To the High Redoubt by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

us; we’re not merchants.” He was already busying himself with checking all their paraphernalia tied to the saddle. He had not wanted to release her hand, and he chided himself for letting her affect him so.
    â€œGold. Anyone can use gold.” She went on awkwardly. “Arkady-immai, you are…not happy that there is not much money. Gold is good.”
    â€œUseful,” he suggested. “Good or bad, it’s useful.” He took her arm. “Ready? Up you go.”
    She got onto the bay without fuss, holding the cantel, the hem of her robes hiked up to her knees, revealing the embroidered leather shoes with pointed toes that Arkady found fascinating. As he stared at her shoe, she said, “Arkady-immai, your head…what color?”
    â€œMy head?” He paused, his hand already on the saddle. “You mean my hair?”
    â€œYes; hair.” She almost smiled. “I want to see you better.”
    â€œIt’s…uh…light brown, sort of like dry grass.” He felt awkward answering the question, and wished, for reasons he could not comprehend, that she had not asked.
    â€œAnd your eyes,” she persisted.
    â€œNo special color,” he said curtly, swinging onto the horse and narrowly missing her with his knee.
    â€œWhat color?”
    â€œIt’s not important,” he snapped, kicking the gelding more forcefully than he had intended.
    The bay jogged into a trot for a short distance but pulled back to a walk when they regained the main road.
    â€œTell me, Arkady-immai. It is good for me to know this,” she said.
    â€œWhy?” he asked, perplexed and uneasy. His uncertainty was more with his own reluctance than her question. What was it about this that vexed him so? Was it only her blindness, or did it go further than that.
    â€œThere are reasons.” She leaned forward so that her head rested against the back of his shoulder. “It doesn’t bother me that you are not blind, Arkady-champion.”
    The acuity of her remark stung him. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped. “Yes, I did. My eyes are greenish brown. My mother hoped they would be blue. My sister had blue eyes.”
    â€œAh.” It was a little time before she spoke again. “Watch with your greenish brown eyes, Arkady-champion. We are not far from where the thing was dropped.”
    He could not resist asking her, “How do you know that?”
    She shrugged. “I know it. I saw it.”
    He had to be content with that, for she would say no more. As they rode, he watched the ground ahead of them and scanned the sides of the road. He had no notion what he might be searching for, but he could not refuse to look. He was not sure he knew what Surata meant when she said gold: a coin, a piece of jewelry, a small cast bar. Then he noticed a small leather sack, hardly larger than a pouch, half-covered with dust, and he reined in. “There’s something,” he said.
    â€œGood.” She sat still while he dismounted. There was a faint smile on her lips. The mark in the middle of her forehead appeared brighter than usual.
    Arkady lifted the pouch, slapping the dust off it. He was surprised at its weight. “I don’t know what’s in it, but—” He broke off as he untied the thongs that held it. Inside the pouch, he saw the gleam of gold. “Coins,” he said in an odd tone.
    â€œAre there very many?” She did not seem the least startled by his announcement. “Are they all gold?”
    â€œAs far as I can tell,” he said carefully. “There are quite a few of them,” he admitted, bouncing the pouch a few times. He had never held so much money at one time in his life.
    â€œEnough to take us to Samarkand?” she asked. “Will it buy us what we need?”
    He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what it costs to go to Samarkand, but I’d guess we could go to the court of the Great Khan