“There is Blessing,” whispered Anna.
Liath scanned the folk in that procession. It was difficult for her to distinguish individuals at this distance, although Feather Cloak’s vivid costume was remarkable from any distance. With a jolt that made her shudder, she saw Hugh’s golden head. He was tallest, surrounded by a dozen tense mask warriors. He turned, staring back her way as if he knew she was there. A pair of masks broke away from his escort and trotted to Feather Cloak. They gave her a message, it seemed, and after a brief exchange they retreated at a run toward the main camp.
Where was Blessing? Belatedly, Liath saw a slender girl standing beside the proud warrior Zuangua. Yes, indeed, it would be difficult to drag Blessing from her place beside such an impressive uncle, there at the front of the lines. Blessing was old enough in body to be allowed conditional entry into the adult world, and young enough in mind to have no true understanding of its dangers and consequences.
“Above the gate!” said Dog Mask. “Look!”
Within Novomo, many people had gathered along the parapets and in the watchtowers set on either side of the gate, but there was no hostile movement, no shouting or cursing, only a sense of anticipation as they stared at the waiting Ashioi. A large sack was lifted onto the battlements. Wrapped in rope, it was lowered to the ground outside the gates. When the sack reached earth, the rope was released and tossed after it.
A trio of mask warriors dashed forward, grasped the sack, and hauled it back to the procession, whose ranks opened to receive it. Liath and the others could see nothing of what transpired, only that Hugh’s golden head disappeared as if he had dropped down to examine the contents of the sack.
After a bit he reappeared.
“What would the Pale Dogs be throwing out of the city,” asked Sharp Edge, “that Feather Cloak would be willing to receive?”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
The golden wheel, lifted by the standard-bearer, spun lazily as the procession split asunder, re-formed, and retired back toward camp. A conch shell blew a five-note pattern, repeated twice. At this signal, first a single tent, and then four, and then a score sagged and sank and were folded and rolled as the army began the business of lifting the siege.
“It’s a body,” said Sharp Edge, staring at the crumpled heap revealed on the ground by the retreat of the procession. They had abandoned the corpse. “The Pale Dogs gave a body to Feather Cloak. She must have gotten what she came for.”
“The body of the sorcerer who sent the galla,” said Liath softly. “Is there any person left who knows that secret?”
“You do not know how to call these creatures?”