12
FARES
The wheel is back on. Fares and Wolfe and the driver have righted the carriage. Now they sit on its benches and squeeze out their sopping wet hair.
“What’s that?” Fares says, and unlatches the window. A gust of wind and rain comes in, and Wolfe gripes at him. Even the driver swears.
“Isn’t that our horse?” Fares says. He chuckles. “I thought we’d be walking to Yurka when the sun came back.”
Wolfe says, “Ha.”
But it must be their horse. It’s too fine a beast for the peasants who are leading it.
“Do you think they’ll say it belongs to them?” Wolfe says.
Fares shrugs. “If they do, we’ll just pay them for it.”
“It’s our horse.”
“Look how skinny the smaller one is,” says the prince. “He’ll want a meal more than a horse.”
“That’s not the point.”
Fares laughs. It’s
