Tor did not share Jervaid’s dissatisfaction. Overworked and weary as she was, she lived in a state of happy anticipation of seeing him. She spent her few spare moments thinking about him. At first, she had unconsciously missed the camaraderie they had had at Tarragon, because more than anyone else, he had changed towards her since knowing she was a woman. He was more charming, paid her more attention, but seemed to take her less seriously. She did not really register or resent this, because with each day that passed she became more smitten, in spite of the fact that they spent so little time together.
Meanwhile, she had acquired another admirer. Tor came back to the Dragon Tower one afternoon intending to polish the dragon saddle and sweep the floor (she liked to keep the Tower shipshape) and found a small boy sitting on top of the heap of straw she kept for Xantilor’s bedding. He had a level, determined gaze under a shaggy black fringe. He wore an old military jacket a size too big for him.
“How did you get in here?”
“The dragon let me in when I said I wanted to see you.”
“What did you want to see me for?” She was walking towards him when all at once her eyes narrowed. “I know you, you’re that boy in the forest. The decoy.”
The boy looked down at his shabby shoes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Well, I didn’t think much of your doing that.”
“You were very good in the fight, six against one. I thought you were going to win. I want to learn to fight like that.”
“Do you,” said Tor tersely, picking up the broom.
“Yes. Is it true you’re a Knight? One of the Hundred, I mean?”
“Yes. Now go away.” She started sweeping.
“Can I see your dagger?”
“No.”
“I could be your squire, you wouldn’t have to pay me, I’d do it for nothing to make it up to you for before, my mother wouldn’t mind once she got used to the idea, you haven’t got a squire, have you?”
Tor came over to him, broom in hand. “I haven’t got a squire, I don’t want one, and if I did, it wouldn’t be you. Is that clear? Go home.”
“All right.” He slipped off the straw. “I might come back tomorrow.” He walked a few paces and turned. “I like your dragon. See you then.”
He departed, and Tor went to have a word with Xantilor. This did not go quite as she had intended. When asked not to let the boy in again, Xantilor was maddeningly noncommittal and vague.
“But really, Xantilor,” Tor said at last in exasperation, “I think I should have some say in who you let in here. Jervaid’s my friend, and you never let him in, and this boy that quite honestly I wouldn’t care if I never saw again, is clearly planning to hang around here every day, and you’re not going to stop him, as far as I can see.”
“I like that boy. And by the way, he has a name, you know. He’s called Pomfret Willoughby.”
“He can’t be called that.”
“Perfectly normal name. And he may be scruffy and shabby, but he has pluck and determination. A bit like you when I first met you…”
“I wasn’t scruffy!”
“And you could do worse than to make him your squire.”
“I don’t want a squire! This is the boy, remember, who got me captured by Skardroft’s men. If it hadn’t been for him shamming dead, they wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on me, and I’d have been able to draw my sword quicker and I’d have beaten them.”
“Pomfret knows he did wrong. He has learnt his lesson. Barlanik wasn’t angry with him, I heard.”
Tor gave up. She got in a parting shot. “You can let him in as much as you like, I’ll only turf him out again.”
She went off to see if The Dragon Keeper’s Guide: A Manual of Dragon Lore had anything useful to offer. Stretched out on her narrow bed in the Dragon Tower, she scanned the list of chapters. “Dragons and Men; Wilfull Particularitie and what it Signifyeth” seemed promising.
“Many have Observ’d the Dragon’s Propensitie to Deem one man False and Steep’d in Deceit, and thus be Resolv’d not to parley with Him, whatever be the Edict of his Master, and it mattereth not how he be importuned, it is vain; he keepeth his Rancorous Estimation, and Sweete Reason will not sway him.”
Tor had discovered this bit before, when Jervaid complained to her. It was accurate all right, but hardly helpful. She read on.
