At last there was only one person ahead of him, a portly man in a dull green tunic heavy with white and yellow ribbon trim. When he began protesting that he wanted a different spot, Raven sighed and let his thoughts wander once more.
Then the mention of his aunt’s name cut through the mental debate of which food tent he’d passed had the most appetizing aromas wafting from it. At once Raven’s attention was riveted on the conversation ahead of him.
“Well, then—if you won’t give me Darsi Coper’s place, what about Yarrow Whitethorndaughter’s? You know as well as I do that she’s never this late, she must have changed her mind about—”
Raven interrupted in alarm. “Yarrow’s coming. She’s just been delayed.”
The man turned and glared at him. “And who are you?”
“Raven Redhawkson. Yarrow is my aunt.” To the clerk, Elamry, he said in some alarm, “Truly, she’s on her way.”
As the man snorted “I don’t believe—” the clerk held out her hand.
“Your proof, young sir,” she said.
Raven fumbled his belt pouch open and tugged out the hide tube that held Yarrow’s letter. He gave it to Elamry.
The clerk studied the wax seal on the ties over the end cap for a moment, then nodded. “That certainly looks like Yarrow’s seal. I recognize that little chip in the rim,” she said. “Let us just make certain.…”
She broke the seal at one end and pulled out the letter. “Mmmm, hrmmm, hrmmm,” she hummed as she read it. “Oh, yes—this is from Yarrow. Ah! This young man, you might like to know, Master Rupern, is her partner and named in this letter as one who may speak for her. Now let us see what else…”
She read on. “I’m sorry, Master Rupern, but Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is indeed on her way. You may not have her place on the horse lines.”
Raven thought he detected a note of satisfaction in the words. Master Rupern shot Raven a look of pure venom and stalked from the tent.
When he was gone, Elamry said cheerfully, “He’s been trying to oust Yarrow from that spot for years—it’s much better than his.”
“So are her horses,” muttered the assistant with a snicker.
“Jaster!” Elamry said sternly.
“Sorry, Mistress Elamry,” the young man. “I know, I know—it’s not my place—”
“To comment about any trader’s horses … while on duty.” She hrmmmed once more, then said to Raven, “Very well, then, young master, you just need to pay the fee and I’ll have the men set up your aunt’s tents on her site.”
Once more Raven dug into his belt pouch. He pulled out five silver pennies. “Here you go,” he said as he dropped them into Elamry’s waiting hand. “Three for grain and hay and firewood and two for the camp, is that right?”
She nodded as she scribbled something on a quarter sheet of parchment, then handed it to him. “Show this to anyone wearing a blue-and-orange baldric—they’ll show you where to go if you’re not familiar with the fair. Is there aught else, young sir, that we might help you with?”
“Aunt Yarrow said she’d pay for next year’s storing of the tents at the end of the fair. We’re to get one for me while we’re here.”
“Which will change the fee for that,” the clerk said as she made a note in her book. “That’s done, then.” She looked shrewdly at him. “This is your first time here at Balyaranna, isn’t it, young sir? I suggest that you visit the camps on either side of yours. It will be impossible for you to guard your camp by yourself until your aunt gets here, and I know that Skorrie Dunreid at least owes Yarrow a favor or two. He’s the one selling the Mountain Lilies.”
She was referring, Raven knew, not to flowers, but to a breed of highly prized palfreys from Kelneth known for their creamy white coats and wheat-gold manes, intelligence, and sweet tempers as well as to being uncannily surefooted. Yarrow was doing well to be in such company; but then, when the first of their Llysanyin half-breeds came to market, Skorrie Dunreid would count himself lucky to be their neighbor on the horse lines.
Elamry went on, “Ask them to lend you someone to keep an eye on things when you’re not there. It doesn’t happen often, thank the gods, because the penalties are so severe, but some fool may think your hay and grain stores to be easy pickings because no one’s at the camp.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” Raven said gratefully. He’d been wondering how to deal with that problem. Sitting in camp all day and night until his aunt came didn’t appeal to him. And once he’d finished his travel rations, how would he eat if he couldn’t leave? “I’ll do that.”
“Then allow me to wish you a good fair and a good profit.”
“Thank you,” Raven said with a slight bow and left the tent.
