This morning he’d needed help to mount as well—help that Karal had provided, since the stableboy had vanished as soon as the lad brought their horses to them. Rubrik’s horse had also helped on both occasions, much to Karal’s surprise, by lying down so that Rubrik could get his bad leg swung over the saddle with a very little assistance. Karal bit his lip to keep from commenting or asking questions, since this went far beyond any horse training he had ever seen. Rubrik saw his expression, though, and simply smiled, without offering any explanation or inviting any inquiry, so Karal said nothing.
Once the sun actually rose, it looked as if (despite Rubrik’s warnings) they were going to have another day of good weather. The sky held dark clouds to the east, but not many were close. It would probably be fairly warm later in the day, but the cool of morning was still in the air and riding would be very pleasant.
Provided my calves aren’t tying themselves into knots by the time we stop next.
The second day was a repeat of the first; steady riding with brief stops to stretch, relieve themselves, and eat something. By the afternoon of this second day, the steep and forested hills gradually changed to gentler slopes; the fields beside the road showed signs of agriculture. They began to meet greater numbers of people, both on the road or working in the fields beside it, none of which looked anything like the surly Holderkin of the first day. These people, at least, wore clothing of bright and varied colors, and most were cautiously polite, waving or calling out a greeting as the three of them rode past.
There was curiosity in their expressions, but they kept their distance when Rubrik did not stop or encourage any closer approach. No one seemed terribly concerned or alarmed over their appearance, which eased at least one of Karal’s anxieties. He was not anxious to be driven out of Valdemar by that mob of angry peasants he had envisioned. He’d had uneasy moments yesterday, when the Holderkin turned to stare with open hostility, just before averting their faces just as pointedly.
As some of his anxieties disappeared, more surfaced, however. All his life he had heard stories about the Hellspawn of Valdemar, the White Demons and the Hellhorses they rode. Did Rubrik wear white, and ride a white horse, as an honor to the White Demons? Surely all those tales had not been made up out of whole cloth. Certain Karsites—the Black-robe Priests in particular—had enough experience with real demons to know them when they saw them! So where
were
the creatures out of the tales his mother and every other mother told her children? Where were the demons that would get
him
if he wasn’t good?
Magic isn’t stopped by borders or boundaries,
he thought, watching Rubrik’s back cautiously.
Our Black-robe Priests could control demons, so it stands to reason that the people here have mages who can, too. So where are they? If this escort of ours intends to impress us with the power of Valdemar and the Queen’s mages, now would be the time to trot out a few horrors. He wouldn’t want to frighten anyone in a really populated area, after all. He’d want to make sure we were the only witnesses to his private show.
But they rode up to yet another inn after sundown, tired to the bone, without any sign of horrors, monsters, or, truly, any magic at work at all. So now, were they being insulted by not being shown any magic at all?
By the time they reached the promised inn, Karal was so bone tired that it was all he could do to stay awake. The hot bath waiting for them did help the aches and cramped muscles, but once he’d climbed out of the tub and rubbed more of that salve into himself, he could barely keep his eyes open. He ate, but only because he was starving as well as exhausted. He helped his master Ulrich to bed, but he didn’t recall falling into his own cot at all. He simply woke there to the sound of knocking on the door.
Once again, they rose before sunrise, leaving the inn behind them still shrouded in darkness. This time the breakfast included fresh berries as well as bread and whipped butter, but otherwise the routine was the same.
Ulrich didn’t seem upset by what seemed to Karal to be unseemly haste in getting them north, so Karal held his peace as they ate their meal in the saddle and set out into the gray of predawn. It did occur to him that if it was Rubrik’s intention to keep their very existence a secret without going to extreme lengths, such as riding at night and sleeping by day in hiding places, this was a good way to accomplish that intention. Certainly they hadn’t had a chance to speak to anyone in the two days they’d been in this land! They arrived so late at their inns last night and the night before that no one would think twice when they ate in their rooms and went straight to sleep without going to the taproom to socialize with the rest of the guests.
