"We did." He shivered in spite of himself.
"What was it?"
"How should I know? And you better save your breath. Looks like a long
walk ahead of us."
It was. They threaded their way through a growing maze of cracks in
the plain, cracks that got deeper and deeper, so you had to look
straight up to see the red sky and the little floating suns. Ciaran
found himself watching furtively to make sure they were still shining.
He wished Mousie hadn't reminded him of the shadow. He'd never been
closer to cold, clawing panic than in those moments on the ridge.
The rest of the slave gang had obviously come a long way already. They
were tired. But the Kalds goaded them on, and it wasn't until about a
third of the line was being held up bodily by those in front or behind
that a halt was called.
They came to a fairly-wide place where three of the gullies came
together. The Kalds formed the line into a circle, squeezed in on
itself so they were practically sitting in each other's laps, and then
stood by watchfully, lolling pink tongues over their bright grey teeth
and letting the wands flash in the dimmed light.
Ciaran let his head and shoulders roll over onto Mousie. For some time
he had felt her hands working around her own collar, covered by her
hair and the harp slung across his back. She wore a rather remarkable
metal pin that had other functions than holding her tunic on, and she
knew how to use it.
Her collar was still in place, but he knew she could slide out of it
now any time she wanted. She bent forward over him as though she was
exhausted. Her black hair fell over his face and neck. Under it her
small quick hands got busy.
The lock snapped quietly, and the huge red-haired man collapsed slowly
on top of Ciaran. His voice whispered, but there was nothing weak about
it.