'You don’t get many customers, do you?'
Sam’s expression darkened and Roskel worried that he had inadvertently hit a sore point.
'No. Superstitious lot. I’d tell you the story but then you’ll probably leave and spread the word.'
'I’ll do no such thing, Sam. If it sets your mind at ease, I was thinking of moving on today anyway.'
'The old mother says you’re to rest…'
'I know, but for reasons its best you don’t know I need to keep moving until I reach my destination. So you needn’t worry. Nothing you could say would affect my decision.'
Sam pursed his lips, then seemed to decide. 'Nothing much to it. A man died a while back in one of my rooms. Now the villagers seem to think the place cursed. Like I said, superstitious. The man was old and long overdue anyway. Nevermind. I manage without their custom.'
'Sounds like poor luck to me.'
'That’s the way I figure it, too. Still, the people will come back, I guess.'
Roskel thought about it for a while in silence, while the eggs cooked in fat before the fire. When the food was ready, Sam served them both and settled into the chair beside Roskel. Neither seemed willing to move away from the comforting warmth of the fire so they ate on their laps.
'I’ve an idea, if you’re willing to take a chance. I figure I owe you, and one more night won’t make much of a difference.'
'Speak your mind, then,' said the innkeeper.
'Before I say, how long does your old mother reckon before the first snow?'
'She says the end of the month this year.'
'And how long is that?'
'Another two weeks.'
'How far to the Cathedral at Kus?'
'Well, the plains is a three day ride, taking it easy.'
'And to Ulbridge?'
'From the Cathedral? Perhaps another three days.'
Roskel weighed it up in his mind. Six days altogether, if things went smoothly. If he beat the snows to Ulbridge he had a place he could winter there. Then with the first flush of spring, ride hard north along the plains road then onto the Great North Road once he’d reached the river Larna…
But there was a debt, here. Of that he had no doubt. He wouldn’t gain much by leaving today.
'What lies around here? Is there a place to stop on the way to the Cathedral?'
'There’s a town on the western road from here, Waybridge, and one on the border of the plains, Irris Downs, but…'
'Yes?'
'Well, if I were after a man, that’s where I’d wait. There’s plenty of tree cover, and fine places for a man to be unseen…but there is another road, more of a trail, that leads through the hills to the north, goes past Waybridge and leads out to the downs. There’s a friend of mine, Larny Cole, lives on a farm out by the end of the trail. Drives his cattle to a market town past this village toward the east…a man on a horse could cover it in say two days…It’d mean sleeping rough, though…but if a man wanted to make his way without fear of bandits and the like…'
Roskel laughed. 'It sounds like a fine road to me. I could do without a conversation with an impolite man on the road. Very well. It will save me a day, so I have a day to spare…here is my plan…'
*
Chapter Twenty-One
Roskel sat on a stool at the front of the common room, far from the fire as he didn’t need the heat. He was sweating already, although he only wore his trousers and a fine shirt that he had kept for this occasion should he need it. He hadn’t planned on using it except in an emergency, but the people wanted to see a showman. They expected some grandeur. His hair had been cleaned, he was freshly shaven apart from a moustache which he had begun growing. He felt it added a sense of the courtly about him. People wanted to see someone set apart…the moustache certainly did that. Beards were common…a moustache took care. It spoke of a man willing to spend time on his appearance and appearance was just as important as the words a bard spoke and sang.
There were better than thirty people all crowded into the common room. There were not enough chairs for everybody to sit, but the villagers didn’t seem to mind. Sam Durnborn was beaming behind his bar. People were drinking, and some were eating. A farmer’s daughter from the outskirts of the village was helping to serve stew, and although Sam didn’t have enough mugs and bowls people had been more than happy to bring their own.
Roskel took a few steadying breaths. People weren’t looking at him yet. As happy as he was for that to stay the same, he knew it was him they had come to see, and that he owed the innkeeper a debt of gratitude, and perhaps his good health. His breath was still raspy, but for that he was thankful. It was a good excuse not to sing.
There was no putting it off. There was a steady murmur in the inn, but his voice carried over it easily.
'Lords and Ladies of Winslow!' he spoke from his belly, as he had been taught. It was the same as singing, but a bard needed to send his voice with power and depth if he was to reach the back of any room, even one as small as this.
The babble quieted, and faces turned toward him. Silence fell and with it the roar of expectation in Roskel’s ears.
Gods, he hoped he didn’t pass out from fear. His legs were trembling, even though he sat.
'My thanks to Sam Durnborn for this evening…I have a tale to tell, of bravery, and fear…a tale for a dark autumn night to set you on your way…I fear I cannot sing tonight, for as you know I have been sick…'
And so, in booming tones, he began the tale of his journey, embellishing wildly as he had been taught. A story grew in the telling, and so did the stature of the protagonists.
It was all well and good sticking to the old tales, but Roskel felt something special was needed for this night. If all went well, Sam Durnborn would be a hero by the end of the night and Roskel would be over his fear.
'My sickness began on the road. I had been fleeing from a band of marauding giant men from the northlands, come down from as far as Thaxamalan’s Saw.'
