The Wanderer's Tale (17 page)

An impromptu stage made of two carts had been erected by the water troughs that stood in the centre of this junction. Hanging above it was a silken banner of bilious purple and gold. Embroidered upon it were the words: ‘Levansy Theatre Co. presents: The Amazing Paulus Fatuus and his Twisted Imps!’

On stage stood a man dressed in a huge, dirty brown, multi-pocketed coat that hung loosely over his naked, heavily tattooed torso. He had skin-tight leggings with bright orange, white and green stripes, and was wearing a hat that looked like an upturned barley-riddle. His face was daubed thickly with a virulent ink-blue greasepaint intended to give him the appearance of some kind of demon, while he appeared to be performing in quick succession just about every type of act that a minstrel could fall back on, and more besides.

Meanwhile, a forlorn Boggart was perched atop the tallest water pump (chained to it, of course), playing a three-stringed komuz with more skill than would seem possible for one of his species. And all the while amongst the crowd an indeterminate number of Haugers of indeterminate gender kept howling and beating upon crude but brightly ribboned tymbals, whipping the onlookers into a paroxysm of drunken but for the most part good-natured revelry.

The pair of tumbrels ploughed their way straight into the crowd, whereupon their four occupants leapt out, looking around them. Immediately a small group of children gathered around their knees with palms upturned. Bolldhe’s face turned sour, and he shooed them away with a few copper zlats pressed into their grubby mitts; the other three looked disapprovingly at him, smiled merrily at the children, but just shooed them away.

Brass beakers of sticky mint tea were purchased from sallow-faced vendors with long black moustaches, stools were hastily assembled, and soon Nibulus and his three companions were seated in respectfully comfortable isolation to watch the entertainment.

The blue-faced minstrel capered around the stage like a lunatic, singing, cavorting and puppeteering in between, playing an assortment of bizarre musical instruments, and telling jokes that few there could understand (not because of the man’s thick, foreign accent but because it was a type of humour that appeared to say one thing but at the same time mean something completely different, a refinement that was met with the same kind of easy-going bewilderment that the rest of his act induced in the simple folk of Nordwas).

The minstrel then, for some inexplicable reason, turned around, swept up his coat, tore down his breeches, and flatulated a passable rendition of the Wintus war anthem. The crowd roared with laughter, while those nearest Nibulus and his crew nonchalantly edged away.

Methuselech and Bolldhe glanced at the Peladane. To their relief, his fixed smile eventually softened, and he shrugged. ‘Sounds better than the troubadours, anyway.’

The wandering minstrels – crude, provocative and about as foreign as you could get – were despised by lords and gentry, but better received by the commoners. They had no bonds or loyalties to any but themselves, and roamed the land freely, entertaining any who would listen, for whatever coppers they could cajole.

‘Bolldhe, my man,’ said Nibulus, suddenly turning to him, ‘Appa tells me you’re really a Peladane.’

‘Was a long time ago,’ Bolldhe corrected him.

‘Still are, then,’ Nibulus insisted with a dismissive smile. ‘So you’re familiar with the
Chronicle of Gwyllch
, I take it.’

‘I heard mention of it,’ Bolldhe replied, staring distractedly at an acrobat performing right in front of him, who seemed to have twisted either her head or her feet completely back to front. Either way, he could not decide which way round she was.

‘You’ll have the chance to catch up on it during our journey,’ Nibulus continued, ‘since I’ll be bringing it along with us. Apart from being the most stirring story in history, it’s the only real guide we have in written form to this journey we’re undertaking. Old Gwyllch was a cultured man as well as a soldier, and he kept a detailed journal of his march northwards with the Nordwas contingent, to meet up with Lord Bloodnose’s fleet. Since those days hardly anyone has needed to consult it, but I tell you, Bolldhe, it must be fate that prompted him to write down his experiences. We’d be so much the worse off otherwise.’

Bolldhe was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Your book is the only guide we take?’ he repeated. ‘No actual
people
what know the land? Just a diary writ half a cen-, millenni-, five hundred years ago?’

‘Not
just
a diary.
The Chronicle of Gwyllch
!’ Nibulus huffed.

