Ulgar smiled. ‘Allow me to introduce Baron Fenchard Aarlen of Haslan Falls. His father passed away last winter and I am instructing him as to his baronial duties. As you can see, he has
not yet acquired my temperance and moderation.’
‘They are skills that are acquired only through time and experience,’ Morgan replied. He turned to face Fenchard. ‘I remember your father well and was sorry to hear of his
passing. He was a fine warrior and a generous man. I hope he has taught you well.’
‘My father was all that you say he was.’ Fenchard’s tone was sneering. ‘But he was prone to being over-indulgent towards his subjects. They must always know where their
loyalties lie. Where do your loyalties lie, Glaivedon? With the Grand Duke? Lukas Felmere? Or just your own purse.’
‘Loyalty is not a simplistic issue, not a question of black or white, and yet ultimately my loyalty is to Tanaren, and always will be.’
‘Many a traitor has used such words in the past and still they never escape the disembowelling knife of the executioner. Be wary, Glaivedon! I am watching you – one slip and a silver
tongue will be no defence against me.’
‘Then I am forewarned and will be wary. I have no desire to be held down and subjected to the ministration of your eyebrow tweezers.’
The men behind Morgan sniggered as Fenchard started in his saddle. His eyes blazed with fury and he made to ride towards Morgan, but Ulgar put out his hand stopping him.
‘Patience, Fenchard! The man’s tongue will be his own undoing one day and on that day you have my permission to nail it to the nearest privy door.’
He looked at Morgan. ‘It is the scholar and his letter that has saved you here. This time tomorrow I will make for the inn. If you have not left by then, I will set my men on you; they can
have the pleasure of slapping you in those stocks.’ With that he spurred his horse and turned back to his manor, his troops following. Fenchard lingered a second more, glaring at Morgan,
before he, too, turned to follow the Baron.
‘Keth’s flaming balls! Who was that jumped-up snotty little turd?’ Rozgon had come forward and was now standing next to Morgan.
‘A jumped-up snotty little turd who dares speak only because he has soldiers beside him and the patronage of the most powerful Baron this side of the river. We saw his men on the road
yesterday; undoubtedly he has many more. He’s not really the sort of enemy I was looking to make.’ Morgan did not take his eyes off the Baron’s party until they were behind the
walls of the manor house.
‘You had no choice. The boy was spoiling for a fight; he obviously wanted to impress Vinoyen.’
‘Maybe. Couldn’t you just smell his ambition? Oh and Cedric, thanks for producing that letter; you had hardly any time to retrieve it from the wagon.’
‘You are right,’ Cedric replied. ‘I had hardly any time at all. This letter is actually...’ he unfolded the scroll ‘...a letter from Professor Hartwinge asking me
to attend his lecture concerning physical depictions of the divine.’
‘Did you go?’ Morgan asked.
‘By Artorus, no! If you think I can talk, then you should sit and listen to one of Hartwinge’s three-hour lectures. I saw Claw Pass as a preferable alternative.’
‘I think I would prefer a three-hour session at the inn.’ said Rozgon hopefully.
‘I am afraid we will have neither.’ said Morgan. ‘We get a room, we get some food and we hide out until tomorrow. That is the plan.’
‘Maybe you, the Professor, and the boy should, but it might be a good idea for a couple of us to look around town; there might be something worth hearing.’
‘Fair enough.’ Morgan nodded his agreement. ‘We should pick up some supplies as well if at all possible, I imagine the inn has plenty of space; I cannot see there being too
many commercial travellers in this part of the world.’
Their rooms were of a good size on the ground floor, their small windows looking directly out on to the city. The bed was large and a lot more comfortable than what Cheris was
used to back in her little cell on the island. She went to Marcus’s room, which was at the other end of a narrow, semicircular corridor, and told him.
‘I am feeling rather tired. All the excitement has rather worn me out – I think I will get some sleep.’
‘I understand completely; the sea air doesn’t help either. We will be eating in our rooms. so call me when you are ready and I will organise some food.’
