Sagaria (24 page)

The carriage’s driving seat was wide enough to hold all four of them side by side, and for a few miles they sloshed along happily this way. Every now and then, at Sir Tombin’s behest, Sagandran would stand up and twist around to see if he could spot any sign of pursuit, but there was none. Then the clouds seemed to gather up their courage again, congregating into big heavy-looking gray masses. The rain started, first in dribbles and then in an increasingly relentless downpour. Sir Tombin sent Perima, Flip and a loudly protesting Sagandran inside, out of the wet.

“I’m a frog, remember? I like this sort of weather, but Perima’s already sneezing and I don’t want you two to start.”

There were holes in the carriage roof and every now and then a drop of rain would land on someone when they were least expecting it, but all in all, it was soon fairly snug inside the carriage. Perima efficiently put all the food into a single sack (which still seemed more empty than full) and bundled up the others to serve as cushions. Flip immediately appropriated one of these and curled up on it. Within moments, his little snores were clearly audible over the sound of the carriage wheels straining through the mud.

“It’s good to have you with us, Perima,” said Sagandran, regarding her appreciatively once he was certain Flip was soundly asleep. He wondered when (if) she’d choose to kiss him again.

“Good to be here,” she replied with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement. It was obvious that kissing wasn’t on her agenda right now. “I’ve always wanted to go on a knightly quest, and now I’ve got my chance. Do you think I’ll be very fierce if we meet any dragons, Sagandran?”

At that moment, she looked about as fierce as a dormouse, but he didn’t like to say that. “I’m certain you will be,” he replied smoothly.

“I was in that barrel most of the night, do you know?” she announced airily
after a short pause. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep – not one wink. I do believe our good friend Flip has the right idea.” Her eyes might gleam, but the lids were inexorably closing over them. “Do be a dear and watch over me, Sagandran.”

With that, she went out like a light. Sagandran watched her sleeping, her head resting on a folded sack she’d jammed into a corner of the seat. In slumber she looked much younger than she did when she was awake, and somehow much more vulnerable – not at all like the girl who was ever ready to fend off criticism or adversity with a waspish retort. He wished her father could see her like this. Perhaps even Fungfari’s mercenary, self-interested old heart would melt a little at the sight of the daughter he’d never really let himself look at. At the thought of Fungfari, Sagandran unconsciously clenched his fists. Perima’s father may be the King, but that was only technically the truth. From what she’d told them, she’d never really had a father at all. She’d been an orphan canary in a jewel-encrusted cage. No wonder she’d done her best to escape that cage.

He peered through the streaky window. There was nothing but rain out there, it seemed, with faint gray smears of scenery just visible every now and then, before a new gust of wind thickened the swirling rain once more. It was rather like one’s memories of a dull dream, he thought, the details always dodging just beyond one’s reach. They seemed to be making very slow progress, what with the sludge of the road gripping the carriage’s wheels as if it didn’t want to let them go. He wondered how the horse was faring; it must be having trouble finding its footing in all this slipperiness.

The ceaseless pounding of the rain, the monotonous lurching of the carriage through the mud, the soothing sound of Flip and Perima snoring gently in counterpoint…

He was woken by a drop of water landing on his nose. The view outside the window was brighter, even though he could see from the shadows that the sun was low in the sky. The carriage had come to a halt; the whole vehicle creaked as Sir Tombin shifted on the driving seat and then clambered down. Perima was stirring as well. At some stage while they’d all been sleeping, she stretched out at full length along the seat opposite him, resting her head on her outflung arm; the sack she’d used as a pillow had fallen on the floor. Her face was slightly flushed, as if her dreams had been very strenuous. When she opened her eyes she was looking straight at Sagandran.

“Hello there,” she said quietly before a final yawn overcame her. She covered it up with the back of her free hand. “Any idea where we are?”

“None at all.”

Sir Tombin opened the door. “There’s no sense carrying on further tonight,” he told them. “The rain’s stopped for the time being, but the road ahead of us
is awash – a river, it is. I’ve pulled the carriage as far off the road as I’m able. We’ll camp as best we can for the night, and hope the flood clears by morning. I’ll start a fire so that perhaps we can dry out a little. We’ll sleep in the carriage tonight.”

