Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 13, Mid-December 1994

Ride a Red Horse by Dan Crawford

One foot up, breathe in. Foot down, breathe out. Other foot up, breathe in. Foot down, breathe out. Just keep moving.

Polijn’s face was dripping, and it felt at times as though the sweat was running straight down to her boots. But there was no shelter on the treeless plain; the only way out of this was to walk on.

The sweat might freeze, eventually, as night advanced and the cold, sloppy mush became frozen snow. But it might be less work to slip across that than through this quagmire of heavy, clinging goo, shindeep outside her boots and wellnigh ankledeep inside.

Polijn actually liked this kind of weather, within the bounds of enthusiasm. A few hours of concentrated misery put one’s life into perspective. This morning she’d been so hungry she’d wondered whether she’d mind being dead. Now that survival was really an issue, hunger was a gentle dream.

She stumbled over some discarded boot or clump of frozen weeds. Everything was snow, everywhere. The wind was in league with it, whipping it up and around so that was all you could see or hear.

Polijn set both feet together and tipped her head to one side, pulling her hood back a bit. Her ears were trained to pick things out in a roomful of singing people, so they ought to work just as well here. Surely that had been the sound of a bell.

There! She trudged in the direction of the sound. Even a lost cow would be some shelter.

Now she heard a second bell, pitched lower. Two cows, each with a different bell? But most bells in these regions would have been made by the same bellsmith, to a single pattern, and would sound alike. No reason there couldn’t be two bellmakers in a region, though, or itinerant bellsmiths, moving at random. That could even be the bellsmith’s cart now, with samples hanging outside.

Polijn was trying to talk herself out of what she thought the bells really were; she was far too soggy to deal with disappointment. But what rose before her was either a mighty even snowbank or a white wall. Nearer, and she could make out the dark splotch that had to be a door and, to the left of it, three bells: the big one on top, the small one in the middle, and the intermediate bell on the bottom, an arrangement so ancient that only the wizards knew what it had originally signified. If they knew.

All Polijn needed now were the doorknocker and the cry of “Enter, friend!”

The doorknocker was there. And, after she’d used the knocker, so was the cry.

The big door swung back. “Why, my lad!” exclaimed a tall man. His eyes searched the storm outside for any companions the visitor might have. “Whatever can you be doing out alone on such a night?”

“I am Polijn,” she informed him. “A minstrel.”

“Ah, another.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “I am Anderal, abbot of this place.”

Polijn moved inside. “My thanks cannot be numbered,” she told him. “I was afraid I was going to be buried before I was quite ready.”

Anderal moved back to bar the doors again. “No thanks are necessary, lad.” Polijn watched to see how the bar worked. Then her eyes swept the little entry room for weapons and hiding places: his or, at need, hers.

The Northern Quilt was dotted with religious shelters into which men or women retreated to contemplate other worlds that might or might not be. This could be a far less hazardous and more rewarding career than getting involved in the politics that had resulted in the crazy quilt of little countries. Their policy was to offer shelter to travelers without asking payment, as an offering to their god or gods. But some of them offered shelter so that travelers could be robbed and murdered in the night in case their god or gods needed the money.

Anderal was a tall man in a white robe that featured a red horse’s head stitched onto the back. She rather thought she liked him, as he held out a hand to escort her into the shelter. She did not take the hand, though: liking was not necessarily trust.

“Where are you from, lad?” he inquired, accepting this without a blink. “And where are you bound?”

She raised her hands. “I’m bound wherever the wind is kinder, good abbot. Most recently, I’m from Oduvon.”

“Ah, Oduvon.” He inclined his head. “Quite the walk, lad.”

Polijn didn’t correct the “lad.” She didn’t tell him where she was from, either. Rossacotta had such a reputation for villainy that some people, hearing she’d been there, were willing to stone her to death for fear she’d do worse to them.

Anderal extended a hand toward a small door at the other end of the small chamber. “Were you able to see Lady Denuit at Oduvon, lad?” His eyes went up and down her as she moved forward.

She had, in fact, and was able to discuss her recent wedding with enough detail to convince him she actually had been there.

As a public figure, Polijn was accustomed to being eyed for all sorts of reasons; minstrels were regarded as demideities in some regions, and fair game in others. And even in her childhood days on the streets of Malbeth, she’d have recognized the look in Anderal’s eyes — he was sizing her up for weapons and other possible threats. His questioning came from the same source: in the Northern Quilt, it was essential to know where people came from, where they were going, and what they meant to do.

The abbot seemed to feel his visitor was acceptable. He opened the little door, which led into a shadowy passage, and said, “It is not necessary for you to do homage to Our Lord Horse, if such is contrary to your own vows.”

Polijn had no vows, particularly, and knew the proper answer, no matter how amiable her host might be. “I would certainly do homage to one who has saved me from this weather.”

He guided her through a short hall to a pair of dark wooden doors. The shapes of men in battle array had been carved into the doors. Polijn added this to her store of information. These war cults could be exhausting audiences, but in general did not slay guests out of hand. She had heard stories, of course, of visitors’ being forced to prove themselves in arena combat.

