Sartor by Sherwood Smith Page B

right away—if she could just
fool them long enough for Atan to free Sartor—wouldn’t that be a
good thing?
    In difficult situations she’d always asked herself
what Peitar would do. It didn’t even take thought to know. She could see
so clearly her brother’s austere face, the ardent ring of conviction in
his voice at the trial. His life had been forfeit, but he’d spoken up for
the sake of others, because he’d thought it was the only chance he had to
speak and be heard.
    If he can do it, can I do less ? Lilah thought, and
with bleak wryness—not humor, she was too afraid for that—she
realized the decision had been made.
    And so she opened her eyes, and though her stomach by now
was roiling and boiling with fear, she popped that last grape in her mouth, and
sighed inwardly, then said, “The name is Yustnesveas Landis.” She
couldn’t quite lie.
    “You’re done,” the man said. “Turn
around.”
    “What?” She blinked, confused.
    The man did not answer. Instead, he yanked her wrists in
back of her and tied them in a way that did not cut off her circulation, but
she could not wriggle loose or reach the knots. Too late she remembered the
Lure in her pocket. Why hadn’t she pulled it out, thrown the
petals at him, and when he fell over into the deep sleep caused by the Valley
flowers, escaped?
    Because of the headache, and tiredness, and him thinking
I’m Atan, that’s why, she thought as her ankles were bound. Stupid
stupid stupid!
    “Two nights and two days I’ve spent running
after you,” the man said. “I want some sleep, and this way I am
sure to get it. If you make any noise, you’ll get the gag as well.”
    So saying, he wrapped her coat round her so she turned into
a giant worm, and then pushed her so she landed flat in the dust. She wriggled
over onto her stomach so her hands wouldn’t hurt quite as much. The coat
covered her face so she couldn’t see—not that there was anything to
look at. And at least it pillowed her head a little against the hard ground.
    Sounds were loud and distinct: the crunch of boot heels in
the gravel, the thud of the horse’s hooves. The endless rush, rush, rush
of water over stone.
    About the time she fell asleep, up in Shendoral to the
northeast, Hinder faltered in the middle of a song, touched the back of his
head, then slid into a faint.

NINE
    While Hinder lay safely in Shendoral’s springtime
glade, recovering—and far to the south Kessler forced himself to saddle
the horse, uncover his prisoner, and begin the long ride to the Norsunder Base—Atan
tried to learn the names of Savar’s rescuees. She listened to as much of
their stories as they wished to tell. She was polite, attentive, and courteous,
but not forthcoming.
    “She’s angry with us for not letting her search
for her friend,” Hinder said to his cousin as they stood in line for pan
bread one morning.
    “So what?” Sinder responded with a shrug.
“The patrols are looking. Could she really do any better?”
    “I don’t know, Sin. You’ve known her as
long as I have.”
    “Exactly, Hin.” Sinder clapped her cousin on his
bony shoulder, and tapped her talons against her bowl. “If she were
trained for scouting, if she were an expert with weapons, if her magic skills
could penetrated Norsunder’s spells, I’d say, let her do what she
wants. But she’s not even forest-trained.” The cousins observed
Atan climbing carefully down the rope ladder from the tree platform they’d
given her.
    Sinder picked up her bread in one hand, her bow in the
other, and ran off to join the morning patrol. Hinder sighed, knowing that his
cousin wouldn’t think about Atan’s reflective gaze, her sad smile. Sin
wasn’t interested in people the way she could crouch at the side of a
pond and watch the flutter and flex of a duck’s feet, or stare up at the
slow pattern of leafy boughs swaying in a wind. So he let her go, picked up his
own bread and, hearing the familiar triple-beat melodies of a swing