She returned to her room. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she lay on the bed and shut her eyes. After a few minutes came the sound of barely perceptible footsteps on the stone outside. She felt
the door open, then close again soft as a whisper. Without opening her eyes she said quietly: ‘Well, Sir Dylan, did you get it?’
‘Right here,’ he replied in equally hushed tones. ‘I have to be back on duty in one hour, so we need to move quickly.’
She opened her eyes at last and looked at him. He had removed his helmet and was wearing a mail shirt covered in a rich blue surcoat. His breeches and high boots were of black leather. In his
hands he held up a simple white linen dress, laced at the front, along with a brown kirtle to fit over it.
‘Don’t laugh but I have never had a dress before. Where did you get it?’
‘A couple of the scullery maids live in the tower; one of them ... likes me so allowed me to borrow it.’
‘Could I buy it? I have a crown –would that be enough?’
Sir Dylan nodded. ‘Enough to buy several of them I would imagine; I will speak to her about it... Now
hurry
!’
‘Patience, I have never put one of these on before.’ She started unlacing her robe.
Sir Dylan looked uncomfortable. ‘I hope by the Gods you are not asking me to help you. I will wait outside.’
‘No!’ she giggled. ‘I can manage, and don’t be so silly about waiting outside; someone might see you. Just turn your back to me.’
Five minutes later she was every inch the peasant girl, although her delicate hands and long nails betrayed her little subterfuge. ‘What now?’
‘Just follow me and be quiet.’
He led her through the corridor, past Marcus’s room (she didn’t dare breathe) and on to a small landing housing a spiral stairway lit by sputtering torches. Instead of going up the
stairs, though, he led her through a narrow opening in the opposite wall, down a dark and dank unlit corridor and through a doorway of oiled wood. Now they were looking at a narrow black iron gate
which opened out into daylight and the world outside. The city wall was to their right and a high curtain wall green with moss hid them from the houses to their left. Dylan produced a key.
‘Servants’ entrance,’ he said. A minute later they were outside, where Sir Dylan stopped behind the sheltering wall and turned to speak to her.
‘If I am caught, it means probable dismissal and maybe even some time in prison. I still cannot believe I have been so gullible as to fall for your imprecations, but no matter we are here
now. So we go to the market, spend five minutes there and return. You speak to no one but me. Understand?’
‘Completely,’ she said. ‘And thank you; I will find some way to repay you one day.’
He looked at her – those eyes afire with excitement, her small pointed nose, her perfect teeth framed by her delicate lips – and cursed himself for his weakness. ‘I am sure
Artorus will see to it.’
And then, with her following not two feet behind, he led her into the city.
They made good speed, him with his long firm stride and her half running, half walking, turning her head hither and thither, eyes like saucers marvelling at every belching peasant or merchant in
hose two sizes too small for him. She was like a child witnessing its first dawn or a small bird who not minutes before had escaped its nest at last. She tried to miss nothing – every wagon
piled high with barrels, every gapped-tooth townswoman arguing with her landlord, every urchin running hard, head down to escape the switch from his parents, was a source of wonder to her. Every
couple of minutes she would look for Sir Dylan who was getting further and further ahead of her and run to catch up with him. She was aware that she looked like his servant, so her following him in
this way seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do.
They headed back up the street where earlier she had seen the little beggar girl to the square, which was now a lot busier than when she had first visited it. She saw a tavern in one corner that
she hadn’t noticed earlier. Outside it was a gang of ruddy-faced young men all holding tankards and laughing with each other. She made sure she didn’t catch their eye. Sir Dylan ignored
them and plunged down the side street on the right, the one opposite the road to the sea that they had climbed up earlier. This street was also narrow with overhanging buildings, but the night soil
men had obviously visited here recently as it was a lot cleaner. They were going downhill now and she had to be careful not to lose her footing on the uneven cobbles while avoiding bumping into
people in what was the busiest street she had witnessed so far. At one point she even had to wriggle past a man pulling a team of three horses, all in single file. Dylan’s pace was
unrelenting, so in the end her burning legs made it necessary for her to speak to him.
‘’Lissa’s blood, slow down! You are taller than I ... I cannot keep up!’
‘Can’t you fly or something?’ he said mischievously.