Anderal pulled the doors open. The shrine behind the doors was carved of the same dark wood. No arms hung on the walls; Polijn wondered if this might not, instead, simply be a little temple that the local duke’s soldiers would visit on their way to battle.

The only thing clearly visible in the gloom was a bright red horse that sat on a high shelf between two branches of red candles. Polijn checked the walls: all the warriors depicted in the carvings were mounted. “Our Lord Horse” — it was a natural choice of deity for cavalry.

Anderal stepped up to the enshrined statue and bowed. He stood up straight and set one hand between his eyes, with the fingers pointed up but the thumb folded under. The other hand was cupped behind his left ear. Then he set both hands over his mouth and made half a curtsy.

When he moved to the side, Polijn took up a place a few steps behind where he had been and copied his actions. She performed the ritual with a little reluctance, lest she be guilty of presumption for using the advanced form allowed only to abbots. (There might even be a ban on women’s doing it at all, which could mean trouble if he stopped calling her “lad.”)

She looked to him when she finished. The abbot smiled, and she smiled back. “I’m new at that,” she told him.

He nodded. “At that, you did better than our other guest, who is an adept, he says. But the frost may be in his bones, as he said, walking miles from Spezales. Or it may have been hunger. He emptied six bowls. Yours is hungry work, I believe.”

He led her from the small room to a larger one. Here, in another niche, was something Polijn found far easier to revere: a cooking pot hot among the coals.

Anderal took a plate and a mug from the cabinet next to the fireplace and served her himself. “Are you alone on evening duty, then?” Polijn inquired.

“Only for a little longer,” he told her, ladling steaming noodles onto the plate. “Then Brother Pinyd takes my place. I must be awake at dawn to supervise breakfast for our many residents.”

Polijn smiled. He had slipped that in so deftly, how he might look solitary, but actually had, oh, dozens of followers to call on in case she was studying the shelter as advance agent for a band of robbers.

“So large a religious shelter should jump to my memory at once,” she replied as he set plate and mug before her. “But I am so lost I have no idea where I am, even to the names of the nearest villages.”

The abbot nodded. “You are not entirely to be blamed, lad. We are not one of the great landmarks of this county. But you will surely have heard of the Crossroads Shrine, not two miles west of us, past the lone tree. And beyond that, the castle of the Duke of Molian, whose armies guard the western border. The year’s-end festivals begin tomorrow with the duke’s procession to the shrine. He means to bring us a mighty cheese as our annual gift.”

From the reverence in his voice when he mentioned the cheese, Polijn guessed that this shelter was occupied by a vegetarian sect. Certainly the noodles and parsnips on her plate agreed. And most noblemen on a year’s-end procession would have offered venison as their donation to the shelter’s continued well-being.

Not that Polijn was prejudiced against vegetables. This was the best meal she’d been offered in a week, and she said so. Anderal accepted the compliment but was more interested in discussing the places she’d been recently than what she’d eaten.

They talked for some time, until Polijn’s third yawn alerted the abbot to the hour. “You’ll be weary after walking through the snow,” he said, rising. “No, lad, leave the plates; I’ll take care of them later. Our guest room is down this hall. We have only one other guest tonight, a minstrel like yourself, as I mentioned. You’ll have your choice of beds.”

He opened a door into a large dormitory. Beds stood in niches in the walls around a low-burning, smoky hearth. It was a little chilly, but Polijn could see that each bed was stacked with quilts.

Something moved, despite their care in stepping inside. “Hey-ho!” called a voice. “Time to eat?”

Polijn’s heart sank. Anderal called, “No, good sir, only another minstrel.” He lit a splinter at the hearth to give Polijn a little extra light, now that the other guest was awake.

“Well,” said the same hearty voice, “it’s the kitling!”

The face matched the voice: an unruly thatch of hair, a square nose, an eyepatch. It was, indeed, Carasta, who had taken Polijn under his protection when both were banished from Rossacotta. He had promised to teach her a few things and to shield her from the dangers of traveling alone. One of the things Polijn had learned from Carasta was that there could be worse things than traveling alone.

“I was afraid we’d lost each other for good!” he called.

It had been good. Anderal, seeing Polijn hesitate, stepped up next to her, in case the two minstrels were rivals. Polijn simply waited with resignation for Carasta to call, “Come tuck yourself in next to me. It’ll be warmer.”

But instead the one-eyed man settled back onto his cot. “We’ll chat in the morning,” he called. “Nice to see you.”

Polijn shrugged and moved to a niche in the opposite wall. It could mean only one thing: Carasta had some money on him that he didn’t want her to know about. The abbot looked to her for a sign that this was really all the minstrels were going to do. She nodded, and he moved out.

Polijn was a light sleeper; it was one of the skills necessary for survival in Rossacotta. She woke briefly during the night, hearing footsteps. Once again, though, Carasta did not seem inclined to seek out her company. Not being one to question a blessing, Polijn went back to sleep.

