Sorcerer's Son (20 page)

Cray rolled over and nudged Sepwin. “Wake up, Master Stayabed.”

The former beggar opened one eye, the blue one. “You know, I’ve never heard a troubadour sing.”

“You were awake all the time!”

“Most of the time, yes. But I thought it best not to interrupt your conversation. And I couldn’t quite figure out how to bow while lying down.”

“I’m sure my mother would have forgiven your discourtesy, under the circumstances.” He threw open the tent flap. “Come on, let’s find something to eat before the insects rise.”

Sepwin clutched at Cray’s elbow. *I’d be perfectly willing to go without supper if the day is almost spent. I’m quite used to that sort of thing, you know.“

“We have some time yet,” said Cray. “And the horses will be hungry, too. I don’t think they eat much while they’re blindfolded.”

“Oh, the horses. Yes, can’t let them starve. They’ve got to carry us out of this terrible place.” He crawled into the daylight behind Cray, glanced up at the sky nervously. “I can’t tell how high the sun is; it’s too cloudy.”

“Your ears will tell you quickly enough—when it’s low,” said Cray, slipping into his clothing and chain, now dry. His saddlebags, however, had not withstood their long drenching, and everything inside their oiled leather was wet. After setting out his nets for fish, Cray draped his belongings on low bushes to dry. They ate broiled fish and returned to their shelter just as the nightly humming began.

A squirrel watched in the night, the only squirrel in the whole swamp. It heard the humming but cared nothing for that; no blood-lusting insects would touch it, no water could drown it, no mud could suck it down to dark death. By the faint light of the cloud-strewn sky, Gildrum watched over the webwork tent that wrapped the two young travelers. It had only a moment to stand in the tall grass, a moment between Ringforge and its master’s bidding. It chittered softly to itself, feeling much as it always did outside Spinweb’s walls—seeing nothing, unseen, powerless. Cray was bound for the East March; Gildrum had heard the youths speak of that, had realized that it could only delay, never prevent, the journey. Cray was too strong-willed to be turned aside from his goal.

I’m sorry, my son.

And then there were no squirrels at all in the swamp.

Ť ^ ť

They had passed through many towns, and Sepwin had worn his eye patch continuously, by the time they reached the fortress of the lord of the East March. The structure had no name of its own; the local folk merely called it The Castle, for it was the only fortification within many days’ ride, and most of them had never seen another. It was an imposing stronghold, with thick, multiple walls sprawling over the sides of the broad, low hilltop it commanded. All around it, spreading from the walls to the river at the base of the hill, and across to the far bank, linked to the near by many bridges, were buildings of every size and shape. Lining winding streets, stone cottages jostled thatched huts and plank cabins; and open stalls, their owners crying their wares, were frequent among them. The fortress itself was a town within that town, with dwellings along the inside walls and a marketplace in the vast courtyard, where all the goods and services of life were loudly available. The gates stood wide open, though guarded by rows of pikemen, and people passed in and out freely. Cray and Sepwin were paid little heed by the guards; they let themselves be swept inside with the foot and horse and donkey traffic, until they reached a wineshop hung with earthen jars of drink. Cray signaled to his friend to halt there. They tethered their mounts in an alcove beside the shop, next to a pair of wooden carts.

“I’ve never drunk so much wine before as with you, Master Cray,” said Sepwin, raising a mug to his companion’s health.

Cray smiled. “You’ve never drunk wine at all, then.”

“True enough.” He drained the vessel. “I’ll wager you drank wine every night at home.”

“Only on special occasions,” said Cray. He looked down at the blood-dark fluid in his own cup. “And I see this whole journey as a special occasion.” He finished the drink and returned the container to the shop-keeper. “Come, Master Feldar, let’s see what the possibility of an audience with the lord may be.”

Sepwin scanned the courtyard. “He must be a busy man, with so many subjects. The justice alone for this lot would take most of a man’s day.”

“Perhaps they don’t quarrel as much as you suppose.”

“Impossible.”

They approached the gate of the keep, a fat cylindrical tower in the very center of the compound. This gate was closed, the massive iron-bound panel guarded by a double row of pikemen.