In fact, getting a fire going proved impossible, as every twig and branch they found was saturated with water. Sagandran suggested that they break up the barrel Perima had hidden in and use it as fuel, but Sir Tombin vetoed the idea.

“When you’ve traveled as much as I have, young man, you learn never to waste resources. I cannot for the life of me imagine at the moment what use an empty barrel might be to us, but it’s a resource nevertheless. We’ll keep it.”

Sir Tombin unfastened the horse from the shafts of the carriage and led it off toward a nearby clump of trees so that it would have shelter for the night. Sagandran followed, gathering some grass to feed the animal. The empty barrel was put to its very first use; Sagandran fetched some water in it from an overflowing stream some fifty or sixty yards away and staggered back under the huge weight to dump it down in front of the horse. For its part, the horse seemed startled that anyone should be troubling to look after it. The neigh it gave in response to Sagandran’s attentions was friendly but, at the same time, inquisitive.

Sagandran patted the beast’s flanks as it bent its head to drink noisily from the barrel. When he’d first seen the creature this morning he’d assumed it was an indeterminate brown-gray. Now he looked more closely and found that what he’d assumed to be the horse’s natural coat was, in fact, an accumulation of ingrained mud – weeks’, if not months’, worth. This animal had been seriously neglected. He picked away a few of the layers, and discovered white hair beneath.

Sagandran ran back to the carriage and fetched an empty sack. He dunked it in the water barrel and began scrubbing with it at the horse’s neck. The rain had softened some of the muddy crust, making his task easier. The animal kept trying to nuzzle its nose into his armpit, which slowed progress a little and made him giggle. The mane was the worst. Packed tightly with dirt, it was a complete tangle, and after a few frustrating minutes of fighting with the knots he decided it was a job that would have to wait for another day. He moved along the horse’s flanks and when he next looked back toward its head, he saw that Perima had come up unnoticed and was picking at the knots with her long, slim, brown, swift-moving fingers.

The sun had almost set by the time they finished. The underside of the horse was still filthy, but the rest of it was substantially cleaner than either Sagandran or Perima.

“He’s a beauty,” she said appreciatively. “At least, he was a beauty once and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be again.”

The horse seemed to agree, for he now stood much more proudly, tossing his head so that his long, wet mane slapped around. He was a gorgeous white all over except for a few pale gray-brown markings … and except for a hatchwork on either shoulder of what appeared to be long, deep scars.

Sagandran whistled. It looked as if the king’s stable hands hadn’t just neglected this animal; they’d treated it cruelly. He wondered why. Perima was obviously sharing similar thoughts, for when he glanced at her he saw tears of fury in her eyes. No dormouse now. It made him glad he wasn’t a dragon.

Sir Tombin had climbed a small hill behind their camping site, with Flip on his shoulder, to see if they could get a better idea of the state of the countryside around. He came splashing down the hillside and approached them.

“Well, I’d never have—” he began.

“Look at this,” interrupted Sagandran, gesturing toward the horse’s scars. “What do you think?”

Sir Tombin came closer and bent over for a better look. Once again, he gave a little whistle through his teeth.

“I don’t like the look of that at all, Sagandran, Perima. The wounds are long healed and this fine fellow is in no danger from them, but someone has treated him very savagely. Very savagely indeed. Unless …”

“Unless what?” said Perima. Her face had turned bright red. She looked as if she wanted desperately to find someone she could hit out at.

“The patterns of the scars,” said Sir Tombin in a reasonable tone. He traced a webbed hand along them. “They are very regular. Almost as if they had a meaning, as if someone had made them deliberately, marking the horse for a reason I cannot at this moment fathom.”

“Like a tattoo or something?” demanded Sagandran hotly.

“That’s the idea,” agreed Sir Tombin.

“Or a brand, like cowboys put on their cattle? The Lazy Q – that sort of thing?”

“Ah, you’ve lost me there, young Sagandran. What are these ‘cowboys’ you speak of? Are they lazy when they stand in line?” Sir Tombin’s friendly smile as he glanced in Sagandran’s direction was baffled.