She rose early the next morning, but no earlier than Carasta, and was subjected to a detailed description of all his recent travels as they consumed a steaming breakfast of milk and meal. “So naturally, using the innkeeper’s directions, I was lost in no time,” he declared, thumping the table for emphasis. “Fortunately, I walked smack into the wall of this fine establishment and was treated to as fine a meal as I’ve had in weeks. Two of the finest meals, counting this one. They really do quite well at this place with such a small staff: just four religious and ten others, laymen mainly who want a warm job inside for the winter. Workhorses, they are, though, not lazy louts: keeping the place clean, doing proper honor to powers beyond theirs, and with deliveries from the duke only once a month.”

Polijn raised an eyebrow. “You’ve learned a lot about this shelter.” She didn’t ask why he’d bothered, except with that eyebrow.

He saw it, though, even with one eye. “One pays one’s debts with song in this business,” he replied, lifting his chin imperiously. “I’ve got the beginnings of a lyric in my head.”

Carasta wouldn’t have a lyric in his head even if the skull were opened and the manuscript inserted by hand, a process Polijn had sometimes daydreamed about. But whatever he did have in mind, he wasn’t ready to explain yet.

When he’d cleaned up all the food that was available, he took one of Polijn’s wrists and sought out Anderal, who was still on gate duty in a cubicle next to the big door. “Many thanks for your hospitality, good abbot,” said the minstrel. “But we must certainly be on our way early if we are to make the duke’s palace in time to take our places in the grand celebration.”

Anderal nodded but asked, “Must you both go?” Being of a similarly practical mind, Polijn could see that the abbot would like to have a minstrel or two on hand for some kind of fanfare when the duke’s party arrived. But he couldn’t ask them to stay, for that would be as much as asking for payment in service for their room and meals.

“The lad could stay,” he went on.

Carasta winked, though whether at her or at Anderal Polijn could not tell. “Ah, the lad’s not too young to want to make a bit of money,” he replied. “And we’ll make more if we sing for His Lordship and then accompany him back here. When we return, we’ll have a song to sing of your hospitality that will surely double his donations.”

Anderal disavowed any necessity for this and passed them as a parting gift a cloth bag with a loaf of bread and a few herbs inside. Then he unbarred the door.

The storm had ended in the night, and the air was warmer with the sun shining through it. The going was wet and sloppy, though, through half-melting snow shindeep. The increasing weight on her lower legs as they soaked up the moisture was augmented by the pounding in her head as Carasta sang tunelessly a song that had once possessed a perfectly good melody. The big fraud’s sunny mood did not warm her at all. He had worn just this same expression the afternoon he made the deal to rent her to a goblin merchant for the night, neglecting to mention this to her until dusk. He was working on some kind of scheme. Polijn hoped she could do something to spoil it.

Revenge was not practical. Polijn had never been one to go out of her way to repay injuries. But the minstrel’s plot probably involved hard work for her and/or some kind of loss or injury to Anderal. Averting any new injuries to oneself or to someone who had helped one was very practical.

At midmorning they reached the crossroads Anderal had spoken of, and Carasta pulled her into the shadowed nook inside the high stone shrine. “Silly to save this bread for lunch when we’ll be in the middle of a party by that time,” he said. “Come on.”

The shadows were easy on the eye after a morning’s trudge through sunlit snow. And the opening apparently faced away from the prevailing winds, for the floor was dry. Little horses were carved all over the interior and on the surface of a little table inside. Carasta hoisted himself onto the center of this and hauled the bread from his pack. There wasn’t quite room there for Polijn to sit, but he did allow her to cut the bread on the available free space.

“You’ll soon be eating better than this,” he told her through a mouthful of the bread.

Polijn nodded. “One supper with the duke and another with the abbot,” she said, doing her best to sound enthusiastic. Carasta was much more amenable to questions if he thought you were with him.

“You don’t think far enough ahead,” he told her, shaking his chunk of bread in her direction. “Lucky you have me.” He reached for his pack. “We’re not going back to the shelter.”

He opened the pack and showed her why. Polijn had been wondering why he hadn’t made her carry both packs.

“This horse is one solid shuptit ruby,” he told her, stroking the head of the idol. He shook his own head. “Pity we can’t sell it up to the castle, but that’s way too close. We can nose around and find out where the next closest customer might be.”

Polijn did not reply, just stared at the immense jewel. One of the problems with Carasta’s plots was that he thought too far ahead. If he had applied his great brain to the near future, he would have known the abbot’s men were bound to come after them. There was a limited number of suspects in the theft, after all. Or, if this was a nonviolent sect, they had only to send a runner to the duke. Nobody who could survive as duke in these parts was likely to be nonviolent. And if he was as devout as Anderal believed, there would soon be two fewer minstrels and quite a few untidy piles of bone and flesh in the snow.

“Nobody’s going to stop and pray on a holiday,” Carasta went on, covering up the horse again. “Way too busy. And by the time they do notice their god’s gone, we’ll be headed in another direction.”

He hopped down from the table. “Well, let’s see about this duke. We’re for warm food and plenty of good music now.”

A loud and unmusical clang brought them both around the corner of the shrine. “That’ll be cowbells on the duke’s herd,” said Carasta without much conviction.