‘Only Gods can fly,’ she harrumphed. ‘I even detest running.’
‘Well, what can you do then? What is it that makes you so terrifying?’
‘You haven’t seen my temper yet,’ she said. ‘But keep this up and you just might.’
‘I told you we had to hurry, and see ahead – Duke Bernardus Bridge. This leads to People’s Hill and the market.’
He was right. Ahead of them was a sturdy, wide bridge with high parapets, its flagstones worn smooth by a thousand passing feet. As she crossed it, she looked over the edge, under them was a
long level road running along the low part of ground where the two hills joined. She saw straight away that this was where most of the wagons and mounted traffic passed, avoiding the narrow streets
and hills. Fronting this street were large buildings with broad double doors. Dylan noticed where she was looking.
‘Warehouses,’ he said. ‘The traders use the wide roads at the base of each hill, or the one that encircles the city. They store their goods here and then just have to transport
them up People’s Street ahead.’
She looked ahead past an imposing statue of (presumably) Duke Bernardus and saw that there were wide spaces either side of the bridge for horses and wagons to climb up from the road beneath. The
thoroughfare before her was much, much wider than anywhere else she had seen and the houses were built of beams and brick, rather than wattle and daub. They, too, were large with many glass
windows. Cheris whistled softly.
‘Such fine houses! Is this where the rich live?’
‘No, that is further on. These are mainly trading guild buildings, not private dwellings; you would see many similar buildings on Artisans’ Hill. Keep walking.’
She did as she was told, noticing that the street was so broad that either side of it was paved with large flagstones for those who wanted to avoid the jarring cobbles or the risk of being
trampled to death by panicking livestock. The sewage trenches here were pretty spotless; she guessed they were cleaned every night. Then, almost without realising it, they were there.
And she saw how unprepared she was.
The market was rectangular in shape, its widest point being at least half a mile long. At its further end she could see Loubian Hill climbing above the market rooftops, its white palaces close
enough now that she could see their fine arched lancet windows. Ahead and to the right the golden bell tower of the cathedral dominated. But it was what lay directly ahead that focused her
concentration. She had expected a crowd something like the grand congregation in the College of the Magisters when the main hall was full for a meeting or religious service but this was something
else altogether. There was not a square foot in the market that seemed unoccupied as people bustled about their business apparently oblivious to their neighbours and surroundings. And the lack of
order! She had never seen such jostling, barging and pushing as all present jockeyed for position, desperate to pore over each vendor’s wares. Most there were dressed as simply as she was
– small-scale buyers looking for a slab of cheese or loaf of bread – but intermingled with them were others of a grander kind. One lady garbed in a rich purple velvet dress trimmed with
silver was being escorted by an armed guard and a couple of well-dressed servants. There were men dressed just as Dylan was, in surcoats and mail, and others in brightly coloured tunics and
breeches. Some even wore extravagant hats, great wide-brimmed floppy caps adorned with feathers.
And from these people rose such a tumult that she was amazed any of them could understand each other, whether they were grumbling, gossiping, haggling, swearing, or singing... Amid the uproar
she caught only small snatches, alternately of negotiation – ‘I’ll go no lower than seven ducats ... Six it is then,’ – confrontation – ‘I bought this
jerkin here last week and the lace holes have perished already’ – and flattery – ‘Madam, it is almost as though this hat was made specifically for your shapely little
head.’
The whole scene was chaos. Beautiful, captivating chaos. Cheris did not know where to begin.
Dylan noticed her consternation with a certain wry amusement.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘just follow me.’
She walked behind him slowly; they appeared to be in that part of the market that sold food. There were half a dozen cheese vendors; others selling bread and fruit, great sides of meat,
butchered that morning, and already attracting the large, dozy, heavy flies that had not yet died off in the autumn chill. To her surprise, after the initial shock she found herself adjusting to
her surroundings. She stopped at a pie vendor’s to gaze at the rich pastries with their gigantic crusts, then at a ladies’ stall that sold sticky cakes. How delicious everything
looked!
‘Can I tempt you with one, madam?’ The vendor, a lady of middle years with a wide handsome face, was looking at her.