And if it was Rubrik’s plan to keep them from noticing pertinent military details about Valdemar—well, Karal, for one, was too tired by now to take note of much of anything. He wasn’t likely to have known how to tell if something was strategic or not. Ulrich was exactly what he appeared to be, a scholar. The Priest had spent his life in studying magic and the Writ and Rules of Vkandis; Karal was at the beginning of those very same, intense studies, and the very thought of having
time
to study military strategy as well made Karal want to laugh.
Then again, how could Rubrik possibly be sure of that? True, he was only sixteen, but that was the age many young men were commissioned as officers in the Army. He
could
be a military spy; a successful spy presumably would look like something harmless.
Like some Priest’s rather young, green, and confused secretary, I suppose.
He knuckled his foggy eyes and stifled a yawn, while Trenor walked briskly behind Honeybee. What was truly mortifying was that Ulrich, who
should
have been in worse shape than he was. actually seemed fresh and alert after his night’s sleep. He talked at length with Rubrik, in Valdemaran this time, supposedly in order to refresh his memory and increase his proficiency. Karal listened while their escort rattled on about the people who lived along this road, what crops they grew, what beasts they herded. Pretty boring stuff, but it did sharpen his Valdemaran. And for the first time in any language study, they
did
have a reason to ask “how far to the Palace?”
The landscape gradually flattened until, by afternoon, there was nothing on either side of the road but farm country, and the terrain had turned to gentle, rolling hills. Trees lined each side of the road as a windbreak, and more trees were planted in windrows between each plowed or fallow field. A warm breeze crossed their path; warm enough to make him sleepy all over again. He caught himself nodding more than once, jerking awake as he started to lose his seat.
They couldn’t avoid people now; every time they stopped to rest, there would be some curious farmer or passing merchant who wondered who they were and what their business was. Rubrik was friendly, but close-mouthed, describing them only as “foreigners.” For most people, that seemed to be enough of an explanation.
“Been a mort’o foreigners, lately,” said one old man, as he drew water from his well for their horses. Rubrik agreed and did not elaborate, so the old man’s curiosity went unsatisfied. Karal and Ulrich politely pretended that they had not understood him.
But Karal watched their escort closely all during the afternoon after that. He set himself a mental exercise to keep himself awake, trying to determine what choosing
this
man as their escort meant to their status, and hence, their ongoing mission. Of course, this was not technically anything he needed to worry about, but Ulrich would probably be asking him questions, sooner or later, to see what he had reasoned out for himself.
So while Ulrich talked in Valdemaran about the weather, the corn harvest, the other “foreigners” that had been in Valdemar because of the war, Karal watched and listened and thought.
While “crippled” Rubrik might look unsuited to this position, he was certainly bearing up under all this hard riding better than the two “able-bodied” people he was escorting. He didn’t need all that much help, really; just what Karal or the occasional common horseboy could provide. His white mount took care of the rest. His command of Karsite was excellent, as Ulrich had already noted; how many people
were
there in Valdemar who were fluent in Karsite? There couldn’t be many.
Rubrik was well-versed enough in the current situation in the Valdemaran Court that he had been able to answer most of Ulrich’s questions so far. This business of hurrying them on their way could be a very clever means of making certain they didn’t do anything really impolite—or politically unfortunate. Limit the contact, and you limit the chance of mistakes. After all, they were the first envoys from Karse to Valdemar in hundreds of years—and no one in Valdemar had any idea how they were likely to react.
We could just as easily be two of the “old sticks ” that Solaris complains to Ulrich about; stiff-necked and stubborn and ready to make a stupid fuss about anything that might possibly be considered heresy—fighting the things she has restored to the Writ and Rules because there’ve never been Rules like that in their lifetime. Someone like that would probably cause an incident as soon as he got even half an excuse to do so, just out of sheer spite. He can’t be sure yet that we aren’t like that, and the Valdernaran Court would plan on it if they have any foresight.
