Shadow of a Dark Queen (6 page)

Erik moved around from behind the bar, then
pushed through the common room, and as he reached the door, Rosalyn threw him an accusatory look. He mouthed, “I'll be back,” and she threw her gaze heavenward a moment in feigned aggravation. Then she was again grabbing mugs off tables, heading back toward the bar.

The night was cool; fall was full upon them. At any moment it might turn bitter cold in the mountains of Darkmoor. Though they were not as high as the Calastius to the west or the Teeth of the World in the far north, still snow graced the peaks in the colder winters, and frost was a worry to growers in any season but summer.

Erik moved toward the town square, and as he anticipated, a few boys and girls still sat around the edge of the fountain before the Growers' and Vintners' Hall. Roo was speaking in low tones to a girl who managed to laugh at his suggestion while keeping an askance expression on her face. She was also employing her hands to good effect, limiting Roo's to acceptable portions of her anatomy.

Erik said, “Evening, Roo. Gwen.”

The girl's expression brightened as Erik came into view. One of the prettier girls in town, with red hair and large green eyes, Gwen had attempted to catch Erik's eye on more than one occasion. She called his name as she firmly pushed Roo's hands away. A few of the other youngsters of the town greeted the blacksmith's helper, and Roo said, “Finished at the inn?”

Erik shook his head. “Just a break. I'll have to head back in a few minutes. Thought I'd get some air. Gets very smoky in there, and the noise . . .”

Gwen was about to speak when something in
Roo's expression caused both her and Erik to turn. Coming into the light of the torches set around the fountain were two figures, dressed in fine clothing, swords swinging at their sides.

Gwen came to her feet and attempted an awkward curtsy. Others followed, but Erik stood silently, and Roo sat open-mouthed.

Stefan and Manfred von Darkmoor looked around the gathered boys and girls, roughly the same age as themselves, but their demeanor and finery set them apart as clearly as if they had been swans moving among geese and ducks in a pond. They had obviously been drinking from the way they moved, with the careful control of one who is masking intoxication.

As Stefan's gaze settled on Erik, his expression darkened, but Manfred put a restraining hand upon his arm. Whispering something in Stefan's ear, the younger brother maintained a tight grip. Stefan at last nodded once, his eyes heavy-lidded, and forced a cold smile to his lips. Ignoring Erik and Roo, he bowed slightly toward Gwen and said, “Miss, it seems my father and the town burghers are intent on discussing issues of wine and grapes beyond my understanding and patience. Perhaps you might care to acquaint us with some more . . . interesting diversions?”

Gwen blushed and then threw Erik a glance. He frowned at her and slightly shook his head no. As if challenging his right to advise her, she jumped lightly down from the low wall around the fountain and said, “Sir, I would be delighted.” She called another girl who was sitting nearby. “Katherine, join us!”

Gwen took Stefan's extended arm like a lady of the court, and Katherine awkwardly followed her
example with Manfred. They strolled away from the fountain, Gwen exaggerating the sway of her hips as they vanished into the darkness.

After a moment, Erik said, “We'd better follow.”

Roo came to stand directly in front of his friend. “Looking for a fight?”

“No, but those two won't take no for an answer and the girls—”

Roo put his hand firmly on Erik's chest, as if to prevent his moving forward. “. . . know what they're getting into with noble sons,” he finished. “Gwen's no baby. And Stefan won't be the first to get her to pull up her skirts. And you're about the only boy in town who hasn't bedded Katherine.” Looking over his shoulder to where the four had vanished into the night, he added, “Though I thought the girls had better taste than that.”

Roo lowered his voice so that only Erik could hear, and his tone took on a harshness that his friend recognized. Roo used it only when he was deadly serious about a topic. “Erik, the day may come when you will have to face your swine of a brother. And when it does, you will probably have to kill him.” Erik's brow furrowed at Roo's tone and words. “But not tonight. And not over Gwen. Now, don't you have to get back to the inn?”

Erik nodded, gently removing Roo's hand from his chest. He stood motionless for a second, trying to digest what his friend had just said. Then, shaking his head, he turned and walked back toward the inn.

T
yndal was
dead.

Erik still couldn't believe it. Each time he came into the forge during the last two months he had expected to see the burly smith either asleep on his pallet at the rear of the forge or hard at work. The man's sense of humor when he wasn't sober, or his dark moodiness when he was—everything about him was etched in every corner of this place where Erik had learned his craft for the previous six years.

