He wasn't aware of the sergeant's gaze following him. The ylf gestured with his head, and spoke to one of his men. "Flann, take Cailon and follow that man. See where he goes-to what outfit. Then come back and tell me. There's something strange about him. No one talks like that without a harelip, and he doesn't have one." He paused, frowning. "I want to see what he looks like without a cap. See what his ears look like."

Flann's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Right away, Sergeant," he said.

The two ylver followed Tsulgax at a distance, to the nearby burned-out ruins, content to keep him in sight. Then they hurried to close the distance, and saw him enter a shed. Flann sent Cailon to tell the sergeant; then, slipping from cover to cover, he approached Tsulgax's lair.

As Tsulgax packed his gear, his mind was on Montag. The German had taken the south highway. He would too, watching for tracks leaving the road. If any did, and they included cloven tracks, he'd follow them.

When his gear was packed, Tsulgax wrapped it in his shelter tent, then lashed it onto a makeshift pack frame he'd made. He wished he had more rations. He would, he decided, go to one of the cook tents. Work or guard details often went there for early supper. He'd attach himself to one, eat, stash more food inside his coat, then try some other herd for a horse.

Pretending a speech impediment had been working. Now he'd try something more ambitious with it: claim he had a verbal order to ride somewhere; Balralligh. Hopefully that would get him not only a horse and saddle, but a sack of corn and a nosebag.

He shouldered his pack and went out the door.

"Hoy!" a voice called, and an ylf appeared around the corner of a building not thirty yards away. "The sergeant sent me after you. He says he's got a horse for you."

Tsulgax never broke stride, simply veered off toward the man. "Good," he lisped, "I knew he would change his thought of that." He didn't draw his saber till he was within three yards of the ylf. Then the move was quick. The ylf, however, had been distrustful, and his response was equally quick: he sprang to one side, and his saber was out almost as his feet hit the ground.

Tsulgax changed tack instantly. With the bulky pack on his back, he was at serious risk against a skilled swordsman. Instead he took off running, not toward the encampment, but eastward, away from it.

The ylf stared after him, astonished at the man's running speed. Even with a pack, he told himself, the stinkard could easily outrun anyone in the company.

Instead of giving chase, he turned and trotted off to inform his sergeant. Halfway there he met Cailon, leading four other men with a corporal in charge. He told them what had happened. Together they went to the shed and examined it, finding nothing of use. Then they followed the fugitive's tracks. His running strides were well more than an arm span long-six feet or more.

"Carrying a pack, you say?"

"A big one, corporal."

"That's amazing. He must be half voitu."

"That's what they say the rakutur are."

The tracks curved increasingly southeastward, then hit the east-west highway, where they were lost among others. The corporal stopped, "We might as well go back," he said. "It's a matter for the base provost now."

At the east-west highway, Tsulgax turned west, slowing to a jog, then a walk as he entered Colroi's unburned section. Best not to seem in a hurry. Beyond it was the great encampment. He'd been thinking in terms of waiting around for a meal, and to try stealing a horse after dark. Now he changed his mind. The sky was cloudy. Night might bring snow, and bury or obscure the boar's tracks. It was best to continue afoot. Montag wouldn't be traveling fast. He had packhorses and the woman with him. They'd camp early. He might even catch them tonight.

At the crossroads he turned south, as Montag had. When he was well away from soldiers, he again broke into a lope that, despite his pack, a cross-country champion would envy. At dusk he struck a large number of tracks that turned off westward on a minor road. If any were cloven, they'd been eradicated by horses, as they'd been on the highway. Nonetheless he didn't hesitate; he too turned west. If asked, he couldn't have said why. Half an hour later, several sets of tracks left the road. One set was of cloven hooves.

By that time Tsulgax was getting sore, stiffening up. He slowed to a walk, and before long was limping. In Hithmearc, running was almost as much a way of life for rakutur-even rakutik cavalry-as for voitar. He'd never found himself out of shape before, but he'd heard of it, and realized the source of his pain. Except briefly, he'd kept to a pace that didn't tax his strong rakutik lungs and heart; he'd thought that would be slow enough. But now his thighs hurt. His buttocks hurt. His calves and shins hurt. Severely!

Ahead and to his right, half a mile or so, was a sizable bivouac-two companies of Kormehri raiders headed for home, thougn Tsulgax didn't know it. It wouldn't have made any difference if he had.

Twilight had died, and their cooking fires were like small, yellow-red beacons in the night. He left the cloven tracks and angled toward them. Even though the night was cloudy, the visibility was good. The snow reflected what light there was, and formed an excellent backdrop for seeing. So he moved slowly, in a deep crouch, every step painful.

At two hundred yards he paused, sizing up the camp. A few men still stood or squatted by fires, but most were out of sight in their tents. Their horse herd was at the west end, almost certainly guarded. But with the war over, watchfulness was no doubt poor.

He'd seen a lot of those tents lately. Squad tents, but small. Crowded as they were, would the men keep their tack with them at night? If not, where would they keep it? If necessary he could ride bareback, but he'd never learned to control a horse with just his knees and weight. He'd need a bridle.

Later he could enter a tent and steal what he needed, but now the men would still be awake, talking. Meanwhile he'd scout the herd. He angled toward it, covering the last hundred yards on hands and knees, through dry snow that largely hid him.

There were no picket ropes. The horses were loose, their hind legs hobbled instead of their front, so they could paw the snow for grass. Thus they'd dispersed somewhat. Even allowing for packhorses, it was a very large herd.

He could see one mounted herdsman, and was sure there were others. One tent was larger than the squad tents, and stood a little apart from them, nearer the herd. A separate tent for the herdsmen? It seemed doubtful in so small a camp, and there was no dying fire in front of it.

Tsulgax was seldom emotional, but this sparked a moment's excitement. The one herdsman he could see sat in the saddle with his back to him. Even so, Tsulgax crawled to where some horses obscured the view. Then standing, he walked to the anomalous tent and ducked inside. The open door let in enough light to show him tack for several horses, and numerous sacks of corn, several of them open. It took him little time to gather a saddle and blanket, a bridle, nosebag and quirt. He also stuffed an empty grain bag in his coat, and took another one half full.