From this side of the shrine, they could also make out the sound of someone singing even worse than Carasta, which Polijn would not have thought humanly possible. She nodded as she caught sight of the lone figure. That explained all: it wasn’t human.

A creature six feet tall and a good four feet around was marching cheerfully through the snow. A large pack sat high on his shoulders, and as he sang, he whacked a soup pot with a ladle, less to advertise his wares (who was out in the snow to buy from him?) than because he was enjoying the noise. Dyed and figured leather was all he wore in the way of clothes, more as armor and ornament than for protection from the cool air.

Polijn pulled back out of sight, but Carasta stepped clear of the shrine and raised an arm. “Hlar!” he shouted.

“Hlar!” the goblin merchant hollered back, waving the ladle. Speeding up, he reached the shrine in seconds and dealt Carasta a welcoming buffet on the shoulder with the same ladle.

“Arrh, but it’s a lonely dodge, selling up north!” he said, wincing not at all as Carasta shoved a fist against his chest. “Dirklad’s the name, spices the ware. What’s yours, and how’s business?”

“Carasta and Polijn,” Carasta told him, reaching back to pull Polijn into sight. “The greatest minstrels in the north, when we’re in the north. Business will be better once we reach the duke’s celebration, and better still if we can avail ourselves of your fine percussion.”

The goblin answered with a barrage of clangs. “First human I’ve met with such an ear!” He swung the ladle again and congratulated Carasta on the other shoulder. “Let’s go!”

Carasta and Dirklad set off without any further discussion and Polijn followed, largely because Carasta still had a hand clamped around her left wrist. She studied Dirklad’s face, just to make sure this wasn’t the same goblin Carasta had had dealings with before. She’d marked that one. Dirklad was a new one, though, as far as she could see. What was it about Carasta that attracted the creatures? Or about the goblins that attracted Carasta? He could be haughty enough with other merchants, a class he considered beneath him. In general, the minstrel was only this jovial when he saw a prospect for profit.

“I don’t see much of your partner back there,” Dirklad declared. “Why don’t you walk in front, missy, so’s I can get a good look at you?” Carasta pulled her forward.

“Arrrh, yes,” the goblin went on. “I knew a lass like you once. So pretty she was that the witches were jealous and had to put a curse on her, sure as the ocean cries, ‘Sink!’ Everywhere she went, she had to sing and dance: no talking or walking, just singing and dancing. She made some money, of course, but one day she went walking through the woods, and her song attracted a bear. He went after her and she couldn’t run away, she could only dance as quick as she could.”

He paused there to scratch behind one ear.

This was a story Polijn had not heard before. “What then?” she asked, her professional interest aroused.

Dirklad shrugged. “She wasn’t the first minstrel to dance with a bear behind!” Carasta guffawed along with the goblin as Dirklad swung the ladle down to give her a swat of camaraderie. This was going to be another long walk.

They finally reached the ducal palace shortly after midday, hearing it long before they saw it. Other latecomers were moving through the gate of a walled enclosure; they joined the procession. Inside, fires and food were set all around the courtyard, among people who obviously were no more afraid of chill winter breezes than Dirklad. The newcomers were greeted by the crowd of merrymakers with glee on general principle, but when Carasta announced that they were a company of minstrels, as well as adepts in the worship of Our Lord Horse, mighty exultation was the result.

“Take them to His Grace!”

“His Grace’ll want to hear them first!”

The celebrants dragged them toward the main building until they reached an aisle blocked by rings of spectators watching two burly men with sabers performing a sword dance around a woman with a broadsword. “Here now,” called Carasta, “I’m all for a bit of fun, but I’m supposed to be presented to His Grace.”

“Aye, good minstrel,” someone from the crowd told him. “As soon as His Grace is done dancing.”

It seemed they were not destined to enter the stone keep at all. The big, muscled man with bare arms and a long beard was His Grace Duke Burgo, while his no less muscled but clean-shaven partner was his brother Perlo. The woman hoisting the six foot sword over her head was their sister Chilia, who was perfectly enchanted with the new arrivals. “Ah, it would have been no true festival without minstrels,” she exclaimed, tossing her arms around each of the three in turn. “And just in time for the ceremony of the gift exchange.” Carasta’s eyes gleamed, though the hug had left him too out of breath for a reply.

Polijn could detect very little actual ceremony in the swirling exchanges that followed. People just turned to each other and started swapping golden ornaments or coins or small bits of pottery. There was undoubtedly some system, so no one received more than one token from the same person, but Polijn didn’t know the people well enough to pick it out. Standing close enough to the fire to warm and dry her legs, she braced herself to receive some of this loot herself. There was no trouble returning gifts; they were perfectly content with a song in exchange for a trinket. Polijn leaned heavily on those songs involving horses or paying proper respect to one’s deities.

She kept her eyes on her undesired allies. Carasta was receiving rather more and larger gifts, having again announced himself as an adept of Our Lord Horse. “Yes, I was stolen from good Abbot Anderal’s shelter as a child, though I had undergone many years of study up to that point. Villainous Rossacottans carried me away to their evil country, where they wanted me to marry some princess or another.” Carasta had always lied with more imagination than probability, but Chilia and several others were hanging on his words, feeling the story was worth everything they’d given.