“Further, be it remember’d by the Judicious Dragon Master, this Counsel; Censure thy Dragon’s Bigotrie as ye may, yet shalt thou oft find betimes, that his Apparent Prejudice be Wisdom, not Malice, and if thou pay’st it no heed, thinking thy judgment the Better, ‘twill prove Fulle Perilous.
“The Bonde that is between Dragon and Master endureth unto Death and diminisheth and perisheth not; yet shall ye find, it happeneth oft, the Dragon maketh Belov’d Another also, and will not be Govern’d or Directed against him, howsoever Knavish he seem; ye may Strive to alter his Love, and Direct it in Wiser Courses, yet be thou warn’d, thou art Predestined to Failure.”
“Oh great.”
It looked as though she’d be seeing a lot more of her unwelcome visitor, if it were left to Xantilor. She yawned, and decided to have a quick nap while she had the chance. She shut her eyes and began to drift off…then the trumpet sounded, and Tor sat up and groped for her breastplate and helmet. With all the practice they were getting, she and Xantilor could be ready to go in under ten minutes.
Barlanik was anxious about Tor, among other things. The trouble was that since Skardroft had stepped up his campaign, it was taking all their efforts not to lose ground, and for the moment, any advance was ruled out. With Urquin too ill to make Edric act, too ill indeed even to be told there was a problem, he needed Xantilor and Tor; in fact he could not imagine how he would have managed without them. Sometimes she and the dragon would be called out to fight five times in a day, including at night. She was coping; eating and sleeping when she could, and never complaining, but she was pale and thinner and he wondered how long she could keep it up. He found a reason to call her into his office. Today her eyes were blue, he noticed.
“Tor, hello, sit down. I thought you should know, Skardroft’s offering ten thousand ducats to anyone who captures you. Alive, I’m pleased to say.”
Tor looked indignant. “He’s put money on my head?”
“I suppose he’s worried his soldiers will kill you otherwise.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ve no intention of letting them capture me or kill me. Perhaps I’ll get a different helmet; one of those ones with a nosepiece, so they won’t recognize me. I say, Barlanik, I’ve been thinking the last few days that things seem to be getting worse. We’re not really making any progress with the war, are we?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve sent a messenger to Edric telling him we need his army now, even if he doesn’t think they’re ready. I’ve made it as plain as possible that his delay could cost him the kingdom. If that doesn’t get him here, between you and me, I don’t know. A few weeks ago, it was a question of when we were going to attack Tarragon. Now I’d say if we can’t push them back and get on the offensive again, it could be just a matter of time before they lay siege to the Castle.” Tor had never heard Barlanik sound anything but positive about the war before. Her heart sank. “And I’m worried about you, Tor – you never get any rest. Perhaps we should limit how much you’re doing.”
Tor sat up straight. “I’m fine, and so is Xantilor. We can carry on like this indefinitely. It’s not a problem.”
“You’re looking pale; have you eaten today?”
“I had something this morning.”
Barlanik went to the door, and asked Linet to fetch some food for Tor from the kitchens. When he turned back, Tor was fast asleep, her arms making a pillow for her head on the table, and the cat was stretching himself before curling up against her warmth. He put his cloak over her and let her sleep, but within the hour the beacons signalled another raid, the trumpet woke her and
she went off with Xantilor to fight again. She took some gingerbread and an apple with her from the food Linet had brought to keep her going.
Pomfret Willoughby was still turning up daily at the Dragon Tower. He tried to make himself useful by doing any little odd jobs he could think of. He snared rabbits in the forest for Xantilor, which was a help as the dragon now had little time to hunt for himself. He put a bunch of meadow flowers in Tor’s room in a jug, and replaced them every few days. The sweeping up was now done by him, which was just as well because otherwise it would not have been done at all. He cleaned out the second turret, and Tor had a feeling he saw himself moving into it. She was too tired to chase him away, and indeed was grateful for the chores he did, though she was not going to admit it to Xantilor. It was true that Pomfret was not much bother, seeming to have decided that quiet persistence would be more effective than pestering her.