Once outside, he whistled for Stormwind. Then he picked one of the “roads” leading from the steward’s tent at random. He intended to find one of the aides and get himself to Yarrow’s site as quickly as he could to supervise the setting up of the camp and the storing of the grain and hay. He’d see that Stormwind had a good feed, then—if Yarrow’s neighbors agreed to help—it was off for a bit of something for himself. And after that …
He smiled. After that, he would ride through the fair. Let any fools about think he rode a plow horse. Those with eyes to see would know. Oh yes, they would know.
* * *
Skorrie Dunreid proved to be a jolly-looking Kelnethi with the longest beard Raven had ever seen. The man wore it in two grey-streaked braids that hung down over his big barrel of a chest and past the wide leather belt snugged around a grey-and-black-checked tunic that strained over his stomach. When Raven led Stormwind into his camp and introduced himself, Skorrie slapped him on the back and roared for ale.
He also stared and stared at Stormwind. As they waited for the ale, Skorrie sidled up to Raven and muttered, “Was that song true? Did you really…?”
“I did.”
Skorrie exhaled loudly and tugged on one of the braids, winding it around a fist. “As if I needed to ask—the proof’s standin’ in front of me,” he said quietly. At Raven’s quizzical look, he went on, “When I was a lad, Dragonlord Brock Hatussin halted at our holdin’. It was foul weather and he was lookin’ for a place where he and his Llysanyin, Aedis, might wait out the storm. I spent every moment I could studyin’ Aedis so that I would know it if I ever saw another Llysanyin. I’m lookin’ at one now.”
He held a hand out for Stormwind to sniff. “Oh, now—you’re a bonny, bonny lad, aren’t you?” Skorrie said softly, and rubbed the Llysanyin’s nose for a moment. A voice calling “Here, Da!” made him turn.
He accepted two foaming mugs from an apple-cheeked girl who smiled shyly at Raven before scurrying off. “My youngest, Lia,” Skorrie said proudly, gazing after her. “She rides the Lilies to show the customers. A fine, light hand on the reins she has, and a perfect seat. The horses’ll do anything for her.”
They raised their mugs in a toast to Lia and fine riding. Skorrie took a long draught, wiped the foam from his mustache, and said briskly, “So, then—what might old Skorrie do for you, lad?”
Raven explained his predicament and mentioned Elamry’s suggestion, Skorrie chiming in every few words with “I see, I see.”
When Raven was done, all Skorrie said was “First Balyaranna?”
Raven nodded, not daring to say anything.
Skorrie blinked, then roared, “Well, then, lad—we can’t have you sittin’ about on your arse your first time here, now can we?” He slapped Raven on the shoulder again, then said seriously, “Yarrow once saved some of my Lilies from thieves. Found themselves starin’ at the tip of her sword and ran for it, they did. Don’t worry, son. Me and mine will keep an eye on your things. You and that fine lad of yours go enjoy yourselves.”
Raven thanked him profusely. “I’ll just see to the setting up—” His stomach rumbled.
“Pfft!” Skorrie waved a hand in dismissal. “I know how Yarrow likes her camp arranged—I’ve been next to her for enough years, have
n’t I? While that’s goin’ on, I want you two to have your noonings here, then go off and see the sights—and I won’t take no for an answer. It’s a grand fair, it is, and there’s nothing like your first one. So off with you.”
Raven spent the rest of the day becoming familiar with the fair and getting the layout set in his mind. It amused him to watch people’s reactions to Stormwind as they passed. Many clearly saw no further than the Llysanyin’s sturdy legs, feathered feet, and round barrel. Others stared with puzzled intensity. Raven wondered if those had seen Shan when Linden was in Cassori to be a judge in the debate over the regency.
Raven chuckled, remembering Chailen’s description of Shan’s escape to go after his two-foot: “Knocked Varn and me head over heels early one morning and was off down the road like an arrow. We laughed our heads off imagining just how surprised Linden would be when Shan caught up with him—and how bruised. Lucky for Linden he had been ill. Shan took pity on him, I guess.”
* * *
Linden sat before the evening fire, scratching in the dirt with a stick. Maurynna came up from behind and leaned against him, looking over his shoulder.
“Counting off the days?” she asked.