Dirklad was doing very well for himself, too. In return for the gifts he was handed he gave little packets of cinnamon or pepper, realizing rather more this way than he would have from the actual sale of the spices.

Polijn was waiting for the ruby horse to spill out of Carasta’s pack. He kept shoving his gifts into the pack as he got them; surely a gleam of ruby must give him away. If that didn’t happen, she expected one of Anderal’s followers to come running up to Duke Burgo, with news that would turn this into a really wild party.

None of that happened. She did not, however, like the way Carasta and Dirklad seemed to keep finding each other in the crowd, or the way Carasta kept pointing to her. Wasn’t he making enough profit already?

She spotted a short man with an unruly shock of hair pushing his way through the crowd to Duke Burgo. Since he wore the duke’s livery, she doubted he could have come from the shelter. But she slid over toward them, just in case he had a message from the abbot.

“The guards have been chosen for the southern road, Your Grace,” he was saying.

“Cards?” the duke asked, knocking mud from his boots.

“Fistfight, actually,” his retainer replied. “The winners are ready to take up their places any time Your Grace gives the order.”

Grinning, the duke ran a hand through his hair. “Well, no point in their setting out before the Blessing of the Great Gift. We’ve got all the singing to go, and we’re not but half done with our own gifts yet. Wait till dark.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” said the shorter man.

The duke rubbed his hands together. “This year,” he chortled, “nobody’s going to take the shortcut and get to the shrine before the rest of us.” His servant nodded. “I still believe, begging Your Grace’s pardon, that it would be best to take the whole procession around by the southern road. It’s only slightly longer than the straight road to the shelter, and if you take into account the work of getting through the snow that hasn’t been cleared...”

“Fiddle!” cried the duke. “We’ve always taken the east road, snow or no snow, and it won’t stop us this year.”

“Very well,” said the smaller man with a shrug. “I will have the two crowns ready in case Your Grace and His Honor your brother reach it at the same time.”

The duke thumped the red-haired man’s nearest shoulder. “You take such good care of us, Miskey.”

“Hey!”

Polijn turned to find Carasta beckoning to her from a shadow at the side of the stables. She stepped back to join him there, whereupon he took hold of both her shoulders. This was a sign that he was ready to deliver some instructions.

“I know where they’re going from here,” he said, whispering even though no one was within twenty feet of the chilly, shadowed corner. “Listen. Nearly the whole caboodle will go to the shelter by the road we took. But there’s another road, to the south. It didn’t get as much of that slop on it last night, and it would be quicker going. That one gets within a hundred yards of the Crossroads Shrine, and then cuts off south. There’s a road from the shrine to it; we can take that down. See, the first of them to touch the shrine gets crowned King of the Procession. It’s supposed to be some big honor: the pizook has to sit in the shrine for the rest of the night. My bet is the duke just doesn’t like to look old Holy Robes in the face when it turns out their big present is only a hunk of cheese. Anyway, while they’re busy with that business, we slip off on that path, get on the clean road to the south, and we’re off with the profits.” He jerked his head at the crowd. “Dirklad’s coming with us.”

“You told him what you’ve got?”

He gave her shoulders a shake. “Don’t be dumb. I just told him I was afraid someone might be coming after us and did he know a way to throw them off the track. He’s got a safe place he’ll let us lie low in until we know if the duke or the abbot is following.”

“Good of him.” Polijn was sure there was a fee involved, and positive Dirklad wasn’t interested in being paid in song. But instead of pressing Carasta to share these details, she asked, “Shouldn’t we get some rest then, before we leave? We can’t walk all morning, dance all day, and then walk all night.”

Carasta let go of her hand and looked out at the crowd. “Nah. There’s lots of presents to pick up yet.”

“Not if they see that pack,” she told him. “Can’t you see how everybody’s sneaking off to hide their presents now and then, so people will think they haven’t been getting much?” Polijn did not, in fact, see this, but she hoped she could make Carasta see it. “I mean, are you getting everything you deserve?”

The larger minstrel rubbed his chin. “No. No, I’m not. Is that the plan? You’ll go off and guard this stuff and take a nap over it? Tuck it under your head, mind.” He started to unstrap the pack from his back. “Yes, yes, quite right,” he went on, his face now showing he thought so much of the idea it might as well be his. “You can’t do all that walking and dancing and then walking again, you know. Better that you be well-rested. Yes.”

He handed down the pack to her and jerked his head toward the stables. “This would be a good spot on a day in honor of Our Lord Horse.” He gave her a wink and a mighty pinch.

Polijn rubbed the spot as she watched him go. She had actually been thinking of a hiding place much closer to the gate, but he’d given her a new idea as well. The duke’s people were heaping up wood in a spot at a safe distance from all the outbuildings, naturally far from the stable. If they all meant to gather around a bonfire to sing, then as night came on a person could slip from the stables and move up along the wall to the gate. And it could be a person with a horse.

