Hugh Cook: The women and the warlords

Name: Yen Olass Ampadara

Birthplace: Monogail

Occupation: oracle

Status: slave

Description: heavy-built female of Skanagool race, age 30, hair black, eyes slate, height 11 qua, diamond tattoo on left inner thigh

Residence: room 7, height 3 of tooth 44, Moon Stallion Strait, Eastern Quadrant, Gendormargensis

It was Third Foal of Seventh Cohort in the year Khmar 18, and the season, of course, was snow. Yen Olass knew the date, but, with no sun, moon or starsign to guide her judgment, she could only guess at the time. A howling gale was blowing; the mouth of the cave offered only a prospect of indeterminate grey sky and gaunt black trees thrashing in the wind.

Though it was certainly late in the day, she thought she could still get back to the hunting lodge at Brantzyn. If she ran out of daylight, she would just have to find her way in the dark. But before setting out, she had a little problem to sort out. The problem had four legs, a mouth like cast iron, and a definite will of its own.

'Come on, Snut,' said Yen Olass impatiently, slapping the problem. 'Ease up!’

But her pony obstinately held his breath, refusing to let her tighten the saddle girth.

'Infidel!’ she said, punching him in the flank.

She lowered her head and butted him. Then she considered poking him with her knife – but she was too softhearted to hurt a horse like that.

'You can't hold your breath forever,' she said.

Time proved her right. She tightened the saddle girth, packed the saddle bags, then rolled up her triple-ply solskin horse blanket and tied it on behind the saddle. Now they were almost ready to go.

Yen Olass took a little bamboo box from one of the inner pockets of her fleece-lined league rider's weather jacket. She opened it, releasing the pungent smell of volsh, the thick niddin-grease used by the people of the north to keep out the cold and the wet. She smeared her cheeks with grease, then put away the box and pulled on her wadmal mittens. She drew the hood of the weather jacket well forward, then donned her snow-coat. The weight of its voluminous folds comforted her; she would be glad of the extra warmth out in the storm.

Now she was ready.

Yen Olass mounted up, watching her head because the roof of the cave was low. It seemed to be very gloomy. Was it her imagination, or was the light failing?

'Let's go,' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’

Snut said nothing, did nothing.

'Ya!' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’

She flicked the reins and kicked the horse with her heels, but Snut took no notice.

'Son of a tortoise,' said Yen Olass. 'Move yourself!' And she slapped him, hard.

When that got no results, Yen Olass dismounted, grabbed the reins and hauled Snut toward the daylight. He resisted strenuously, but she forced him to the cave-mouth. Then he baulked absolutely, and no exercise of brute force would get him outside.

'What are you?' said Yen Olass. 'A horse or a mule?’

She knew very well what he was: intelligent. It was no day to be travelling.

'It won't get any better if we wait,' said Yen Olass.

She should have left for the hunting lodge that morning, but had delayed, hoping the weather would improve. It had not. Tortured trees creaked and groaned in the wind. The sky was darkening: obviously it was later than she had thought.

'Come on,’ said Yen Olass. 'We can do it.’

Snut was a shag pony, and the shag pony was the indomitable mount of the riders of the far north; for endurance in the cold, only the grenderstrander could better it. It they set out for the hunting lodge now, they might just make it.

'Do you really want to spend the night here?' said Yen Olass.

Snut obviously did. All things being equal, Yen Olass would also have chosen to stay. But she was a slave, and could not set her own schedule. She was not supposed to be here at all. Instead, she was meant to be in Gendormar-gensis, a day's ride to the south, and there would be the most fearful trouble if it was discovered that she was missing. Extending her absence by a further day would increase the risk beyond reason.

Outside, there was an appalling graunch of rending wood. A tree came crashing down.

'I respect your judgment,' said Yen Olass to Snut, 'but I'm late already.’

The sky was thickening to thunder. The driving wind slashed sideways and lashed her face with snow. Out in the gathering darkness, another tree crashed down dead.

'On the other hand,' said Yen Olass, 'better late than never.’

And she led Snut back into the gloom of the cave, back to her Woodstock and the ruins of her camp fire. Feeding the hot embers with a little bark, she got the fire going again, avoiding the need to fumble with her tinder-box in the numbing cold.

With the fire burning brightly in its circle of rocks, Yen Olass unloaded Snut, took off the saddle and removed the harness, wondering vaguely what kind of relief her horse felt when she took the bit from his mouth. She kept her snow-coat on, intending to sleep in it. She also kept the hood of her jacket pulled forward, but that did not stop Snut from licking at the volsh on her cheeks, liking the salt in the grease.

'Stop that!' said Yen Olass, pushing him away.

He nickered, and nuzzled her.

'What do you want?' said Yen Olass. 'An apple. An apple, huh? Is that right! And why should you get an apple? You men are all the same, you know. You think you can get away with anything. Well, it's just not so.’

But, when Snut persisted, she gave him an apple – a wizened little thing, which he crunched down greedily. She now had three apples, plus some oats in a nosebag. When that was gone, there would be nothing left for the horse, who could hardly share her own survival rations – pemican and evil-smelling milk curds. Snut knew how to dig in the snow with his hooves to uncover dried grass and moss, but since there was little forage in the woods at the best of times, he was unlikely to find much now.

'I hope you realize,' said Yen Olass, 'if we get snowed in, I'm going to have to eat you.’

Snut made no reply, but tried for another apple.

'No,' said Yen Olass. 'I'm saving the apples to have with roast horsemeat.’

Then she hugged him, crowding in to his warmth, to his strength, to his comfort.

'But I won't eat you unless I really have to. You're my only horse in the world.’

Strictly speaking, Snut was not hers at all. The shag pony belonged to Lord Pentalon Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis during the absence of the Lord Emperor Khmar. It was Alagrace who owned the hunting lodge at Brantzyn, and who made it possible for Yen Olass to escape into the wilderness every now and again for a few days' hunting. He took a considerable risk by extending such illegal privileges to her; he would be angered by her late return.

'Well,’ said Yen Olass, 'if he doesn't like it, he can go and eat himself,’

Defiance was easy when she was far from Gendormargensis and the world of men, safe in this cave which was hers and hers alone.

She would have to spend at least another night in the cave, so she did a quick stocktake, estimating how much wood was left. On discovering the cave in the spring, she had named it Bear Barrow, though no bears had been in residence. She had bullied two of Lord Alagrace's league riders into helping her lay in a big supply of wood. Subsequent visits had diminished it, but enough remained for a couple of nights – or longer, if she was frugal.

'Sleep for all bad horses,' said Yen Olass, covering Snut with the horseblanket.

Then she settled herself down on the floor of the cave, heavyweight geltskin leggings protecting her from the cold. She took off her helm boots and undid her foot bindings. In recent years, many people had taken to wearing socks, but Yen Olass had no time for such outlandish foreign fashions. Foot bindings were simple, cheap, and always gave a perfect fit – and, more to the point, they were what the Sisterhood issued to its oracles.