People liked to hear tales of distant lands. They could imagine the unimaginable if it came from strange places. After all, who would believe of a giant in the south? The north was strange, Thaxamalan’s Saw a legend…
And so he spun his tale. His lute that he carried became a princess’ lute, magical in her hands. His adventures expanded until the town of Wraith’s Guard had tried to kill him and the pursuing giants both, but one giant had escaped the spirits wrath and hunted him across the lands. Roskel had lulled the giant to sleep by using the lute’s mystical powers, for if he played it in a certain way he could send anyone to sleep…but oh, he didn’t want to play that way tonight, for he did not want his crowd nodding off during his performance! And they laughed, and sat enthralled by the tales of his cunning and daring, his amazing escape from the clutches of the giants who wanted to steal the magical lute and the frightful, vengeful spirits of the mystical town of Wraith’s Guard, built on the ruins of an old ones’ castle that hid dormant in ground waiting for their rise…
The tale grew in the telling, until the giant’s sorcerer sent a curse after him, which Durnborn had saved him from with his cunning and his kindness. Sam Durnborn became his saviour, a man in on great secrets and Roskel’s great quest. The old mother was a wise woman who knew the cure to such a powerful curse.
Durnborn was left with a trust…only he knew the secret of the princess’ true location. That little fact ensured that people would ask Durnborn to tell them his secret for many weeks to come…and Durnborn would say that he couldn’t tell them…but instead of the object of a curse he would become a man of mystery, one that knew secrets untold and that had helped a hero upon the road.
Eventually, Roskel told them he had to leave in the morning, on his great quest once again. To come would be dragons and fell beasts from the earth and naiad from the rivers to entice him, but he would deliver the lute.
They were enthralled. The tale was just bold enough and outlandish enough that they didn’t believe it, but they suspended
their disbelief for he was a cunning liar, and left enough doubt that Sam and he could be heroes. They wanted to believe. Their lives were ordinary. Mystery was attractive and spellbinding.
'One day, I will reach the end of my quest, and this lute will reach its rightful owner. Come that day my lady will know that this man saved my life on the road. His song will be sung loud. And so ends my tale, believe it or not, though I swear that it is the truth…'
And they believed.
Applause rounded the commons until a young girl cried out, 'Minstrel, will you not set us on with a song?'
Roskel cursed under his breath, but forced a smile onto his face.
'I must not play this lute, but sing along if you will…the chorus is the same…'
And so he sung the tale of the Groat, a song of his own making, to the tune of the Whistler’s March.
And at the second rendition of the chorus, the people joined in with good cheer. 'And after me!'
'Woa! An old groat is a poor man’s filly,
For he knows it’s been down a lady’s frilly,
Woah! Even a poor man gloats,
For a filly’s hand’s a-been around his groat!'
When they eventually left, they were in good cheer and even the young ones were singing the Tale of the Groat. He’d started something he wasn’t sure the adults would be happy about, but then that was a bard’s duty as he saw it.
When the last of the crowd had left the commons, Sam came and shook Roskel’s hand.
'That went well! You certainly are better than you look!'
'Well, thank you, I think,' said Roskel with a laugh. 'They did seem to enjoy themselves, didn’t they?'
'I think you’ve started something there.'
'I hope so, you deserve a turn of good luck. I imagine they’ll be back now. People are apt to forget old news when they’ve something better to gossip about.'
'I hope you’re right, but if not I thank you still. I feel better than I have in ages. And I hope I’ll have a customer or two in nights to come to keep me company.'
'I’m sure you will,' said Roskel.
'It’s a shame you have to move on, you’d be a fine draw.'
'That’s the trouble with bards, their stories get old quick. That’s why they travel. To find new tales, and to give people the chance to mull over what they’ve been told.'
'I can see a bard has considerable power to change things. The way you turned that around…well, that’s almost divine.'
Roskel laughed and shook his head. 'I don’t know about divine, but it was certainly fun.'
'Will you join me for an ale or two before you head to bed?'
'I think I will,' said the thief, and let Sam pour him a mug. The two men sat in their comfortable chairs before the fire, and talked late into the night.
Roskel was pleased to see the man in fine cheer.
The moons were high when he went to bed to get some rest. He felt refreshed and in good cheer himself, ready to face the road and what that might bring.
Once more he was looking forward to adventure with optimism and a sense of freedom.
*
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dawn broke with a glorious rose light, blushing fire filling the sky. The day was full of birdsong, those that hadn’t already fled for the summer. It was autumn’s last fling, before the land slumbered once more for the long, hard winter. A fresh breeze from the east carried with it a hint of the sea. Roskel took a deep breath and revelled in the easy way his lungs sang with the crisp air. No longer did breathing feel like drowning. He had much to give thanks for, to the man that stood watching him with a wry smile on his face, and the old widow both. He had tried to find the old widow but she was not at home and he could wait no longer. He had left a note for her. He had wanted to do more, but Sam forbade him leaving money. He said the debt was his; business between the two of them that had nothing to do with the thief.