Polijn was unsure of her ability to outpace the procession on foot, especially if the duke had sentries she didn’t know about. But if she could find a horse of reasonable size and speed, she might stand a better chance. Having sung at a number of executions, she knew well what they would do to her if she were caught stealing a horse. But it could hardly be any worse than what they’d do if she were caught with the ruby idol, no matter where she claimed to be taking it.

Polijn eased into the dark building, her eyes open for stable hands or anything else likely to object to a stranger’s presence. Nothing presented itself, though a few large eyes turned to study her. She studied them back, adjusting Carasta’s pack on her hip. Now, how could you tell which was the horse that would get you all the way there, and which the one that had a loose shoe, or would tire out after a few miles in the cold slush? Polijn’s acquaintance with horses was limited. In her district, back home in Rossacotta, mighty few people could stand the expense of keeping a horse.

She supposed she could do worse than just pick one by color: a black or a dark gray would hide her best in the shadows by the wall. Moving along the stalls, she had just about settled on a big, dark creature when she was startled by the sight of a familiar face. Those big nostrils, those little, little ears: that was a Rossacottan warhorse. Since Rossacotta had opened trade, their legendary warhorses were moving farther afield. The creature was a light grey, not exactly what she wanted, but the square, solid horses were known for speed and rumored to have nightsight. Their chief attribute, though, was endurance. That was what she’d want most on the road back to the religious shelter.

Setting Carasta’s pack down, she studied the walls for the next piece of decision-making. She could hardly make it all the way there on a naked horse. Having also sung a great deal about horses, Polijn knew, in a general way, which pieces of harness went where. But it was largely theoretical knowledge, and since the songs mainly concentrated on the jewels and gold trim attached to the tackle rather than technical details, they weren’t necessarily perfect guides.

She decided she’d have to settle for any kind of halter she could get around the horse’s neck. Choosing some tackle at random, she took down the bits that looked reasonably adaptable and advanced on her chosen mount.

The warhorse watched her approach without any apparent interest. Polijn jumped back once when the creature drew back its lips to expose teeth a little bigger than Polijn thought necessary. But that was the extent of the horse’s comment, and she went back to tying knots.

The job turned out to be much more time-consuming than she’d expected. The Rossacottan warhorse was considered small by warhorse standards, but it was still mighty large for her. And this horse seemed to grow a little every time she had to get a loop over it. Half the time she couldn’t reach far enough, or throw the strip of leather far enough, and had to pick it up off the floor and start over. She had hoped there might be time for her to get an actual nap, but the stable grew darker and darker as she improvised her harness.

The only light coming in by the time she had the job done to her satisfaction was a flickering glow. She wiped her forehead and pulled up Carasta’s pack. Fastening it to her own, she slipped to the door and peered outside.

The bonfire was lit, and the duke’s subjects were gathered around it, hands joined. If she could count on all of them being there, this scheme would work.

She hurried back inside. The time for planning and preparation was over. It was time now to get to work, and little enough time there was, too. She took hold of the halter and moved out.

She moved out a good foot and a half and then stopped. She looked up. The horse looked down.

“Come on!” she said, yanking on the leather. The horse tossed its head, yanking it back and out of her hand.

She took hold of it again and pulled some more, calling as loudly as she dared every starting command she’d ever heard in song or story, every way to pronounce “get up” or “go.” Those little ears twitched enough to show the horse was paying attention, and she was willing to bet it understood, too. But it was just not inclined to go off with somebody it didn’t know. That was a laudable habit in a warhorse, but Polijn would gladly have dispensed with such good training.

The business with the harness had been a complete waste of time. She’d have to head out on foot, now, not knowing how soon the partygoers would be ready to leave their bonfire. Polijn headed for the door, tossing the length of leather down behind her and expressing in an undertone her opinion of the horse’s physical state, its morals, the morals and even the species of its parents, and the likely abuses accorded in the afterworld to recalcitrant horses.

At the door, she paused to check the crowd. She didn’t mean to wait long — there was no time to waste; even so she wasn’t ready to move forward yet, but she was shoved from behind.

She whirled. The horse had come up behind her and stood now in the doorway, eyes fixed on her face.

What in the world had she done just now that she hadn’t been doing before? She frowned. “Are you coming?” she demanded, and added a colloquial Rossacottan epithet that in one short syllable expressed the unlikely possibility that the listener was a large amount of body waste addicted to unnatural sexual practices.

The horse moved forward, head bobbing. “Well,” Polijn said, “we’re way west of there. Let’s head east.”

It might, in fact, be interesting to ride all the way back to Rossacotta, just to prance through her old neighborhood. But since the trip would take months, and she was still under ban, Polijn thought a ride to Anderal’s shelter would be excitement enough.

She didn’t really expect to move through the gate without a challenge and had a story made up about riding ahead to tell Anderal when the duke set out. But no sentry appeared; either hostilities in the Northern Quilt ceased during the winter or the duke was powerful enough to make sure nobody bothered him. In any case, it saved her some time.

There was a milestone outside the gate, and she climbed up on that to mount her charger. Even with that boost, the broad back proved an illogically difficult perch to achieve. Her final position was precarious, uncomfortable, and very, very high. She had just about decided she’d done it all wrong and would do better to dismount and start over when she heard a cry of “aha!”

