The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  Bransen shook his head. None of it made any sense to him. Garibond couldn’t be dead. What had Brother Reandu said? That he had moved south…But Bransen remembered, too, that Brother Reandu would not meet his eyes. And Bransen thought of his last visit to the houses on the lake, of the strangers he had seen there, fishing and going about their business as if that was their home.

  A fit of trembling began at the base of Bransen’s spine and worked its way steadily up. Garibond dead? The thought hammered at him, for never had he even considered such a thing. Garibond was the foundation of all his life; and for ten years, Bransen had held fast the fantasy of going back to him, of showing him that his son was all right, after all.

  “What more do you know?” he demanded of the group.

  “I know that ye’re holding me knife.”

  “Garibond’s knife,” Bransen corrected with a growl that told them the issue was not up for debate. But he noted the expressions coming at him from all the men, and most of those looks registered disappointment. They had invited him in to dine with them, though they rarely had enough to eat, he knew. They had offered to join with him.

  They thought him a hero of the common folk.

  Bransen tossed the knife down before the man. “Garibond is not dead,” he said. “And when I find him, I ask that you return his knife.”

  “Bah, it’s me own now,” the man said defiantly, and he scooped up the blade. “Had it for ten years!”

  The words nearly floored Bransen, and he staggered back as if struck, then turned on his heel and rushed out of the trees and across the field, running fast for Chapel Pryd, running away from the horrible thoughts that were dancing in his mind.

  But they followed him, every step.

  33

  A Woman and Her Jewels

  Bannagran walked through the streets of Pryd Town muttering to himself, remembering his last conversation with Laird Prydae. He had not often seen his friend so animated and agitated. The continuing war threat to Pryd Holding had the laird on the edge, and this Highwayman character was threatening to push him right over. Every day at breakfast, Prydae spoke of nothing else, feverishly working with Bannagran and Rennarq to try to find some clues as to how they might apprehend the rogue. Every day, they related the same stories over and over again. Prydae had even bade Rennarq to ask Bernivvigar for help, something the secular ruler had always been loath to do.

  Bannagran tried a rational approach now, focusing on the patterns of the attacks, from the first sighting of the Highwayman to the last. His thoughts and instincts kept going back to the first incident, the only one in which anyone had been seriously hurt, other than one of Yeslnik’s drivers in the powrie attack. As chance would have it, with those very thoughts in mind, he spotted Rulhio Noylan—who had been among the five that the Highwayman had defeated—walking along the road by the market square.

  The large warrior moved to intercept, and Rulhio saw him coming and abruptly turned.

  “I would speak with you, young Noylan,” Bannagran said, moving fast to catch up.

  Rulhio’s expression showed great fear when he glanced back at Bannagran, but no more so than Bannagran was used to seeing on the faces of young men, for usually when he spoke to them, it meant a trip to the south and the battle lines! Still, the young man did skid to an abrupt stop and stood waiting for the imposing warrior.

  “You were there that night when Tarkus Breen was murdered?” Bannagran asked.

  Rulhio swallowed hard and managed a slight nod.

  “I wish to hear the tale.”

  “I told it in full,” Rulhio replied shakily. “We all did.”

  Bannagran sensed suddenly that the man was a bit too defensive, and his instincts told him that there might be more to this than had previously been explained. Knowing aggression to be the arbiter of truth, the imposing warrior grabbed poor Rulhio by the front of his tunic. “And you will tell me again,” he too-calmly explained, and he half carried, half dragged the terrified man off the main road, down a side alley where fewer witnesses could be found.

  So the cringing Rulhio recounted the tale of that fateful night, a story that seemed strained now to Bannagran and not completely in line with what he had heard those weeks before. Bannagran purposely doubted every word, and searched for weaknesses in the logical chain of events.

  “You and your friends were drunk?”

  “Aye, he could not have defeated us if we were not,” the terrified young man replied.

  “And this happened out on the west road, out by Gorham’s Hill?”