Erik inspected the coals from the previous night's fire and judged how much wood to add to bring it back to life. A miller's wagon had lurched into the courtyard the night before with a broken axle, and there would be ample work to fill his day. He still couldn't get over Tyndal's not being there.

Two months previously, Erik had climbed down from his loft expecting the events of the morning to be as usual, but one glance at Tyndal's regular resting place had sent the hairs on Erik's neck straight up. Erik had seen the smith drunk to a stupor, but this was something else. There was stillness to the old man that Erik instinctively recognized. He had never
seen a dead man before, but he had seen many animals dead in the fields, and there was something eerily familiar in the smith's attitude. Erik touched Tyndal to assure himself the old blacksmith was truly dead, and when he touched cold skin he jerked his hand away as if from a burn.

The local priest of Killian, who acted as a healer for most of the poor in the town, quickly confirmed that Tyndal had indeed drunk his last bottle of wine. Since he had no family, it was left to Milo to dispose of the corpse, and he arranged a hasty funeral, with a quick pyre. The ashes were scattered, and a prayer was said to the Singer of Green Silence by her priest, though smiths were more correctly considered the province of Tith-Onanka, the god of war. Erik felt that somehow the prayer to Killian, the goddess of the forest and field, was appropriate: Tyndal had repaired perhaps one sword in the six years Erik had been around the forge, but countless plows, tillers, and other implements of farming.

A sound in the distance caught Erik's ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince's City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida's cooking.

As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud “Whoa!” Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and
Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pretense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung. But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.

“Ho, Percy,” said Erik.

“Erik!” replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. “Ravensburg, sirs.”

The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. “Are you lying over?” he asked the driver.

“No,” answered Percy. “We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.” Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. “From there I'm going empty to Darkmoor, so there's ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I'll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I'll have an extra of her best meat pie.” Percy's grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.

Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.

“Sir!” Erik called, and hurried after.

He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.

And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said, “You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.” He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.

“Who are you?” asked Erik.

“Nathan is my name. I'm the new smith sent up from Krondor.”

“From Krondor? New smith?” Erik's expression showed his confusion.

The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. “The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.”

“But it's my smithy,” said Erik.

“It's a baronial charge, boy,” said Nathan, his tone turning firm. “You might be competent in most things—you might even be talented—but in time of war you'd be mending armor and tending the
barony's mounts, as well as taking care of farmers' draft horses.”

“War!” exclaimed Erik. “War hasn't touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!”

The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik's shoulder, gripping him firmly. “I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You're a guild apprentice—”

“No.”

The smith's brows lowered. “No? Didn't your master register you with the guild?”

With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, “My former master was drunk most of the time. I've conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that . . . I was too busy to continue begging. He's been dead for two months now, and I've done well enough tending the barony's needs.”

The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. “This is a problem, youngster. You're three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship—”

“Begin!” said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. “I can match skills with any guild smith—”

Nathan's expression darkened. “That's not the point!” he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. “That's not the point,” he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. “You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at the
guild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster's rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin—”

“I will not apprentice for seven more years!” said Erik, his temper threatening to get the better of him.

Nathan said, “Interrupt me again, boy, and I'll cease being civil with you.”

Erik's expression showed he was not in the least bit apologetic, but he stayed silent.

Nathan said, “You can go to Krondor or Rillanon and petition the guild. You'll be tested and evaluated. If you show you know enough, you'll be allowed to apprentice, or perhaps you'll even get journeyman's rank, though I doubt that seriously; even if you're the best they've ever seen, there's still the politics of it. Few men are willing to grant to another rank without the sweat to have earned it. And there's always the possibility they'll call you a presumptuous lout and throw you into the street.” The last came with a hard tone, and suddenly Erik realized that this man had spent at least seven years as an apprentice and perhaps twice that as a journeyman before gaining his master's badge—and to him Erik must sound a whining child.

“Or you can apprentice here, in your hometown with your family and friends, and be patient. If you are indeed as well taught as you claim, I'll certify you as quickly as I can, so you can petition for a forge of your own.”

Erik looked as if he was again going to object that this was his forge, but he said nothing. Nathan continued, “Or you can set out today, on your own, and become an independent smith. With your talent
you'll make a living. But without a guild badge you'll never set up shop in any but the rudest villages, unless you wish to travel to the frontier. For no noble will trust his horses and armor to any but a guildmaster, and the rich common folk to no less than a guild journeyman. And that means, no matter how gifted you are, you'll always be nothing more than a common tinker.”