Only one person would have said “aha!” instead of “who goes there?” and she’d recognized his voice anyhow. “Go, you halfeaten toad!” she whispered into the little ears. Nodding some more, the horse set off in the direction she had him pointed. Carasta hollered only once more. Polijn wasn’t secure enough in her position to look back to see what he was doing.

When she did look around, the only thing she could see was that she really ought to be moving faster. Somehow the idea of moving faster, even if she could communicate this concept to the horse, had no real appeal for her. So she just studied the little brown ears and hoped the horse would not decide it had done enough for an old compatriot and head back to its nice warm stable.

The horse did keep moving straight ahead as if it knew the road and her destination. That was just as well because the landmarks she had noticed this morning were considerably different in the dark. Even moonrise didn’t help. Polijn knew where she was only when she saw the Crossroads Shrine looming ahead.

At the same time she spotted that, she noticed movement off to her right. A figure with arms flailing plowed through the snow. Carasta had taken the clear road to the south, of course, and was now struggling through the band of snow separating the two thoroughfares.

Polijn reached down to slap the horse’s side. “Hurry!” If she could get well past the shrine before he reached her, she should be able to stay that far ahead of him the rest of the way. “Hurry, you...”

She cast her eyes back toward Carasta as she slapped the horse again and tried to think of a proper motivational expletive. This was too much to do at once, and she started to slide. She snatched at the loop around her mount’s neck, missed, and slid off backward.

The impact as she hit the snow was enough that it took her a second too long to jump up and run after the horse. She had just reached the shrine when Carasta caught her around the waist.

“You’ll... share!” he panted, shaking her as he spun her around. He was almost completely out of breath, which was the reason, Polijn knew, that she was being shaken and scolded. Carasta was an easygoing soul, not one to make life unpleasant for himself by pursuing retribution in time-consuming ways. A good thump to the head or kick in the stomach were quicker and more satisfying.

He’d get around to those eventually. For now he shook her and sputtered, “Wrong way... anyhow. Shelter... too small. No reward.”

Polijn hung her head as though this regrettable oversight had just occurred to her and hugged his pack, which she had attached to the front of her tunic. Her plan now was to take any reprimand he wished to deal out, perfectly docile, until his guard came down and his grip loosened. He could chase her, but he could hardly catch her. Though she was stiff from her unaccustomed position, she had most of her running strength left. The one-eyed minstrel was all but worn out.

This plan was canceled, however, when a third hand, a rather rough and heavy hand, grabbed her from behind. Polijn could tell by Carasta’s face that he had not been expecting reinforcements. The goblin must have been coming behind her on the eastern road.

“Lookin’ for a nice, quiet place, huh?” he demanded. “No need for that. They were all gettin’ ready to leave.”

This complicated matters all around. Polijn was pretty sure she couldn’t outrun Dirklad as well, at least not without the horse, which had continued to stroll east after she dropped off. And Carasta was utterly unprepared for company.

“Why, er, um,” said the minstrel, “why, yes, but... er, this way you... can get started... early. And we can... rejoin the procession... when they get here.”

But now the goblin had noticed she wore two packs, one on the back and one in front. “Carrying for both of you, eh?”

Carasta set Polijn on the ground. “Why, um, yes. We, er, often do this. Kind of a friendly... wager, um, on...”

Dirklad scratched himself under the nose. “Now, an odder thing I haven’t seen all year,” he said, “and I saw a crow eat a bottle. My folk, we all carry our own packs because you never know when some sneaky snake might slip out something that don’t belong to them. You’d better check.”

“Um,” said Carasta, not at all willing to open his pack while Dirklad was watching.

But the merchant had unslung his own bundle. “That is yours, isn’t it?” he demanded. “Nobody thought about switching with me, eh, and maybe dealing in spices instead of song for a while?” Both eyes studied the minstrels as the hands slid into the pack. He suddenly looked to Polijn much more like the goblins of song and story, who preferred tearing into their foes with their teeth than with any artificial weapons.

“No,” grunted Dirklad. “This’s mine, right enough. She must’ve just took yours. Better check. Say!” The goblin lifted a little pot from his pack. “Oil of peppermint! You know what that’s good for?”

Polijn knew several uses and started to slide a little to the east. Carasta was moving to block her when they heard the horn.

Torchlight from the two racing processions fell on three expressions of dismay. Polijn could not regard this arrival as a rescue; it would not do to explain that she was in danger from Carasta because of this ruby horse she had. Carasta, for his part, couldn’t complain that Polijn had stolen the horse from him. And Dirklad’s plan for the evening had been interrupted. Polijn could see, though, that while Carasta and Dirklad were suffering setbacks, she was in deep trouble. Whatever happened next, she must wind up being carried along to the religious shelter or off to the south.

“I’ll have it!” cried the duke, running at the head of the parade.

“Not this year, brother!” exclaimed the other leader, running next to him.

“Look!” shouted their sister. “You’re both too late! Somebody’s there now!”