Rubrik probably was the best man for this job.
This third day out, Karal found himself warming to the man. Rubrik
could
have been sitting around wallowing in self-pity, recounting past glories to uninterested passersby on Temple steps somewhere; instead, he was performing an important duty, perhaps freeing someone more able-bodied for some other task, certainly seeing to it that he and Ulrich had someone in charge of their journey who was not only competent, but fluent in their language, and at least marginally friendly.
As the sun sank on their third day of travel, it also occurred to Karal that finding someone who fit the criteria of “competent, fluent, and friendly” in the case of a former enemy must be a rather difficult task. Perhaps, rather than trying to figure out if the choice of Rubrik had been meant as an insult, he should assume it was a compliment and should be
grateful
that they had him!
Exhaustion impaired his reasoning fairly quickly after that. As the lights of the next village neared, Karal found himself thinking of nothing more than the bed he expected to fall into.
Soft bed, clean sheets, a hot bath... sleep. Not in that order of course. Food. Lots of fat feather pillows. Sleep. Some more of that salve. Sleep.
They rode into the courtyard of the inn Rubrik had chosen. The courtyard was lit with lanterns and torches, the windows glowed from the candles within, and wonderful aromas of cooking meat and baking bread drifted out through the open door.
A stableboy helped Rubrik dismount, then moved to hold Honeybee and Trenor as Rubrik limped into the inn to arrange for their lodging.
But he hurried right back out again, a serving-boy hovering at his elbow, just as Karal helped his master dismount, and the stormy look on his face made Karal’s heart sink. Rubrik was angry, and was keeping his temper carefully in check. Something must have gone wrong here.
Is it us? Has someone recognized that we’re Karsite, and
refused to grant us
shelter?
It was a real possibility—and the opening for a potentially damaging incident before their mission had even begun!
“I’m afraid this place is already full up,” their escort said apologetically, while Ulrich steadied himself with one hand on Honeybee’s shoulder. The flickering light from the torches did nothing to mask his chagrin and annoyance, and Karal felt his own face fall, but Ulrich seemed undisturbed. “This idiot of a landlord claims that he misunderstood the day; it’s not a deliberate insult, I insisted on seeing the register, and they really have let out all the rooms. They can give you dinner while I see about some alternate arrangements, if you don’t mind waiting for me to manage something.”
“I do not see that we have much choice in the matter,” Ulrich replied, with a philosophical shrug. “Personally, I simply can’t ride any farther. No journey ever proceeds exactly as planned, and after all, the world does not arrange itself to suit our particular whims.”
Rubrik grimaced, the torchlight turning his face into an ugly mask for a moment. “In this case, it should have,” he said, annoyance overcoming his chagrin, “since I specifically stopped here on my way to the border to arrange rooms for us on this date. I—well, it doesn’t matter. I managed to throw a good fright into the innkeeper himself, and he’d rather slit his own wrists now than inconvenience us further. I
do
have a private parlor for you to dine in, and I threw out the dice game some of the innkeeper’s cronies were playing to get it, too. If you’ll follow the boy, he’ll see that you’re served, and I’ll see what I can arrange for the night.”
Ulrich nodded as graciously as if this were all his idea, and put Honeybee’s reins into the hands of the stableboy. He brushed off his riding robes, shook out a few wrinkles, and followed the serving-boy inside.
Karal trailed along in Ulrich’s shadow, through the door into the inn itself, and crossed the crowded taproom.
Across the very crowded taproom. Every bench was full, every table loaded with full and empty plates and tankards. The floor underfoot was sticky with spilled drink, and there was just enough room for the servers to squeeze in between the patrons. He was just as glad they weren’t going to eat in here; the room was hot and stuffy, and his nose was assaulted with far too many odors at once to make his stomach happy. On top of that, it was noisy, and the babble was all in Valdemaran; it made him feel three times the foreigner, and between the confusion and his exhaustion, he found his grasp of the language slipping away.