  “Aye, as we told you. Way out there.”

  “Where did you come by the drink?”

  “Inkerby’s,” Rulhio replied, naming a well-known tavern in Pryd Town, under the shadow of the castle and often frequented by soldiers.

  Bannagran tried to hide his smile as he caught on. Why would five drunken men—troublemakers all, he knew—wander from Inkerby’s, which was frequented by many of the local whores, all the way out to the western edge of Pryd Town. To his knowledge, none of the five in question lived out that way.

  “Gorham’s Hill is a long walk from town,” he remarked, and he saw the sudden flash of panic in Rulhio’s eyes.

  “Well, we were drinking and needed to walk it off a bit. Me ma’s not in favor of me—”

  “You are often drunk,” Bannagran interrupted. “And your mother knows as much.”

  “Just walking, is all.”

  “To Gorham’s Hill? From Inkerby’s?”

  “Aye.”

  Bannagran went with his instincts. He came forward suddenly and brutally, grabbing poor, frightened Rulhio and lifting him off the ground. Two strides put them across the alley, where Bannagran slammed Rulhio up against the wall and held him in place, his feet a foot and more off the ground.

  “W-what are…?” Rulhio stuttered. “Why are—?”

  “You tell me why you were out by Gorham’s Hill.”

  “I just—” Rulhio started to reply. Bannagran brought him out and slammed him against the wall again, and Rulhio cried out.

  “Hey there!” someone shouted in protest from the entrance of the alleyway, but when the newcomer saw who was down there—the legendary Bannagran—he ran off.

  “My polite questioning fast approaches its end,” Bannagran warned, and he pulled poor Rulhio out from the wall again, as if to slam him.

  “Was the wench Cadayle!” Rulhio cried, and Bannagran froze, holding him aloft with ease.

  “Cadayle?”

  “She lives out there. Nothing but trouble for all of us. Teasing all the town men with her charms and protecting that ugly Stork beast who hides in the chapel.”

  Bannagran put him down, and Rulhio slumped back against the wall, which seemed the only thing holding him up at the moment.

  “What are you blabbering about, man?” Bannagran demanded.

  “We just wanted to teach her some respect.”

  “Who? Cadayle?”

  “Aye, the wench.”

  “I know not of her.”

  “She’s living out by Gorham’s Hill with her ma,” Rulhio explained. “Was Tarkus Breen’s idea to pay them a visit. She fought him, here in town, defending that ugly little Stork.”

  “And so you went out there to teach her a lesson.”

  “Someone had to!”

  Bannagran didn’t argue the point with the fool. “And did you? Teach her, I mean?”

  “We was going to.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Aye, we knew where she lived, her and her ma. We had her ready to learn, but then the—the Highwayman, he showed up, and…”

  Bannagran pulled the man out from the wall. “He showed up and defended the women?”

  “Weren’t any of his business.”

  “And he beat you up and your brother?”

  “Aye, and he murdered Tarkus!”

  Bannagran nodded and roughly pushed Rulhio toward the alley’s exit. “Show me this house by Gorham’s Hill,” he
ordered. “I would like to see this woman, Cadayle.”

  Rulhio started to protest, but Bannagran shoved him again, hard enough to send him sprawling, and he got the message that this was not the time to argue.

  Later that day, after sighting the house and Cadayle, Bannagran went back to Castle Pryd and alerted his spies. He thought to go to Laird Prydae with his hunch but changed his mind. Perhaps Rulhio’s admission was important. Perhaps not.

  Guldibonne Cob rested back against the trunk of a tree, relaxed and quite pleased with himself. For months the slender soldier had worked hard to get in Bannagran’s favor, and now his efforts at last seemed to be paying dividends. All those who had fought in the ranks beside Guldibonne were back in the south, warring with the savages from Ethelbert.