Sagandran ignored the questions, waving them aside. “What I meant was, has someone marked this animal to show he belongs to them? Put their name on him, so to speak?”

“Yes, I should think so,” said Sir Tombin blandly.

“But that’s wicked,” Perima stamped her foot. Mud splattered. Paying it no mind, she advanced toward the horse. Almost pushing Sir Tombin aside, she put her arm around the animal’s proud neck and pressed her face against its
cheek, muffling her voice. “Who’d be so vile as to treat an animal that way?”

“Your father’s ostlers, perhaps,” replied Sir Tombin, his voice still mild. “Someone else. Who knows? The practice is not uncommon, however much it is to be despised; but I do not recognize it as your father’s marque.”

Stepping around Perima, he looked into the horse’s face. “This is a very special beast, I think. Aren’t you, you fine one?”

The horse snickered its assent.

“You can tell how special he is just by his eyes,” added Sir Tombin, almost as if he were speaking to himself and the horse alone. Then he raised his voice a little. “A creature so splendid as this should have a name, you know. We can’t just keep calling him ‘horse.’ What do you say, Perima?”

Perima stood back. “I can’t give him a name.”

“Whyever not, my dear?”

“I … I don’t feel I’m entitled to.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m sure it was my father’s people who treated him so ill. It’s the sort of cruelty my father wouldn’t even think twice about.”

“But your father’s crimes aren’t yours.”

Sir Tombin reached out a reassuring hand toward her. She shook her head violently and turned away.

“I don’t have the right to give this horse a name. All I can do instead is beg him for forgiveness.”

The stallion nickered quietly.

“See?” said Sir Tombin. “He forgives you.”

Perima still refused to turn back. She put her face in her hands.

Sir Tombin eyed her for a few moments in silence, then shrugged. “Sagandran?” he said at last.

Sagandran had been watching Perima as well, and felt reluctant to intervene because he could see how passionately she felt, but he moved closer now.

“Will you let me name you?”

The horse made an odd little noise that Sagandran interpreted as a negative. For a moment he was disconcerted, then he remembered something Grandpa Melwin had often said. It was as if he could hear the old man’s voice in his ears now – as if Grandpa Melwin were standing right next to him. “No one can give an animal a name,” Grandpa said. “What you must do is observe the animal carefully as you get to know it, and sooner or later you and the animal will discover its true name together.”

Its true name. That was the idea Grandpa had been trying to convey to Sagandran.

He peered deep into the horse’s fathomless brown eye, looking for some meaning among the flecks of color he saw. There were indeed meanings there, he was sure, but he couldn’t decipher them. He stretched out his hand to toy with the forelock on the horse’s head. The horse lowered its gaze.

That was when the horse’s true name came to him. He could have waited weeks before discovering it, but the animal wanted him to know sooner than that.

“You’re called Snowmane, aren’t you, my friend?” he whispered.

The horse’s ears flicked. Yes.

Sagandran stepped back a pace. “His name is Snowmane,” he announced.

Perima still refused to look in their direction. Her shoulders were shaking. Sagandran wondered why it had taken him so stupidly long to realize that she was crying but didn’t want the rest of them to know. He wanted to go to her, put his arm around her and reassure her that she was among friends, but at the same time he knew this might be the worst thing he could do. Instead, he just cleared his throat.

“Snowmane,” said Sir Tombin with brusque cheerfulness, observing this little interplay. “And a very fine name it is too.”

“Does he like small creatures?” asked Flip.

“I’m sure he does,” said Sir Tombin. “Now let’s go and see what we can find for our suppers.”

The Frogly Knight squelched off toward the carriage.

“Perima?” said Sagandran experimentally once they’d gone.

She spun to face him, lowering her hands. Her cheeks were wet.

“Snowmane, I’m so sorry!” she wailed.

The horse slowly swung his head around to regard her. What it was she saw in Snowmane’s face Sagandran couldn’t tell for sure, but he could guess. The horse was forgiving her.

This time, Perima didn’t mind that Sagandran could see her crying.