One day there was someone waiting by the Dragon Tower door when they got back from a battle. Tor slid off Xantilor and smiled at her visitor. “Hello, are you looking for me? I’ll be back in a minute, I’ll just take his saddle off.”
She swung the big door open to let the dragon inside, then settled Xantilor and checked there was water in the trough. His thick straw bedding was tempting; she would have liked to slump beside him just as she was and fall asleep. Tor had fought with the foot soldiers that day, in houses taken over by the enemy, and in narrow streets inaccessible to Xantilor. The fight had been a hard one, and Tor was exhausted. She went to the door. There was something familiar about the woman’s face. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Pomfret’s mother.” The woman’s eyes darted shocked glances at the splashes and spatters of blood on Tor’s clothes, hands and hair. “I wanted to see you about him becoming your squire.”
“Oh,” said Tor. Pomfret must have asked his mother to try to persuade her. She felt she really could not deal with it now; she just wanted a wash, food and sleep.
But the woman continued, “He knows I’m against it. I don’t want him fighting, especially now the war’s taken a turn for the worse, and I don’t want him having to do with a Knight, when everyone knows King Skardroft’s killing them off. And their squires, doesn’t matter how young they are. He’s my only child. Can’t you find someone else?”
“I don’t want a squire. I’ve told him that quite plainly. I even said that if I did want a squire, I wouldn’t choose him.”
The woman looked offended. “Is that because he’s a woodcutter’s son?”
“No it isn’t! It’s got a bit more to do with the fact that he acted as a decoy for Skardroft’s henchmen.”
Pomfret’s mother flushed. “He’s said he’s sorry. You have to make allowances, he’s only twelve.”
“Oh, and how old do you have to be before you know it’s wrong to betray people for money? And I don’t have to make allowances for anyone, actually.” Tor’s temper had flared, as it did too readily these days from lack of sleep, and she made an effort to control it. “Sorry to snap. Anyway, I don’t want a squire. I’ve told him, but he still keeps coming here. What am I supposed to do? Can’t you stop him?”
“I’ve tried.”
“Well, I expect he’ll get fed up with it in time. Now if you don’t mind, I need to have a wash…”
Pomfret’s mother left, and Tor wearily stripped off her armour and washed perfunctorily in the nearest bucket of cold water. Then she began to clean her sword, dagger and armour, using a wet brush to get in the crevices. Attalor’s rules: see to your horse, then your kit, then yourself. She was hungry, but the kitchens seemed too far away; perhaps I won’t bother, she thought; I’d rather sleep anyway. A sound made her look up, and there was Pomfret, carrying a steaming dish towards her, being careful not to spill it. For the first time ever, Tor was pleased to see him. “Is that for me?”
“I saw you flying in and told Raziella you were back, and she let me have it. I’ve got to take the dish back after, but she said if I did I could get you food any time.”
Tor saw him surreptitiously eyeing her dagger laid out in front of her. “Would you like to see it?” Tor wanted to repay him. “Let me just rinse it. Here, you can dry it for me.”
She handed it to him and started to eat ravenously. It was venison casserole, which was one of Raziella’s more successful dishes. Pomfret studied the dagger closely, running his fingertips over the knotted snakes, and touching the razor-sharp edge of the black blade. “Can you throw it?”
“It’s funny, everyone asks that. It’s the least useful thing you can do with a dagger. Knights carry a dagger in their left hand instead of a shield.” Tor put down her spoon, took it back from him and stood up. “You see the middle of that door where the wood makes a cross?”
She put the dagger back in her belt on her right side. In a quick, almost casual movement she took it out and threw it. It stuck quivering in the door where she had said it would, a third of the blade deep in the wood. Pomfret’s jaw dropped. He went and pulled the dagger out and brought it back to her.
“I want to do that.”