Bolldhe stared at him in disbelief, but Nibulus was no longer even aware of him; his attention was fixed upon the acrobat, who was now brazenly peeling off her clothing.

Bolldhe did not press the matter, preferring, as did most of the crowd, to look away from the whole disturbing spectacle. The Warlord’s son, however, seemed totally engrossed; not by the woman’s nakedness – she had a face like a sea-lion, and a body to match – but at the sheer impudence of the way she was staring at him with not the slightest hint of subservience, or even deference. He was not used to this at all, and felt a little unnerved.

Just then, Methuselech drew their attention to Paulus. The Nahovian was standing just twenty or so paces away, glaring at all around him with a look of open hostility on his face, while his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

‘Why doesn’t he come over and join us?’ asked Methuselech, clearly puzzled.

‘Does he look like the sort of man who wants company?’ Wodeman commented, looking at the man appraisingly as he glared at the female acrobat, who was now writhing in front of him.

‘Then why doesn’t he just sod off?’ snapped Nibulus, clearly having had enough of his raucous surroundings by now. ‘If he hates company so much, why come to a place like this?’

‘I can see we’re going to have to watch that one.’ Methuselech frowned. ‘Maybe we should get him a job with the Levansy Theatre Company instead. He’d be more at home with this freak show . . .’

‘People certainly do seem to stare at him,’ Bolldhe noted, not without a small measure of sympathy.

‘He’s even got the same name as the minstrel.’ Nibulus laughed.

‘Your mercenary’s called Paulus Fatuus too?’ Bolldhe asked doubtfully.

‘Just Paulus.’

At precisely that moment, as if on cue, the blue-faced minstrel plunged his rear end into the water-trough, and the whole surface began to seethe like a bubbling cauldron. The audience gasped with admiration, then roared their approval.

‘Paulus Flatulus, more like,’ joked Nibulus.

It was destiny, of course; a new name had been created. The grim but proud mercenary from the forests of Vregh-Nahov, he who had fought lethally alongside the Peladanes and proved his excellence at arms, would now and forever after be thought of as Paulus Flatulus.

Well, anything was better than Odf Uglekort.

At last the long-awaited day of departure dawned.

A pale, bleary sun crawled out of the ground-hugging mists in the East, its paltry rays barely warming the chill of a crisp, dewy dawn. The birds were in full song, almost drowning out the other sounds of morning that were gradually growing in volume: the irritable clattering of shutters, the occasional slam of a door, and the hacking cough of some old man as he walked up a lane in the distance.

Through squinting eyes Gapp peered out of the single window in the loft room. People were rising, the day was beginning, and it felt good to be alive. He breathed in deeply to clear his sleepy head. The air smelt good, so fresh and vibrant with the fragrances of early morning – sweet, bedewed grass, newly baked bread and freshly passed pig-dung – providing heaven-sent relief from the stuffy fetor of the loft’s confines. In a sudden twitch of exuberance, Gapp leapt over the huddled forms of his recumbent brothers to reach where his clothes lay, and quickly got dressed.

While he fumbled with his clothing, his heart pounded with excitement. He could barely control his fingers as he laced up his heavy, green shirt, pulled on his tan trousers and thrust his feet into the soft grey leather boots his mother had bought him specially the previous day.

I can’t wait! I can’t wait! I can’t wait!
he buzzed to himself, his whole body tingling with agitation.

‘I’ll show you . . .’ came a voice from behind him.

Gapp froze. It sounded like his brother Ottar, the eldest of seven boys in his family.

‘Get it away from me . . .’ the voice murmured again, this time quieter but loaded with venom. Yes, definitely Ottar.

Gapp turned, and stared across the line of blanketed brotherhood that lined one side of the loft. He located the hulking mound wherein lay – somewhere – the source of that disturbing voice.

Sleeptalking!
Gapp breathed in relief, and, in absolute silence now, picked up his little white belt, lowered himself through the trapdoor, and slunk away from the stuffy dormitory to the lower storey.

When he had safely reached the stone floor of the cottage he hurriedly donned his belt, making sure all its accessories were secured: his simple sling and its missiles, four little throwing knives, the small leather pouch that contained his boxwood reedpipes and, most importantly, the scabbard which held his hand weapon – a shortsword with the badge of the Wintus clan embossed in the centre of its hilt. Then, pausing only long enough to take one last look at the bittersweet familiarity of the hovel that had been his home for the past fifteen years, Gapp slipped outside.

