When the deals had been completed, Paphnutius himself took us to a compatriot, Nicetus the Elder, several tents away to secure the remaining few horses that were needed. And there, with appropriate ceremonies, view-ings, and bargainings, the remaining Libyans were purchased.
I was so excited that I could not sleep that night. I kept creeping out of our shelter to see if the Libyans were still picketed. Bericus was on watch.
“We won’t lose them, Galwyn,” he reassured me, and pointed out his sentry companion on the other side of the line. “Get your rest. You’ve earned it.”
THE NEXT DAY Lord Artos sold off the now-unneeded ponies, for he would mount his men on some of the new acquisitions and lead the others. Spadix was not among those sold, because, he said, “I have no right to dispose of Captain Gralior’s property.”
I contrived not to look in his direction at that. Spadix was not my uncle’s but truly mine, bought with the gratuities I had earned. However, this was not the time to mention that fact. And there was another reason to keep my pony. Cornix was the most unbiddable of the stallions-so wild he had had to be roped, tied, and twitched before a round bit could be inserted between his snapping jaws and a stout bridle attached to his head. Yet he was unexpectedly calm in Spadix’s company. The sight of that little bay imp, who could easily stand beneath the stallion-and did so during the worst of the rains-was as ludicrous as it was beneficial.
The big mare that I now bestrode was nowhere near as comfortable to sit on as my short-coupled pony, and she had a foal at foot besides. It was a well-grown colt of some seven months, and he would reach up to nip my legs or heels if he felt I was interfering with his feeding. His dam was so broad in the withers I could barely get my legs around her and felt split apart when she trotted. Whereas the mate and his crew would have laughed their sides sore to see me, the Companions’ smiles were good natured and not at my expense.
The stallions took much handling and I was glad that I was relegated to riding the more placid tempered mares. The stallions needed the firm hand and strong legs of the Companions to keep them under control. Bwlch and Bericus were considerable horsemen, the other Companions hardly less so. But Lord Artos was their superior, sitting lightly balanced on Cornix’s black back, swaying slightly from the hips while the stallion cavorted or reared or bucked as it shied at the slightest unusual object on the track. He was well named, for like the raven, he was often without a foot to the ground, half in flight from some imagined terror.
Sometimes I think we traveled farther sideways and backward than forward, and yet we made good time on the return trip. Perhaps because we knew the way now, and its various hazards, and so could avoid them.
Once again, it was the conversations of the evening and the singing that entranced me. Bericus had a good tenor voice. Often Lord Artos would ask him for a special melody or song. On board the Corellia, I had forgotten about the music we used to have; my father and mother had kept a sweet-voiced slave who played the lyre while we dined with guests. The work chanteys that Gralior’s men had sung as they hauled up sail or worked the capstan bar were coarse and repetitive, not truly music to my ear.
One of the mares bruised her foot on the rough gravel of the next-to-last pass we had to traverse. We had to wait a day, standing her in the cold running water of a stream to ease the soreness.
We spent a lot of time hanging about watching her when all the other tasks an open-air camp requires were done.
“No hoof, no horse,” Lord Artos said at one point, grinning broadly at Bericus, who raised his eyes heavenward.
“Eh?” was Bwlch’s only response to this cryptic remark.
“And what’ll old Canyd say about these hooves, Artos?” Bericus asked.