10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

“So where?” Strat’s voice was suddenly uneasy.

“Down to the river, soldier. If you can handle it-the White Foal’s banks, I mean, so close to Ischade’s.”

“Pork what I can handle, woman,” said Strat, the booze getting to his tongue. “I’ve picked that snipe up by his collar more than he’s picked up your skirts. You wanted help, you’ve got it. You change your mind, that’s fine, too. But we can’t just sit here.”

She got her horse, her neck hot though the night was chill with the bone-deep cold of a recalcitrant spring. Her fingers were numb on her slick reins and the roan she rode bucked and danced under her. The wrong horse for this job, too skittish, too green. But the Stepsons had taken their string, leaving only what wasn’t held in common. Except, of course, for the single Tros-bred that should have been hers, but had gone to Critias because Tempos wasn’t above that sort of insult.

It wasn’t fair, but her father had never been. Didn’t want a daughter, didn’t care however much Kama tried to make him. A woman wasn’t consequential, not to him. And her affair with Torchholder had made things worse, not better.

Was Tempus trying to tell her, by giving Crit the horse and forcing Crit to stay on along with her here, that if she went back with Crit, he’d forgive them both? Was Crit being singled out as an acceptable choice? Or did Tempus just not give a frog’s fart?

The latter, most likely. She was going to try to do the same. Try not to care. Try to understand and overcome the trial that was Sanctuary, the punishment of being stationed here. But because she was stationed here, assigned like any of his men to onerous duty, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse to tarry. That would have been playing on her blood relationship, asking special favors, admitting that she, a woman, couldn’t handle hard duty like the men.