“I am. If we’re to get to the Balyaranna Fair in enough time for Sevrynel to ask us to be marshals—and not have to risk giving offense to someone he’s already asked—we need to leave the party tomorrow morning. And I think we should all go together.”
“Poor Shima.”
“Poor Shima,” Linden agreed. “But we’ve given him as much time with Karelinn as we could, and—”
“And he’ll see her again when she gets to the fair,” Maurynna finished for him. “Still, I’ll let you break the bad news to him.”
Sixteen
Leet pulled his horse to a halt at the crest of a hill. Before him the road marched on to Balyaranna; to the right of the road a small yet charming manor house and its grounds lay before him.
If Thomelin had not played him false, this was the manor of Ridler Barans, the Lord Portis of Portishome, and father to Tirael Barans. Leet clenched his jaw at the thought of that cursed name, then forced it from his mind.
Keep to the task at hand, he told himself sharply. If Thomelin is right … Woe to the luthier if he had lied or misled him, Leet thought balefully. I’ll not be made a mock of, especially by him.
Damn the coward, anyway. It had been his duty to cry Challenge for his son’s death. Instead the craven had swallowed the lie that “it was an unfortunate accident.”
“You should have cried Challenge, you coward,” Leet hissed. “Instead you left it to me.”
He shifted in the saddle, trying to ease his cramped muscles. Pain lanced through his body. A groan broke from his lips despite his efforts to suppress it.
Auvrian help him, he was too old to ride this hard. Even the long journey to the far north and Dragonskeep hadn’t been so bad. But if he was to have any chance at his revenge, he had to get here while Portis was away. He only hoped he was neither too early nor too late.
There was only one way to find out. Clenching his teeth against the pain he knew was coming, Leet urged on his tired horse. At the tug of its rope, the weary packhorse trailed obediently behind.
It seemed to take forever to reach the lane that turned off the road and led to the manor. As they turned onto it, Leet let the tired horses set the pace. To his exhausted body, it seemed the lane went on forever; to his mind, with its thoughts whirling in a mad rush, the end of it would come too soon.
What would he find at that end? Portis gone as Thomelin’s news said he would be, or Portis at home awaiting his kinsman instead? If the former, Leet had a chance; to do exactly what, he didn’t know. He had no real plan, for there were too many variables. But he knew what he wanted and he trusted his wits. If a chance came, he would seize it.
And now someone had seen him. He sat up straighter so that his shabby tunic of yellow and red might be seen more clearly.
“Ho, minstrel!” came the call. “Welcome!”
* * *
A short time later Leet forced himself to smile ingratiatingly at the man who studied him. This was not the stable hand who had been so pleased to see him. No, this was a man of some standing here, a man with responsibilities. Leet could read it in the stern expression and the confident set of the man’s shoulders.
Leet knew well what the man saw—or thought he saw. A minstrel, sure enough; there was no mistaking the twisted-wire torc, the yellow and red tunic, and the two wooden cases for traveling harps on the packhorse.
But this was clearly not much of a minstrel; so much the shabby clothes and dusty horses proclaimed. Leet was satisfied that he should think so. Let this man take him for one of those who journeyed from place to place, grateful for a meal and a place out of the weather, a minstrel to whom a few copper pennies were a largesse rarely seen. Such men were quickly forgotten.
At last the man spoke. “Our lord is away for a few days, minstrel,” he said.
The unspoken “Not that the likes of you would be good enough to play for him” hung in the air between them.
It was all Leet could do not to shout with joy. Instead he said humbly, “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. But would you have a place that I might rest myself and my horses for the night at least? I’m for the fair at Balyaranna and thought I’d make it today, but these old bones don’t travel as well as they used to.” Leet spoke in a slightly raspy voice that quavered, a voice long past its prime. A quick, hopeful smile flitted across his lips. “Anything, good sir—I don’t expect to guest in the great house. But perhaps a bit of field to camp in…?”
Relief that Leet wasn’t going to insist on staying in the manor house made the man unbend a little. “I can do you better than that, minstrel. I’m sure you’ll understand that no strangers are allowed near my lord’s horses. But we’ve an old hay barn that’s not used now that you may stay in. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry and out of the morning dew.”