And then, of course, Polijn knew what to say. “Behold the Kings of the Crossroads!” she exclaimed, striding forward so she could wave a hand back at the minstrel and the merchant. “How fortunate that Lord Carasta, an adept in the worship of Our Lord Horse, should be one of them!”

“You were here first!” protested Carasta, over the cries of the crowd.

Polijn spread a hand on her chest, appalled. “A woman be King of the Crossroads?” she demanded.

“Why not?” roared Chilia. The duke gave his sister a shove.

“Not that again,” he ordered. “We’ve never had a Queen of the Crossroads yet. Well, Miskey, bring the two crowns. I don’t say they beat us fair and square, but they did beat us. And, Miskey, find out who was supposed to be guarding the gate.”

“Now, wait,” Dirklad began.

“You’ll have the twin stipends paid to you in the morning, on our way back,” the duke informed him.

The goblin slapped Carasta on the back. “Why, then, my lord, we wouldn’t think of insulting you by refusing the honor.” He leaned toward the minstrel to whisper, “Time enough tomorrow to show the little pillow how peppermint’s used.”

Polijn cleared her throat. “I’ll just hurry on and explain things to Abbot Anderal.”

“Tell him we’ll be there — both of us — as soon as this ceremony’s over,” said the duke, with a glower at his brother.

Polijn bounded off into the snow. She found the horse some forty yards along, mainly by running smack into him. He’d been standing in the shadow of a bare tree. The big eyes turned toward her seemed somewhat amused.

There were no milestones handy, nor any other trees for yards, so Polijn got a grip and climbed this one. A reasonably solid branch hung out over the horse, enabling her to lower herself gingerly into her previous place. After calling the horse a few names, only partly so as to get it moving again, she rode on to the shelter.

Anderal, looking fresh from an afternoon’s nap, stood outside the door with all the fellows of the establishment. They raised their torches and cheered at the sight of her.

“All praise!” cried Anderal, even though they were already praising to the fullness of their lungs. “The lad’s returned!”

“We should have had faith, as you said!” agreed one of his subordinates.

They did not, at least, seem to regard her as a criminal, unless they were cheering that now they had someone to sacrifice on the altar. Polijn reached into Carasta’s pack, but then thought better of it. Producing the idol only to break it as she dismounted would do her no good.

A dozen hands were raised to help her dismount, and she was glad of the help. Once she stood, a little awkwardly, on the ground again, she said, “I have brought...”

But Anderal had one hand on her shoulder and another on the horse’s makeshift halter. “This way, lad,” he said. “Time enough for the story once we’re inside.”

Instead of leading them into the shelter, though, he took Polijn and the horse around behind the building. Not knowing quite what was up, Polijn felt it was time to show what she’d done. Spilling Carasta’s trinkets right and left, she brought up the heavy red statue.

“Sir,” she said, as they stopped before a large wooden door, “I have brought Our Lord Horse.”

The abbot glanced down. “Oh, that. Just hold it a while, would you, lad?” He swung the big door wide.

Behind it lay a large, well-appointed stable, brightly lit. He led the Rossacottan warhorse to the single stall. Polijn followed, envying him his ease. But the way he led the horse told her he’d done this before.

“You must’ve misheard, lad,” Anderal said, dropping the makeshift halter. “This is not the shelter of Our Lord Horse, but of Our Lord’s Horse. It’s an easy mistake to make. Here we stable a horse for the Almighty, should He take it into His head to leave Heaven and return to Atfalas.”

“Ah!” said Polijn, hefting the statue as she turned to look around the big room.

“What you hold there is no more than an amulet,” he went on. “It is exposed to view only when Our Lord’s Horse has died. Each time it has been exposed, a new horse has arrived to take the place of the old.” Polijn nodded and relinquished the statue as Anderal held out his hands. “It is an honor, of course,” she said, “to have brought you Our Lord’s Horse. But now I’d better go. Without Our Lord’s Horse, I’ll have to walk, and there’s need of speed. It is the duke’s horse, and I’d best be gone before he...”

“We—” the abbot coughed to draw her attention, which was on the open stable door “—have a private room, lad, for those who bring us Our Lord’s Horse.”

Polijn looked at him and raised one eyebrow. The abbot went on. “It sometimes takes a while for the former owner to become accustomed to the honor. Horses have come to us by irregular means in the past. It is not our business to question that part of it, but it is also a matter of service to be sure that no harm comes to those who have had the glory of bringing us Our Lord’s Horse.”

Polijn understood. She had only to wait in this secret room until the duke had come and gone. Dirklad and Carasta would be spending the whole night at the crossroads, as befitted their new royal status, and surely they would be taken back to the duke’s for more celebration at dawn. Even the goblin would have to rest after all this, which meant that if she set out at first light, she could get at least a day’s head start.

She looked up at Anderal. “The procession is not far behind me,” she said. “If you could... ouch!”

She rubbed the spot where the horse had nipped her. Anderal chuckled. “No doubt that passes for civility where he comes from. He’s Rossacottan, you see.”

“No doubt,” said Polijn. She returned this show of affection in Rossacottan hand signals the abbot fortunately did not understand, and then followed Anderal out of the stable.