Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (36 page)

If it meant getting out of here, Soraya didn’t care what she was soaked with. Well, she didn’t care much. And she could always bathe later.

She hung her ankles over the back ropes, and grasped the front ropes with both hands, with her weight mostly centered on the X, just before the carter mounted and the cart lurched into motion. It moved all of twenty feet before stopping again, to allow them to clean out the pig pen. But that was the last stop before it left camp, for which Soraya was grateful. The hard ropes were already digging into her breasts, hips, and thighs, and more . . . liquid was dripping onto her back and hair. But at its worst, it was better than being flogged.

By the time they finished cleaning the pig sty Soraya wasn’t so certain of that, for her muscles
had begun to ache and burn. It was a relief when the cart started moving—it actually hurt more, but clinging to the ropes while the cart bounced and swayed took enough effort and attention that it distracted her even from the stench.

The strings of the net cut into her face as she watched the bumpy ground roll under the cart, far too slowly to suit her. At last, here was the turn that Soraya knew would take them onto the road that exited the camp.

Straining her neck muscles, Soraya turned her head and looked to one side. Yes, they were passing the troopers’ tents now. She could see the soldiers’ legs and feet coming out of the doors, walking past the cart. If the cart had been just a little bit late this morning, she would have been seen on the street and recaptured. But no one paid any attention to the familiar passage of the midden cart.

If she hadn’t been so uncomfortable, Soraya might have relaxed. She wasn’t even too alarmed when the perimeter guard hailed them.

“Halt the cart.”

“Why?” asked the carter. But the cart stopped. “Usually you want me out of here as fast as possible. Especially when the pig shit’s aboard.”

Another cold drop fell onto Soraya’s hair, and she grimaced.

“Yeah, well, we’ve got new orders today. We’re to search everything leaving camp. Some kitchen half-wit almost walked off with an important document yesterday, and the governor threw a fit about security procedures, so . . . new orders.”

The guard didn’t sound as if he thought much of them, but Soraya’s heart beat like a hammer. She freed one hand from the rope and reached for the knife, but the net, and ropes she was lying on, kept her from touching it. Still, its sharp presence against her stomach was as comforting as it was uncomfortable. When they pulled her out she would draw it and . . . and what? Fight several men, armed with swords? She’d do better to hide it under the cart, hoping she might retrieve it later, but she wanted that knife! It made her feel less defenseless, even if the feeling was an illusion.

“Search all you want,” the carter said cheerfully. “Dig into every corner. Better you than me, that’s all I have to say.”

“Are we supposed to stick our lances into that muck?” a soldier complained. “We’d have to wash them.”

“Um. I think a close visual inspection will do,” another voice replied. “You see any documents in there?”

Soraya prayed that none of them would think to look beneath the cart.

“None I can see from here,” said the soldier. “And I don’t particularly want to get closer.”

The carter laughed. “Well, if your inspection’s finished, then I’ll be getting on. A good day to you.”

The cart rolled forward but Soraya didn’t relax, didn’t move a muscle, till it passed around the low hill that she knew would take it out of sight. Even then she didn’t relax much, for by now it felt as if every muscle in her body was on fire.

The first canal bridge wasn’t far outside the Hrum camp, but there was almost half a league between it and the next bridge. Half a dozen times Soraya reached for the knife to cut herself free—if the carter saw her, she would run! But even if she could run, and the way her muscles were cramping that was doubtful, there would be Hrum patrols looking for her the moment the man reported.
No, not yet.
She could endure a little longer.

Then a particularly rough jolt sent pain arcing down her spine. Soraya hissed and twisted herself to one side so she could fumble through the net and draw the knife. This was ridiculous! A beating would hurt less, and she could hide in the fields almost as well as in the brush beside the canal.

She had laid the blade against the first rope, when she heard hoofbeats thundering up the road behind her.

“Halt the cart!”

“What, again?” The carter was stopping the ox as he spoke.

Gazing at the dusty horses’ legs that trotted up to surround the cart, Soraya held her breath. Who’d have thought they’d miss her this quickly?

“We’re looking for a slave girl who escaped last night,” said a crisp voice in Hrum. “We wondered if you might have seen her—she might even have hidden herself in your cart.”