This was better than he’d dared hope for. “Auvrian bless you, sir,” said Leet, meaning it wholeheartedly. “That would be perfect.”
Now the man smiled. “This is Lord Portis’s holding, minstrel. I’m his assistant stablemaster, Blaine. Let’s get you settled and your horses turned out, and I’ll have my nephew Robie bring you a meal from the kitchen. It’ll be plain fare but plenty of it, the same as what we get. And your name, minstrel?”
“Osric, good sir.”
As Blaine led the way to the stables, he glanced back; Leet saw him studying both the animals and the burden the packhorse bore. “You’ve two harps?” the man asked genially.
But Leet’s trained ear caught the hint of suspicion in the amiable tone: How can a poor beggar like you afford two instruments—and two good horses?
“Alas, good sir,” he said with good-natured regret. “I wish both were mine. But one belongs to a bard who’s supposed to be at the fair. I’m merely delivering it. The luthier was so grateful that he hired these two horses so that I could make the journey in time.”
He gave Blaine a conspirator’s wink. “I think the old scoundrel was desperate—he’d said the harp would be ready much earlier. And we all know that it doesn’t pay to get on a bard’s bad side, eh?”
Blaine nodded and chuckled, apparently satisfied. “And this should put you on his good side, shouldn’t it?”
As he followed Blaine away from the stables, Leet saw two stone buildings ahead. These, then, must be the hay barns, set well away from the stables in case of fire. One was clearly newer; of the other, nearly half of its roof had collapsed. With a quick, wry grin, Leet thought he could guess which would be his lodging this night. A stablemaster this cautious would never allow a stranger to stay alone with the fodder for his charges.
As they entered the old hay barn, the assistant stablemaster waved a hand and said, “There you are, Minstrel Osric. Get yourself settled and Robie will be here soon.”
As soon as he was alone, Leet straighten
ed up, stretched and rolled his shoulders. Gods, who would have thought that walking slumped over could be so tiring! He fingered a greasy strand of hair and grimaced. Feh! He’d be glad when he could leave “Osric” behind. He tucked the strand behind his ear and promised himself a good soaking at the public bathhouse on the outskirts of Balyaranna. It would never do to show up at the castle looking like this. He’d not give his old student Daera a chance to gossip of how he’d turned up looking like something the cat dragged in.
* * *
Leet sat, looking around the old hay barn. True, half was falling down, but he couldn’t complain. It was likely just as well he was a good distance from the stables; each time he’d played the Gull harp, his horses had become nervous. There was a still sturdy wall between him and the section that was giving way, and his part was warm and dry as promised, very well furnished with straw, and he was well fed indeed.
The last two were courtesy of Robie, the absent stablemaster’s son. When the boy had found out his charge was a minstrel, nothing had been too good for “Osric.”
Robie, it seemed, wanted more than to work in a stable all his life. He wanted to go to the Bards’ School someday; he had a very good voice—everyone said he ought to be a bard, they did!
Leet had learned that and much, much more from the voluble Robie. The boy chattered endlessly at him in a quicksilver run of words while he ate his meal. Slightly bemused, Leet wondered how it was the boy didn’t faint; it seemed he never stopped for breath.
“We’re so excited, sir! Our lord’s kinsman, Lord Lenslee from Kelneth, is coming for the fair! He’s got a wonderful horse that will win the Queen’s Chase hands down! Everyone says so! Do you think I could sing for you later? The horse’s name? Oh, you must have heard of him, sir—it’s Summer Lightning! Oh—you have heard of him! Good! Beautiful animal everyone says he is—coat like a new copper penny! Bless you, sir, no, the horse won’t be tired from his journey! My father—he went with Lord Portis to go meet our lord’s cousin—my father says they’ll be taking it in easy stages and that they’ll rest here before going the last bit to the fair—we’re quite close, you know! Our lands border Lord Sevrynel’s. He’s the lord who hosts the fair on his lands. And Lord Portis is one of the few who has a real stable of wood and stone at the fairgrounds because he’s helped Lord Sevrynel many times. And Father will be in charge of that stable and I’m going to help him because my older brother broke his collarbone and can’t go now! It will be my first time at the fair. Will it be yours as well, sir?”
Bard's Oath (Dragonlord) Page 12
