have to turn hack."
"You love her that much?" the commander asked.
"This isn't her fault. It's mine."
"All this is your fault, eh? You have a lot to answer for." There was
amusement in the man's voice. Otah felt himself smile.
"Well, perhaps not all my fault. But I can't let her be hurt. This is
the price of it, and I'll pay it if I have to."
They were all silent for a long moment, then the commander sighed.
"You're an honorable man, Otah Machi. I want you to know I respect that.
Boys. Chain him and gag him. I don't want him calling out."
They were on him in an instant, pushing him hard onto the rough wood of
the cart. Someone's knee drove in between his shoulder blades; invisible
hands bent his arms backwards. When he opened his mouth to scream, a wad
of heavy cloth was shoved in so deeply he gagged. A leather strap
followed, keeping it in place. He didn't know when his legs were bound,
but in fewer than twenty breaths, he was immobile-his arms chained
painfully behind him at his wrists and elbows, his mouth stuffed until
it was hard to breathe. The knee moved to the small of his back, digging
into his spine with every shift of the cart. He tried once to move, and
the pressure from above increased. He tried again, and the man cursed
him and rapped his head with something hard.
"I said no talking," the commander murmured, and returned to peering out
the opening in the hack cloth. Otah shifted, snarling in impotent rage
that none of these men seemed to see or recognize. The cart moved off
through the night. He could feel it when they moved from the paving of
the main road to a dirt track; he could hear the high grass hushing
against the wheels. They were taking him nowhere, and he couldn't think why.
He guessed it was almost three hands before the first light started to
come. Dawn was still nothing more than a lighter kind of darkness, the
commander's feet-the only part of the man Otah could see without lifting
his head-were a dim form of shadow within shadow. It was something. Otah
heard the trill of a daymartin, and then a rough rattling and the sound
of water. A bridge over some small river. When the cart lurched back to
ground, the commander turned.
"Have him stop," he said, and then a moment later, "I said stop the
cart. Do it."
One of the other two-the one who wasn't kneeling on Otah- shifted and
spoke to the driver. The jouncing slowed and stopped.
"I thought I heard something out there. In the trees on the left. Baat.
Go check. If you see anything at all get back fast."
The pressure on Otah's back eased and one of the men clambered out. Otah
turned over and no one tried to stop him. There was more light now. He
could make out the grim set of the commander's features, the unease in
the one remaining armsman.
"Well, this is interesting," the commander said.
"What's out there," the other man asked, his blade drawn. The commander
looked out the slit of cloth and motioned for the armsman to pass over
his sword. He did, and the commander took it, holding it with the ease
of long familiarity.