  But not Guldibonne. Bannagran hadn’t sent him back, for he had given Bannagran reason to keep him around. Any errand, asked or unasked, the man had jumped to complete. He had scouted out the most tempting ladies in all the taverns of Pryd Holding, and even beyond Pryd Holding, and had brought them to his commander. It was all in the details, Guldibonne knew, and his attention to those little things had landed him this wonderful duty, watching the house of a pair of pretty women, mother and daughter, while his former comrades were off again at war.

  He had gotten to know the lay of the land about Gorham’s Hill very well during that first day and had found what he considered to be the perfect observation post, tucked in the boughs of a thick evergreen, with a view of the house, the lane before it, and the rocky field running wide behind. So comfortable was he that he even dared to take a bit of a nap that afternoon while the women were out tending their garden.

  Guldibonne awoke soon after sunset, when the lights of candles and fires were just beginning to glow through the small windows and cracks in the wooden doors of the nearby cottages. The spy waited a bit, then carefully looked all about before heading to the window in Cadayle’s house. He crept up right below the sill and slowly lifted his head to peek in.

  The younger woman was there before him, partially dressed and unknowingly showing him much of her curving charms. But Guldibonne, as much of a lech as he was known to be, found his eyes drawn away from Cadayle’s breasts, and up to her neck, where she was placing one of the most magnificent jeweled necklaces he had ever seen.

  No peasant could possess even a single one of those glittering stones!

  Trembling, Guldibonne finally managed to tear himself away from the amazing sight, and he lowered himself to the ground and slunk away. He hit the road and began walking, even started quietly whistling, in an attempt to appear casual and draw no attention. But this was too much to suppress—wouldn’t Bannagran reward him magnificently for this information!

  The man began to run full out, all the way to Castle Pryd.

  34

  Behind Two Doors

  So consumed was Bransen by the discovery of Garibond’s knife that he did not go to visit Cadayle the next night. Of course he wanted to see her—he always wanted to be by Cadayle’s side—but he knew deep in his heart that something simply wasn’t right. Garibond would never have willingly parted with that blade, Bransen knew, for the knife was more than a utensil to him. It was a piece of Garibond’s identity, a tool he had clearly valued because of how well it served him throughout his daily routine. He used it for cutting line and skinning fish, for taking small branches for firewood, and for eating his meals. He always carried it. Always.

  Yet the man at the campfire claimed that he had possessed it for ten years. Doubts clouded Bransen’s thoughts. Was it really Garibond’s knife? Or was it, perhaps, that his own memory was not quite as reliable as he believed? He had seen Garibond’s knife every day, practically, in the decade he had lived with him. But it was, after all, just a knife, of a simple and common design. And that was, after all, a decade ago, when Bransen was a child.

  But why, then, Bransen wondered as he watched from the shadows of some trees, were these strangers living in the two houses of Garibond Womak? He could see them in the firelight behind the small windows of the lower cottage, milling about and making themselves perfectly at home. But how could they be at home in there? And where was Garibond?

  He would find out, he decided. He would walk up and demand an explanation. But in what guise? As the Stork? The Highwayman?

  He sat and he waited, so many questions spinning about in his thoughts. He watched as the scattered houses all around the area went dark, one by one, and as the upper house on the island similarly dimmed. All the forms moving in the lower house were adults, he could see, the two couples—two generations of a family, he believed. Gradually, the candles burned down and the windows darkened and the fire died out.

  But even after the house was dark and quiet, Bransen sat there. He clenched his fists repeatedly at his side; he squinted against the stinging possibilities. He kept hoping that Garibond would walk up to the house, but he knew deep in the truthful recesses of his heart that it would not be.

  The night deepened around him. No use in going to Cadayle now, he knew, for she was likely fast asleep. Almost all the town was fast asleep.

  He watched the moon—the goddess Sheila to the Samhaists—pass her apex above him and wind down to the western horizon. And still he sat there, paralyzed by a fear more profound than any he had ever known, more so even than on that night he had first watched Tarkus Breen and his cohorts at Cadayle’s.

