The Silence of Medair

And he would only have had a few disjointed moments of consciousness since the fire. Waking to be fed and to geas her, and next on the road when she’d hit him. Now here. She wondered if he was surprised to still be alive.

Two men from the stables had been given the job of carrying him down, and she was relieved to see them before the Ibisian had quite finished his meal. She hardly felt inclined to small talk. The stablemen were no more enthusiastic and made little concession to Ibisian dignity as they got him to his horse. All that loosely braided hair swung as he struggled to remain in the saddle, and his face was particularly expressionless. Not at all used to being heaved about like a sack of rotted potatoes, or being unable to fend for himself. She kept a sharp eye on him as they rode out of the town, wondering how long it would be before he fell off.

"Ebbsy," he said, correctly identifying the town as they left it. It hadn’t been a question, so she didn’t bother to reply, only just controlling her reaction to that damnable voice. "We will need to press hard to reach Thrence today," he added.

Medair slowed her dun and looked at him. Grey eyes swung to meet hers and she noted that he was ready for an argument. And here she had been wondering how far she dared press him for speed, her mind on five men in leather.

"We’ll get there well after dark on these nags," she replied, rigidly keeping an indifferent note in her own voice. "Would you like me to tie you to your saddle now, or after you’ve been flung into the mud a few times?"

Lashes momentarily veiled the pale eyes, then he smiled, throwing her completely off balance. She’d never seen Ieskar smile. The Kier’s voice had changed inflection at times, but his face had been a stone mask which she had thought might crack rather than alter in any way. This man’s slight, very natural smile was like waking up to a lime-green sky.

"Now," he said, in that unfortunate soft voice.

He was not Ieskar. Medair told herself that over and over again as she obediently stopped and, much to the interest of a passing farmer, tied the Ibisian’s legs firmly in place. Accepting his statement that this was all which was needed, she took the reins of the grey, lengthened them and tied them to her own saddle. Then she looked up at him, feeling a pang of conscience. He was a White Snake, and he had geased her, and there were the Decians to worry about, but–

"Isn’t two days to Thrence better than pushing yourself to the point where you might be bedridden for days?"

He studied her. Definitely used to command. Even though she was long-practiced at shrugging off that Ibisian air of superiority, she suddenly felt like an errant serving-maid who had asked her emperor why he had directed his last war so badly. She would wager her satchel that this man wore tiger’s eye.

"I knew complete obedience without question was too good to be true," he said. The tone was perfectly grave, and Medair tried to decide if he was truly that arrogant, or if the White Snake was actually making a joke.

"Very unlikely, at least," she replied. "Though trying to interrogate someone when I’ve a geas-inspired headache would make me snappish, at the least."

"A necessary evil," he said, without any hint of apology. "I do not have time to be established in any villages. As for today – I have people I hope to catch in Thrence. They were meant to leave there this morning, if I did not communicate with them, but I suspect that they will have lingered. They, too, have their problems with unquestioning obedience." He paused. "It will be a bad day for me, yes. I might not be particularly lucid by nightfall. If I am not, go to an inn called the Caraway Seed, which is near the centre of Thrence. Ask for Jedda las Theomain and tell her the nest was robbed. Repeat that back to me."

"Caraway Seed, Jedda las Theomain, nest was robbed," Medair repeated impatiently. She eyed him without favour. "There were Kyledran guards among the others. Could you be recognised and linked to whatever all that death was about?" She, too, could be sparing with the information she chose to give. So he thought someone else had made off with the rahlstones, did he? Well, they could bide a time in her satchel.

He started to shake his head, and stopped, holding himself still. The refusal to wince was typically Ibisian.

"There is no reason I would be connected with what happened in the forest," he said, subdued, she diagnosed, by a spinning headache. "But I could well be recognised and my condition would give rise to a good deal of unhealthy speculation. It cannot be helped."

Medair made a noise in her throat, then turned away. It was pointless questioning him. White Snakes never told you more than they wanted you to know.