“It takes practice to get it to go exactly where you want every time, without even thinking about it; years.” Tor was eating again. “Knights learn to do it with either hand. Don’t bother trying it with an ordinary dagger, because it’ll cartwheel; this one, like the one I learnt on with my grandfather, is designed to spin round its length, not its middle. And it’s a skill you don’t often use, because it leaves you without your dagger. But if, say, someone has a spear and you’ve only got a sword, it can be handy.”
“I am going to be a Knight one day.”
“Your mother was here just now. She’s against it. And you do know, I won’t be taking you on.”
“She’ll come round in time.”
Tor could hear the unspoken “and so will you”, but warmed by the food, she was feeling benign. “Look, Pom, I don’t want a squire, but you’re being very useful at the moment, and if you want to carry on, I’ll make it official and pay you a small wage. Just while we’re so busy. If it’s okay with your mother. How about it?”
Pomfret glowed. “Yes please.” She could see he saw it as his first step on the way to being a Knight. “I’ll finish cleaning the rest of that for you, if you like.”
CHAPTER 17
Clandestine meeting
Routh paced along the high-ceilinged corridors towards the King’s stateroom, not looking forward to discussing the progress of the war. Each meeting was worse than the last. He was beginning to think Skardroft was unhinged; his sudden rages were more frequent, and his obsession with Torbrek/Torbraya seemed out of all proportion. He used not to be like this. Demanding, yes, exacting, unquestionably; Skardroft had always been impatient with those slower than himself, and he did not forgive mistakes easily. But Routh had respected his incisive mind that cut to the core of an issue, maintaining a balanced view without being sidetracked. That rational detachment had become a thing of the past.
Today an apprehensive Routh had to break it to the King that there was a major hindrance to their plans. The guards outside the door saluted, knocked and let him pass.
Skardroft sat at the big table, writing, papers waiting to be dealt with stacked on his left. He looked up and frowned as his commander-in-chief entered the stateroom. “Yes, what is it?” His voice was impatient.
Routh thought it best to get straight to the point. “It’s the rebels’ dragon, Your Majesty.”
“Well?”
“It’s causing us problems, Sire. Major problems. It’s so one-sided; if we had a dragon ourselves we could, so to speak, fight fire with fire. As it is, when it flies at the troops breathing flames, they’re fairly defenceless. The men don’t like it; it’s not what they are used to. The new mercenaries refused point-blank to fight against an army with a dragon unless we agreed to give them double pay every time it appears. This is causing unrest among our existing troops.”
“So you are doing what to counter it?”
“We’ve got small bands of expert archers ready to attack it, Sire, but the dragon and its Master are very good at evasive tactics.”
Skardroft did not look pleased. “This is the same dragon that took Torbraya away, the one that used to work for us guarding the Princess, that nobody thought to train for war?” he growled.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, that thought did occur to us at the time; but the dragon was unwilling to co-operate. Guarding was all we could get it to agree to.”
“You should have made it co-operate.”
Routh began to sweat as he tried to explain. “I’m afraid, Sire, that it’s not possible to make dragons do things they don’t want to. Any of the old Dragon Masters will confirm this. The dragon must have come across someone on the rebel side he took to.”
“Then you’d better find me a dragon, or better, several dragons, who will take to us.”
“We’ve tried that, Sire, and we can’t find a single one. They’re extinct in this part of the world. It’s possible they still exist elsewhere, but tracking them down and getting any we find to work for us could take years. I’ve gone into this thoroughly on your behalf, and it’s not a practical option.”
“Then we must even the odds in our favour. Make it a priority to kill the dragon. Target its Dragon Master as well – his death might make the dragon lose heart. Has Torbraya been seen?”
“I regret not, Your Majesty, though we have been constantly on the alert.”
Skardroft stared at Routh. “I’m losing patience with your excuses. Bring me better news next time. Now go.”
“Have you got that map, Kerris?”
Barlanik gave up rummaging on his desk, which was not its former tidy self. It had never been quite the same since the cat had taken to sleeping on it. Linet, who always knew where everything was, had finished work an hour ago.
“I haven’t seen it. I think we must have left it on the battlements this morning.”
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 14