  “I must,” he whispered to the night wind, and he pulled himself to his feet. “I must,” he repeated, more loudly and assuredly, when he realized that his feet were not moving.

  He thought of Garibond, recalling images of him as clearly as if he were seeing them all over again: at the lake; showing off a large catch; flashing one of his rare smiles; tousling Bransen’s hair; splitting firewood; or just sitting calmly at the window, watching the world flow past.

  Bolstered by the memories, the young man began to move, forcing one foot in front of the other. He owed this to Garibond, he reminded himself. He had to find out what was going on and where his father had gone. Outwardly, he just kept repeating, “I must.”

  Then he was at the door, and never had he seen a more solid barrier. He lifted his fist to knock, but lowered it, and then repeated the movement several times.

  And then he began banging on the door, softly at first, but growing in intensity with each frustrated rap. “Answer me!” he called, and his fist slammed hard against the wood.

  After several minutes, he had made up his mind to kick the door down, but just then he saw a light come up inside, and a form appeared at the window.

  “Open the door,” he demanded. “I must speak with you.”

  “ ’Ere, who are you, then?” asked an older man.

  Bransen slammed the door hard. “Open the door or I shall knock it down.”

  “ ’Ere now, you be gone, knave!” the man at the window cried.

  In response, Bransen leaped over, flashed out his sword, and put its tip near the man’s face. “Knave it is,” he said. “And growing angrier by the moment. Open the door, I ask and demand.”

  “You be gone!” the man shouted, and behind him, Bransen heard a woman cry, “The Highwayman!”

  “We’ve got no coin for you to take,” the man said, backing safely out of the sword’s reach and sounding less sure of himself.

  “I want not your coin,” Bransen replied, and he lowered his sword. “Answers I need, and nothing more.” He forced all sounds of fury and impatience out of his voice and calmly added, “My apologies, good sir. But please, it is important.”

  “If talk is all you need, then do it out there,” said the obviously terrified man.

  “How did you come by these houses?” Bransen asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We been here near to ten years now,” the woman added. Bransen heard other voices from inside, off to the side and out of sight.

  “How did you come by these houses?”

  “Why is that your co
ncern? You’re not to take them from us!” the man answered.

  “I’ve no need of any such thing. But I once knew a man who lived here on this lake. He was a friend, and I wish to know why I find you here now, where he should be.”

  There was some murmuring from within, a whispered conversation that Bransen could not follow.

  “His name was Garibond,” Bransen said, daring to utter it, though he was concerned about making any connection between Garibond and the Highwayman. But his mounting desperation would not allow for caution at that time. “Garibond Womak. A good and fine man.”

  More whispering ensued, and then, to Bransen’s surprise, the door opened a crack. He moved over to see the two couples standing there in the light of a pair of candles, with the older pair just inside the door and the younger in the shadows behind them. None of the four seemed pleased at that moment.

  “Ye knowed Garibond, did ye?” asked the younger woman, a short, plump, and dirty thing with a pug nose and dark rings under her sullen eyes.

  “Aye, a good and fine man,” said the man standing beside her, his arm draped across her shoulders. “From what I knew of him, I mean, and that weren’t much.”

  “He had that damaged boy,” said the older woman. “The one the monks took in when…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

  “This was his house,” Bransen blurted, growing nervous.

  “For all his days,” replied the older man who had addressed Bransen through the window.

  Bransen started to nod, and then the words hit him hard as he came to understand their clear implication.

  “ ’Twas Taerel, me da there, that buried him them ten years ago,” said the younger woman, and she indicated the previous speaker.

  “You must be mistaken,” Bransen managed to say, trying hard to keep his jaw from quivering. “Ten years, you say?”

  “Aye, was ten years,” said Taerel.

  “Garibond was dead when the monks came and took this…this damaged boy?” Bransen asked, trying desperately to destroy the logic of their claim.