Soraya’s hand tightened on the knife. If she was caught after getting this far, she would kill someone! Probably the peddler, if she ever laid hands on him.

“They already searched my cart on the way out of camp—for documents, no less. But you can
poke through the midden again if you like,” the carter added. “If you’re all that attached to the stuff, I’ll let you keep a bushel or two.”

There was a moment of silence broken only by the stamp of hooves, then Soraya thought she heard a soldier mutter, “That stuff stinks!”

“Since you confirm the perimeter guards’ statement that they already searched the cart, further search would be redundant,” said the officer shortly. “But did you see a slave girl, either back in the camp or on the road?”

“I saw a few women in the camp,” said the carter. “I don’t know if they were slaves or not, but they seemed to be going about their business. And I haven’t seen anyone on the road yet—most folks are just sitting down to breakfast.”

“Hmm. So if she came this way, she’s probably still ahead of you.”

“Or she hid in a ditch as I passed,” said the carter. “Or more likely, she’s in the city, hiding out with friends.”

“Perhaps,” said the officer stiffly. “But our task is to search this road till we’re certain she didn’t come this way. If you see her, you’ll report it? There will be a large reward, if she’s recaptured.”

“How large?” asked the carter. “I haven’t seen her, but I can be asking folks to keep their eyes open. A girl, you say?”

“About sixteen years old, small, with long black hair,” the Hrum officer told him. Soraya blessed the net that cut into her face, for it also kept her braid from falling to the ground where it might have been seen.

“They haven’t decided on the exact amount yet,” the officer continued, “but it will be at least fifty gold centirus. Possibly more.”

The carter whistled. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He doubtless would, along with every peasant in the area who fancied the price of a new house! Soraya lowered her head onto one of the hard ropes and cursed Garren bitterly as the patrol cantered off. He had turned everyone in the countryside against her. On the other hand, if he was sending out patrols and offering rewards, perhaps that meant the peddler was honest after all. In any case, she would wait to cut herself free until she reached the spot he’d described.

T
HE WHOLE ROAD WAS
so rough and rutted that Soraya feared she wouldn’t be able to recognize
the “rough place” before the second canal bridge, but when they finally reached it there was no doubt. The cart jolted so wildly that Soraya could hardly cut the first rope, and one ankle had already bounced off its support, so one of her knees now dragged over the dirty ruts despite the presence of the net.

She tried to transfer all her weight to the rope that would remain, but the moment the first rope gave way, the lower half of her body pitched down onto the road. Only her firm grip on the remaining rope, and the entangling net, kept her under the cart as it rolled onward. She’d have thought the carter would hear her being dragged over the ruts, but he was talking to the disgruntled ox, and the cart lurched so much that the shift of her weight was probably imperceptible—but that wouldn’t last once they got onto the smoother surface of the bridge! Soraya sawed grimly at the remaining rope with her free hand. Azura be praised for a peddler who sold knives! This one wasn’t fancy but the blade was wickedly keen, and it cut through the rope in just four hard strokes.

Soraya hit the ground with a thump and was dragged several more feet as the last rope threaded
itself out of the braces. She lay, head and shoulders on the base of the bridge, and watched the back of the midden cart climb up the bridge’s gentle slope and then vanish down the other side.

Her gaze swept the nearby fields, thick with the gold of nearly ripe grain and the green of bushy vegetables. No one had appeared yet, but they wouldn’t be at breakfast much longer. Moving slowly, as much because her aching muscles demanded it as for silence, Soraya untangled herself from the ropes and net. Then she crawled off the road and into the tangle of willows and tall reeds, dragging the evidence of her escape behind her.

For once luck favored her—the well-worn satchel the peddler had promised her was on this side of the road, hidden from the casual glance, but easy to find once she’d crawled into the thicket.

Soraya was grateful, since she didn’t think she could have crossed the road again the way she was feeling. Her hands were so stiff from gripping the ropes that it took several attempts to push the stopper out of the jug, but when she succeeded, strong tea, sweetened with honey, rewarded her.
She made certain no one passing on the road could see her, and then lay still, sipping it slowly, waiting for the ache in her back and neck to fade.