He lowered the latch noiselessly behind him, then sprinted away.

Done it!
he screamed within his soul as he tore off down the lane towards Wintus Hall and, with an uncaring hardness that can only be excused by youthfulness, did not care if he ever saw that house or its occupants again.

Being the youngest of seven brothers had never been easy. All his life he had lived as the underdog within those walls, derided by his merciless brothers and virtually ignored by his parents. His folks did the best they could, of course, their hide being only just big enough to raise the food necessary to support a family of nine. But having no prospect of earning the dowry that a daughter would have secured them was ever a disappointment to his parents, and as the youngest and last attempt, Gapp was somehow the most resented for this.

‘Ash-boy’, they called him, and had given him the most menial of tasks. So it had been the greatest relief to Gapp when he had finally caught the eye of a noble Peladane in need of a squire, none other than Master Nibulus Wintus himself.

Not that this had gained him any more respect from his family, of course. To his parents he was still, and forever would be, a silly little boy, and to his brothers a complete prat.

‘You’ll see,’ he had muttered defiantly against their indifference to his new status, and now he had informed them he was being taken along on the ‘Finwald Quest’. ‘You’ll see.’

But they didn’t. So now he left without even a goodbye from them.

Gapp was the first to arrive at their rendezvous in the stables of Wintus Hall, while the others of the company were still being levered from their beds by big-fingered servants. The farewell banquet, to which everyone save Gapp had been invited, had been so lavish that it would be weeks before they would get all the gravy off the ceiling. He therefore set to, helping the stable-boys ready the horses. He started with his own pony, Bogey, then proceeded to his master’s magnificent warhorse, Hammerhoof.

There was a lot of work to be done before their departure, and the stables were soon a wasps’ nest of activity. Gapp had soon worked up a good sweat, so when a large platter of bread and goat’s cheese was brought to him he enthusiastically dug in, grateful for the chance to sit down.

It was only while he was munching away that he noticed for the first time the odd looks the other servants were giving him. Normally he was treated as just another employee. But on this particular morning he began to feel their eyes lingering on him. Such attention was a new experience for him, and he risked returning their glances. There was an odd mixture of pity, jealousy and even goodwill in their eyes.

A few of his friends presently wandered in and sat themselves down next to him. They too seemed unsure how to behave on this unprecedented occasion. Every apprentice in town had been allowed the morning off work to watch the grand departure, with the joyous prospect of getting in at least two hours of hard-core stone-skimming before they must return to their labours. But eventually, finding nothing further to say, after a brief mumbling of farewells they sloped off.

The bread and cheese suddenly tasted dry and hard in his mouth, and it was as much as he could do to force it down past the sudden lump in his throat. Up until now, he had only felt excitement at this, his first adventure, his first time out in the real world. But now, having said his last goodbyes, a sudden crushing sadness sprang up from nowhere and settled in the pit of his stomach.

Aware of a moistness around his eyes, he breathed in deeply, straightened himself up and tried to smile.

Stupid
, he cursed himself, and got straight back to work, the last crusts of his breakfast forgotten.

Meanwhile, Appa trudged up the country lane, leading his cow Marla over to Tommas’s father’s place. In his right hand he gripped her halter, in his left a sprig – no, more like a bouquet – of her favourite herb-grass,
Weba
. In his eyes he held back – but only just – a well of tears.

His sheep he could bear to part with easily, but Marla . . . She seemed to sense that they would never be seeing each other again.

Ah
, bitter was their parting . . .

And finally, after two agonizingly slow hours of waiting around, did the party finally set out for Vaagenfjord Maw. A single bugle sounded a shrill fanfare to alert all who might be standing along their route leading through the streets of Nordwas, and to cue the commencement of the Quest.

With a mighty bellow from Nibulus’s throat, the fully armoured Peladane waved one gauntleted fist in the air for all to see, then brought it down as though signalling the start of a race. For him it might as well have been, as he spurred his huge warhorse forward in a headlong gallop that scattered the suddenly panicked but nevertheless grateful crowd like rats in a barrel.