He wasn’t the only one groaning. There was a low sobbing, and a male voice cursing in a low tone. ‘Is everyone all right? Cassian, are you hurt?’
‘No. Or – no, I don’t think anything’s broken—’
‘Then get the devil off me. Come on, move. Get out!’
‘Where?’ Cassian demanded with a note of panic. ‘How?’
‘Out the window, you fool, above you. Move your arse, I’ve got a baby down here.’
‘My baby,’ wailed the woman from under Daizell. ‘Connie. Oh God, God help us!’
‘She’s all right!’ Daizell said as if the baby’s outraged shrieks didn’t tell their own story. ‘Cassian, shift yourself before this deafens me.’
He shoved to make the point. Cassian pulled himself together and clambered awkwardly out of the coach window. This involved him treading fairly heavily on Daizell, who expressed his feelings with as much moderation as he could. ‘Take the blasted baby!’ he shouted once the man was out. ‘Come on, get her!’
Cassian reached reluctantly down. Daizell jammed the struggling, crying, distressingly damp bundle into his hands, and then hoisted himself out of the window, attempting to use the coach itself rather than his fellow passengers for leverage.
He found his feet despite shaky legs, and stood on the top, or side, of the coach to survey the scene for a moment. Cassian was kneeling awkwardly by him, holding the baby with dismay. His nose was bleeding. On the road, people were scattered around in little weeping knots, or sprawled and unmoving. At least one had blood spreading around his head in a puddle. Daizell looked away, down at the horses, and swore like a trooper.
‘What is it?’ Cassian demanded.
‘Nobody’s cut the traces!’
Daizell clapped his hand to his pocket, and was relieved to find his clasp-knife. He skidded down the sidewise roof of the coach with reckless speed and ran to the horses’ heads. Two had already struggled to their feet and if the panicked creatures started to run again, dragging the overturned coach behind them, Christ knew what would happen to the fourpeople still in there. ‘Someone help me!’ he called to the world in general, and ran to start sawing at the leather straps.
A third horse rose as he started cutting. The fourth was still down but kicking. He couldn’t see the driver; the young sprig in the caped coat was watching with a fatuous grin. ‘Help me!’ Daizell said again, to nobody.
There was a thump and a scrabble behind him, and Cassian was there, babyless. ‘Cut the traces!’ Daizell shouted. ‘Quick!’
‘No knife,’ Cassian said, with a calm serenity that begged for punching, and moved to the lead horse’s head. He was dishevelled and his face was bloodstained, but his stance radiated peace. ‘There, boy. There.’
‘Get away before it kicks you!’ Daizell snarled.
‘He won’t. Here, now.’ He had an uncommonly sweet tone to his voice as he soothed the frantic horse. ‘Come, beauty, be a good boy for me. Such a good boy, aren’t you? Such a lovely, willing,verygood boy . . .’
His tone was honey and velvet, and somehow Daizell’s knife had slowed in its work at the murmured endearments. He gave himself a mental kick, and severed another trace, but he could see and feel the horses calming under Cassian’s influence. He cut the remaining traces anyway, in case, and clambered out of the way.
Cassian gave the horse a final pat and stepped back. They looked at one another, and Cassian said, ‘What now?’ for all the world as if Daizell was the expert on disasters.
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘Oh!’ Cassian looked round and hurried to the grass verge, where he picked up the howling infant, keeping it at arm’s length. ‘Oh. Ugh. It smells really very bad now. And it’s . . . squashy.’
‘I doubt she’s the only one to have soiled herself,’ Daizell remarked. ‘Where’s the mother? Has anyone got the rest of them out?’
Cassian looked blank. Daizell cursed internally, and clambered up onto the coach again.
The next little while was an aching, relentless slog. Two of the male inside passengers had made it out on their own. One was nursing a broken nose; the other was unharmed, and much bigger than Cassian, so he and Daizell set to getting the last two free. The woman was battered and looked sick as a dog, but she thanked Daizell vocally and went to reclaim her child from Cassian with tears.
The final man was curled in the bottom of the coach, sobbing with pain.
‘We need to get you out,’ Daizell said. ‘They won’t be able to get the coach upright with you in. Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?’
‘My arm. My arm!’
Daizell offered a cautious, supportive hand. He only wanted to take the fellow’s weight, but as the man shifted, his arm moved in a terrible way and he screamed. ‘Jesus! Don’t touch me!’
‘Christ,’ Daizell muttered. ‘Hey, someone up there! Help us!’