In only half a mark, traffic began to pick up as farmers went to their fields. Once again Soraya was grateful that the midden cart hadn’t been later, and that the peddler hadn’t chosen a more distant bridge. It wasn’t remarkable that a peddler would know the traffic patterns on a main road into a city—he might have walked it dozens of times—but still, his plan had proved sound. Soraya was even more impressed when, beneath the thick sandwiches and apples, she found a shirt, britches, and a brightly embroidered vest and cap, which might have been worn by any peasant boy.

The farmers had all passed now, and there was no one on the road. After careful reconnaissance to be certain no one was working in a field nearby, Soraya waded under the bridge and stripped off the slave’s tunic and britches. After a bit of thought she tied them to some willow roots that had protruded into the bottom of the canal. If her knots held, they wouldn’t be found until the canal was emptied—probably not till the harvest ended.

It might not matter if they were found, but
“Sorahb” had done such a wonderful job on her escape so far, it seemed a pity to leave the slightest clue as to how it had been accomplished.

She had no soap, but handfuls of sand from the canal bottom made a decent substitute. It felt wonderful scratching against her skin and scalp, scouring away the stench of the midden cart.

With only a small pang, she took the knife and cut her hair short, like a peasant boy’s. She watched the long black strands drift downstream and was surprised how little regret she felt—that hair was the mark of a true-blooded deghass. But it had been a long time since she’d felt like a deghass, and given the description the Hrum patrols were giving out she could hardly do otherwise.

When she finally felt clean—or as clean as she was going to get in the shallow, silty canal water—she climbed out and put on the boy’s clothes. They were a bit big, as if they’d been handed down from an older brother, but very comfortable. Why were peasant clothes so often more comfortable, or warmer, or more practical than deghass robes? It hardly seemed right.

She coiled the ropes, folded the net, put them
in the satchel, and settled down to enjoy her breakfast. She wasn’t surprised to see the peddler leading his mule up the road shortly after she finished. All the rest of his timing had been perfect, after all.

“Good girl,” he said, looking at her short hair as she scrambled out of the bushes to join him. “Or rather, good boy. You’re the young cousin of some friends of mine. I’m taking you off to a small village near Desafon, where the Hrum have already counted the men, in hopes you can avoid their draft. Mother’s darling, that’s what you are. Come here. I want to make that haircut a bit tidier. Anyone would think you cut it yourself, with a dull knife and no mirror.”

It was a sharp knife, and unless he insisted on taking it back, Soraya intended to keep it, but she couldn’t repress a grin. She’d been smiling a lot this morning. On the other hand . . . “My hair’s still black, and the Hrum patrols are spreading my description in every village.”

He drew his own knife and ran his fingers through her hair. “That’s just what
we’re
going to do,” he said, as the damp, dirty wisps started falling to the road. “We’ll tell everyone we meet about that desperate, escaped slave girl, and the
big reward the Hrum are offering. Which will make it even less likely that anyone will connect my friend’s twelve-year-old cousin with a sixteen-year-old deghass slave. Though it will be better if you don’t talk much, shy like you are.”

“I can be shy,” said Soraya. “But why are you doing this?” She reached up and caught his wrist, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I’ve seen you dealing with the Hrum. Why aren’t you collecting this reward?”

“Mostly it’s because of Ludo,” said the peddler. He twisted his wrist out of her grasp and trimmed a few more strands. “There, that’ll do. He was so upset about what was happening to you, he might have broken down and talked about what he was really doing, or thought he was doing, and that would have been . . . well, a bad thing. So my friends . . . we promised him we’d get you out.”

“Your friends, who sent him to steal papers from the Hrum,” said Soraya. “How could they use him like that? As a traitor, he might have been executed! And he was bound to get caught.”

The peddler was looking at her strangely again, and she sensed the same mixture of astonishment and suspicion she’d felt before, when he talked
about how she’d changed. Then he shrugged and took up the mule’s lead. “You think we didn’t know that?” He started down the road, and Soraya slung the satchel over her shoulder and followed. It felt strange to walk in the open. “No one asked Ludo to do anything. He was just . . . trying to help because of a conversation he’d overheard.”