But he had a debt to pay the innkeeper. He had left silver for the extra day. The man stubbornly refused to take more, so Roskel left gold in his room under the bed while he wasn’t looking. It was worth it, just for the fun of sneaking once again. It was a kind of reverse burglary, but the fun was always in going undetected, especially now that he had no need of extra funds - being the Steward of Sturma paid plenty.
Minstrel snickered impatiently and he quieted the mare with a soft, gloved hand on her nose.
'So, my friend,' he said to the innkeeper. 'I have had more adventures than I had bargained for already. Here’s hoping the rest of my journey is entirely boring and uneventful. I’m not used to the excitement anymore.'
'Somehow I don’t believe you. You have the look of a man who’s been through a few scrapes in his time.'
'More than enough to last me, I think.' Roskel stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 'If they come looking for me again…'
'I know what to tell them. Now, I think it's time to get you gone. Thank you, bard. It has been a pleasure to know you.'
'And my thanks to you, Sam. The pleasure is all mine.'
He mounted with a confident leap. Minstrel responded by pawing at the ground like a bull about to charge. 'Easy, Minstrel. When I’m ready.'
'An apt name for the horse,' noted the innkeeper.
'Alas, I didn’t name her. But she’s trusty and stout. As fine a mount as I’ve ever had.'
'May she see you to journey’s end,' said the innkeeper, using an old timer’s blessing that Roskel hadn’t heard in an age. It made him smile and remember the old master thief that had taught him the way of locks. He had said the same thing when they had parted about an old lockpick that had been lost years ago. But the lockpick had seen him through a few larks and served him well. So, too, had the mare.
'A good blessing. And time, I think, for me to go.'
'Then hie on. I can’t stand around all morning. I’ve got an inn to keep.'
Roskel laughed. 'So you have.'
Without further word he heeled the mare forward and set off toward the back road and, beyond that, to the Cathedral on the Plain.
*
Part III.
Skald
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Thane of Kar’s huntsman was the closest thing to a tracker that Wense had at his disposal. The man wasn’t particularly astute, but he was dogged. Sheer persistence and a little deduction had seen him to the village of Winslow, but he hadn’t planned on the thief actually stopping for a few days. It didn’t make sense and he was not good at adapting on the sudden. The move had thrown him and he’d been forced to ask about the thief to see what he was doing.
But the old innkeeper had been tight lipped and belligerent. He was none the wiser as to when the Steward would be leaving again on his unknown quest. But he had his orders, to follow him and find out where he was going. There was only one road south from the village and the man had headed unerringly south, apart from one time he had somehow cut across ten miles of wildlands and marshes to leave the Great South Road to find the Old South Road. That had taken the huntsman a good deal of time to figure out. He’d lost two day on that ruse and wished there would be an accounting between him and the Lord Protector.
Still, his orders were clear, follow the man but don’t make contact. He’d already fouled that up; for as sure as rain followed thunder Farinder would know someone followed him from the innkeeper. The landlord of the Year’s End was a wily old character and extremely un-bloody-helpful.
Easy business, this, though, he thought as he waited off the road. He didn’t even have to watch the road, not really. All he had to do was sit quietly and wait for the sound of hooves.
He’d been waiting in a small stand of trees, hidden from the road, for three days now. Each night he snuck into the village and checked for the Lord Protector’s horse. Last night had been different – there had been song and lots of people around, so he had only just got away without being spotted, then headed back to his hide to wait. The day passed and still no sign of the thief. If h
e didn’t know better he’d think the thief was waiting him out.
Well, he could be patient, too.
That day passed with still no travellers, and he began to get suspicious.
So, unsure as to what to do, he headed back to the village that night.
The village was quiet, apart from the inn, where there were sounds of people about the business of drinking, but the stable was empty. He thought about going in and demanding to know where the thief had gone, but he didn’t want to get into a fight with the villagers. Villagers could be a tricky lot. They were renowned for sticking together and he wouldn’t stand a chance. He carried a sword and a bow, but a man alone was no match for ten, and he was no great fighter.
Blast it. Sneaky bastard, he thought to himself, and headed out of the village to the nearby woods to wait for morning. There was no point in looking for tracks in the dark.
The Thane of Kar's huntsman was the closest thing to a tracker Wense had, and he wasn't very good. He would be waiting a long time for Roskel Farinder, because Roskel was on a different path altogether.
*
Chapter Twenty-Four
Roskel camped alone, once more. He was getting used to it. He made a fire, as Tarn had taught him so long ago, and basked in its glow, toasting his socked feet before the flames in the chill night air.
Someone could be following him, but he was confident that none could know about this old trail. He was safe from man, and the fire would keep the worst of the night prowlers at bay. It wouldn’t keep a determined predator from him, but Sam had assured him that there were no bears this far from the Fresh Woods. It was troubling that the creatures of the forest had risen against man, but he knew the people of Haven were a sturdy sort and had lived through trials worse than whatever plagued them at present. But he could only do so much at once. Perhaps he could pass a message to a Thieves' Covenant contact once he reached Ulbridge, to have some soldiers sent to defend the village, but that was a concern for another day. There was no sense in worrying about something he could not change.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 8
