongol scouts?” he inquired casually in the dialect of Lo-Yang.
    She answered in the same. “More likely highwaymen. Scouts usually keep to the crests and ridges in order to observe as much as possible.”
    There was another, soft sound nearby, and Saint-Germain put his hand to his sword hilt. “I think it would be wise to take a few precautions.”
    “We could spur out of here,” Chih-Yü suggested.
    “But what’s ahead? They may want us to do that, so they may drop nets over us, or trip our mounts with ropes, or ambush us from that turn in the trail.” Even as he said this, he saw that the same cautions had occurred to her.
    “How many do you think there are?” she went on conversationally, still speaking the dialect of the old capital.
    “Four at the least,” he answered, listening to the subtle signals that were hardly sounds at all. “Two on the right, two on the left. There are probably more up ahead.” The tone of his voice suggested that he was discussing the weather.
    “Undoubtedly,” she answered, loosening her sword in its scabbard. “How soon?”
    “They may be waiting for us to move.” He bent in the saddle and felt for the dagger tucked into his boot.
    “Then we will oblige them. I would prefer better ground than this gully if we’re going to fight.” The indecision had left her. It was with an effort that she kept her words sounding casual. “We will get out of this gully, and try for that glade over there. It is good footing, and it is off the trail, so that any other men will have to come through the brambles. Will your horse mind the thorns?”
    Saint-Germain looked at the berry-vine thicket and raised his brows. Chih-Yü had hit upon the best delaying tactic available. Certainly men on