“Hallo,” said Cray. “How may I arrange to see your master, the lord of the East March?”

“It is too late,” said one of the pikemen, distinguished from the others by the device on his helm. “The lord sees no one after midday.”

“Well, tomorrow, then, or the next day. I come on important business.”

“Important to whom?”

“To me,” said Cray.

The pikeman looked him up and down. “What is the nature of this business?”

“Forgive me,” said Cray, bowing stiffly, “but it is personal.”

The pikeman’s lip curled. “Come back at dawn and wait your turn then, with everyone else.”

“Thank you.” Cray started to turn away, hesitated, and looked back at the pikeman. He saw a middle-aged man, beard grizzled and going gray, mouth flanked by deep creases—a man old enough and more to be his father. “Sir,” he said, “how long has the present lord of the East March ruled here?”

“More years than you’ve been alive, boy,” replied the man. “Thirty years it might be by now, and years left ahead of him, for he was young when he came into his own.” He smiled, and an old scar on his cheek pulled his mouth to one side. “Were you hoping he had died lately and a new lord taken his place?”

Cray smiled back, as disarming a smile as he knew how to show. “Quite the contrary, good sir. And I thank you once more.” He took Sepwin’s arm and guided him away. “That was my one fear,” he muttered. “That a new lord would have the seat and know nothing of him.”

The proprietor of the wineshop was able to direct them to lodgings in the outer town, and they spent the night in a small hostel on pallets so hard that they might as well have been sleeping on the ground. It rained that night, though, and for the first time in many a day, they had no need of Cray’s skills to keep them dry. Sepwin slept soundly, as always, but Cray tossed and turned and greeted first light at last with red eyes and a glad heart. He woke his companion, they bolted the bread and cheese they had bought the previous evening, and went out to The Castle, Cray carrying his father’s shield.

At dawn the inner town was bustling, and a crowd had already gathered in the courtyard before the gate of the keep. They were a noisy crowd, chattering and arguing among themselves, jostling one another for places closer to the gate, elbows banging against ribs, feet stepping on other feet, and many a fistfight broke out while they waited to see their lord. Cray and Sepwin found themselves at the fringe, hardly able to see the iron-bound door for the press of bodies ahead of them.

“I wonder how many broken heads this crush will yield,” muttered Sepwin.

At the front of the crowd, a pike was raised, a blue banner hanging limp from its tip, and a stentorian voice demanded silence. The clamor faded somewhat.

“The lord of the East March will hear his subjects now!” shouted the voice. Cray thought it might belong to the man he had spoken with the previous day. He could not see him, nor any of the other guards; only their pikes showed above the heads of the crowd.

The gate opened a crack; Cray could see a sliver of light, from a torch within. The crowd surged forward. Someone elbowed Cray to squeeze ahead of him, but he pushed the elbow aside and stood his ground, and the fellow merely glared at him. The gate closed.

“Did they let someone in?” wondered Sepwin.

“I couldn’t tell,” said Cray. “It opened wide enough for a body to pass through, so I suppose one did.”

Sepwin looked around. “There are a lot of bodies here, eager bodies, and a very small opening. Is there no system for orderly admittance?”

A nearby woman turned to Sepwin and said, “You must come here early. Early!” She frowned. “Too late now—we’ll never get in,” She turned away, shaking her head, and plowed outward, pushing past the people who had arrived even later than Cray and Sepwin; they moved. forward, eagerly closing up the small space the woman had left.

“If we’re too late,” said Sepwin, “why are so many people standing behind us?”

Cray cast him a sidelong glance. “Perhaps they are hoping that others ahead of them, like that woman, will give up and let them move forward.”

The gate opened again, and this time Cray thought he saw a head pass through the aperture before it shut. “They must come out some other way. No one could push back through this crowd from up there.”

Sepwin glanced over his shoulder. “It isn’t easy to do it from here. I’d hate to fall down in this mob. You’d have to scrape me off the cobblestones.”

“I don’t think you could fall.” The gate opened again.

“He seems to be dealing with them quickly at least,” said Sepwin. “Maybe we will get in.”

The morning passed like an eternity, each movement of the gate bringing Cray and Sepwin fractionally closer to itself, while behind them the crowd deepened. At last the two companions could actually see the pikemen who guarded the door, standing with their pikes crossed before it, a latticework of steel that lifted every time the door opened. The head pikeman, the same man Cray had talked to, would seize a person from the crowd by an arm or an ear or a sleeve, and when the gate opened would thrust him or her through the opening. The choice of who entered was his, and the people nearest him held out their hands with, coins of copper and silver to attract his attention. He gave most of his heed to the silver coins, but occasionally he would select someone with less of an offer, an attractive woman or a cripple, or a very old person. Once he accepted a chicken, which he passed inside when the gate opened.

Cray had a silver coin ready, glinting between thumb and forefinger, thrust toward the pikeman’s face, over the shoulders of the people in front of him, when the gate closed for the last time.

“The lord is finished for today!” shouted the head pikeman. “Come back tomorrow if you wish!”

The crowd dispersed so swiftly that Cray and Sepwin were carried some distance from the gate in spite of their efforts to stand still. When the area before the gate had cleared completely, save for the guards, Cray returned, silver in hand, but he was turned away curtly.

“Come earlier tomorrow,” said the head pikeman.

“Earlier indeed,” said Sepwin, when they had walked back to the wineshop where their horses waited. “We shall have to arrive at dusk the night before to be early enough for that crowd.”

‘Then we shall do exactly that,“ said Cray.

“Stand all night in the courtyard?”

“You needn’t keep me company, Feldar.”

“Now, what sort of talk is that, Master Cray? I’ve come this far with you, and I shall go the rest of the way, too!”

Cray stretched his limbs, which were stiff from the long, cramped wait. “Then we should return to the hostel and sleep now, don’t you think?”

Glumly, Sepwin nodded.

Waking near sunset, they made a swift meal of bread and cheese and then set out for the Castle, Cray carrying his father’s shield on one arm as before. Although the sky was dark, torches had been lit inside the courtyard, and activity continued there little abated from the daytime. At the gate, six or seven people already clustered, sitting close to the pikemen on small stools. When Cray and Sepwin approached, the seated people tried to move even closer to the iron-bound portal, but the pikemen pushed them back. The head of the guards, not the same one Cray had seen before, looked him up and down and then thrust out his hand.

“To stay here the night, you must pay me,” he said.

“I have a few coppers,” said Cray. “You’re welcome to them.” He dipped two fingers into his pouch.

“Silver for me,” said the guard. “You think I’d take less than the day guard?”

Cray indicated the people on the stools. “These others all paid you silver?”

“They did. And if you have no silver, you won’t find this door so near.”

Cray shrugged and handed over a silver piece.

“What about this one?” said the pikeman, pointing to Sepwin.

“He’s with me,” said Cray.

“He must pay, too.”

Sepwin bowed low. “I was just about to say goodnight, sir.” He bowed to Cray. “No need to waste silver on me. I’ll be with the horses.”

Cray sat down cross-legged on the cold cobbles, the shield upon his lap. The people on the stools paid scant attention to him, and scant attention to each other. As the evening waned, a few more individuals joined the group, paid their silver, and sat down to stare at the door. The bustle of the market thinned, torches guttered and were replaced, stalls closed, and the last drunken man lay down upon the street to sleep where passing horses could step on him. Cray found himself dozing, more from boredom than from fatigue; he stood up and stamped his feet and paced a small circle behind the first row of stools. The seated people looked up at him, annoyed, and several of them who had arrived after him took the opportunity to move closer to the gate, hemming him in on one side. He glared at them for a moment and then very deliberately pushed the nearest out of his way. The man stood up, the stool between his legs, and he was taller than Cray, but thinner. His hands curled into fists, and he would have rammed one into Cray’s stomach, but the youth saw it coming and parried the blow with the shield. Then he struck the fellow across the face with one chain-clad forearm, knocking him to the ground.

“Will you take another?” demanded Cray, standing over the prone man. “I’ve swung a sword these two years, and I promise you that I’m the stronger of us.”

The man made no reply, only pulled his legs up to protect his belly, as if expecting a kick. But Cray only nudged the stool aside. The other people looked up at him apprehensively, and those who had moved to take his place eased their seats back and let him return to his original position.