“One way to find out,” Allystaire said, privately glad of the break and trying not to show it. He forced himself to stand upright, not to lower his hands to his knees, and to try to take in the sharp air at a reasonable pace instead of gulping it. He turned to the boy at his side. “Gideon?”
The lad nodded, closed his eyes for a long moment. Then suddenly they snapped back open. “One wagon with a man on it, four riders. Some small arms, but a peddler, I think. The wagon practically groans with wares. One of the men is a minstrel. Lute case on his back.”
“Well,” Allystaire said, “the roads must be well, and a peddler comes to Thornhurst for the first time in months. It will do everyone good.”
“Snow’s melting on the green,” Norbert said brightly as he bent to pick his rock back up.
“Come on, lads,” Allystaire said, hefting his own rock again. “Back to Thornhurst to spread the news. Quick now.”
By the time the wagon and its riders reached the village’s northern wall, Allystaire, Norbert, Harrys, and Gideon were waiting to meet them on horseback.
The latter had spread the news fast by letting Mol know even as they’d run back into the village, and the Voice had shared the news far and wide. Casks were being rolled out of the Inn even as they rode past, and Timmar had a wide grin on and a prybar in his hand.
As always, Allystaire turned his hands more practically, saddling Ardent and the other mounts, including his own palfrey for Gideon, Harrys’s dun courser, and the most docile gelding in the village’s stables for Norbert.
Lightly armed, Allystaire had told them, and meant it, though now as a wagon and horsemen hove into view, he wished for more than the iron-studded gloves on his hands and the sword on his back. He eyed the others; Norbert had his bow and arrows cased and slung on the wrong side of his horse, and had his reins drawn across it, pinning it against the saddle. Allystaire frowned, made a note of it. Harrys had thrust his falchion into his belt. When Allystaire had offered Gideon a dagger from the armory, the boy had frowned, but taken it anyway.
“Remember,” Allystaire muttered, “we are a welcoming committee, not an interrogating committee.” Then he cleared his throat and addressed the slowing wagon and Ardent stamped at the ground.
“Good morning,” he called out, across the few yards separating them. “Welcome to Thornhurst. What brings you?”
The driver of the wagon, a long, lean man with a close-cropped grey beard, stood up and raised a hand. “Greetings,” he called out in a fine, clear voice. “The open roads bring me! Rohrich of Ashmill Bridge, Peddler, Gossip, Tale-Teller. As for these others, one I pay to accompany me, two were stuck on the wrong side o’the mountains when the snows come, and the other, I’ll let him introduce himself,” he said, sweeping his hand past the men who rode with him, and finally to the man with the lute case on his back.
Though the weather had started to warm, this particular fellow was heavily bundled in a fur-lined, hooded coat that was pulled tightly down over his head. He pushed it back, revealing a face that was a solid shade darker than Idgen Marte’s, clearly marking him as a Concordat man.
“My name,” he said, sketching a half bow from his saddle, “is Andus Carek.” His voice was rich and smooth, filled the air without sounding too loud, carrying the slightest shade of an accent. “Bard, minstrel, troubadour, jongleur; choose the word that suits your tongue. The open road brings me as well, but also a woman I met some months ago whom I believe I could find here, a lady named Radys Glythe.”
“There is no Radys Glythe here, I am afraid,” Allystaire said, frowning faintly. “Or if there is, I do not know her. You are welcome all the same. I am Allystaire Stillbright,” he added. “Come in peace to Thornhurst.” He stepped Ardent to the side, raised a gloved hand and gestured towards the open gate.
“Don’t remember any villages out here having walls and gates, to be honest,” Rohrich said as he grasped his reins. “Then it’s been a fair few years since I’ve driven this way,” he admitted.
“You will find it much changed,” Allystaire said. “You will still find this track leading straight through to the green, where folk are beginning to celebrate the snowmelt.” Rohrich gave his reins a flick and his team perked up, began dragging the long, low, covered wagon along behind them.
Allystaire watched the wagon pass, then the men trailing the peddler’s wagon. Only one of them was openly armed in a meaningful way, with a heavy flanged mace dangling from his belt, and a crossbow cased against his saddle.
He cleared his throat and flung out a hand, called to the guard, “Goodman!” His voice snapped through the air, turning everyone’s head. He pointed towards the bow. “I will be collecting that while you stay in Thornhurst.”
“Collectin’ what?” The man grinned faintly, showing gaps in his teeth.
“The crossbow. Maces and the like, knives, swords even, you may keep. The crossbow will be given back when you leave.”
“Doesn’t seem like part o’the Baron’s law,” the man said.
“Baroness,” Allystaire corrected. “And if you wish to ask her, you may,” Allystaire said. “Just keep following the road. Unless I miss my guess she will suggest that you do as I have asked. And frankly, friend, it is not the Baroness’s law that matters inside these walls. I meant it when I said you are all welcome. Crossbows, though,” Allystaire shook his head, “those I do not welcome. Please hand it to my associate, who will take excellent care of it. Harrys.”
At the sound of his name, the old soldier and new squire gave his horse a nudge and rode forward to take the bow from the saddle of the unconvinced guardsman.
“C’mon now, Myron,” Rohrich called back, twisting in his seat. “We’re plenty safe among these folk. Give it o’er.”
Myron unhooked the strap that held it over his pommel and held it towards a smiling Harrys, who told him, “No worries now, man. I know how t’take care of a crossbow. I’ll keep it dry’n’warm. Y’want it stored unstrung?”
Myron nodded, grimacing, then turned his horse and rode on, with a backwards glance at Allystaire.
Andus Carek, nimbly riding a fleet-looking roan, had let the wagon and the other riders drift past, then pulled up closer to Allystaire. “Are you certain there is no Radys Glythe? I met her just a few months ago and she told me folk here were desperate for music, would pay well. She was from my part of the world. Concordat folk are not so abundant here, especially in winter, that she should go unremarked.”
“Why did you not come then?”
“Well,” Carek said, rubbing his chin with one thickly gloved hand. “Word on the road was keeping most away.”
“What does word say now?”
The bard cleared his throat. “Lot of things,” he said. “Some of which might make a song if I can hear more.”
“Well,” Allystaire said, “I have a feeling I know the woman you met, and yes you will find her here. Her name is not Radys Glythe.”
The man smiled broadly, crinkling his hard-planed cheeks. “I thought it might not be.” Then, tilting his head to a side. “Temple Proclamations were slow to reach towns in the north, but did they speak true?”
“Probably depends on the Temple. If it comes from the Sea Dragon, I am inclined to say no. From Fortune, perhaps.”
“Well,” Andus Carek said, lifting one hand, palm straight up. “They said the same thing. Just a question of how they said it. The Baron died here. Murdered, said some. Defeated, said others.”
“I killed him, if that is what you are asking. But it was no murder.”
“Paladin, some stories said.” The bard stroked his chin with his gloved fingers, resting his other hand on the pommel of his saddle. “Fair of face and voice, a veritable giant among men.”
“Stories lie,” Allystaire said flatly.
“They do and they do not,” Andus Carek said. “If I might trouble you later for some
commentary on said stories, I would be most grateful.”
“I have a feeling you are going to trouble me whether I say yes or no. Is that feeling correct?”
Andus Carek grinned, and his dark eyes nearly twinkled. “I suspect it might be.”
Allystaire couldn’t help but chuckle, then wave a hand. “Go on. You will find the woman you seek if she wishes to be found.”
“A curious way of putting it. Might I know her real name?”
“That,” Allystaire said, “will be up to her.” He nodded to the open gate. “Be welcome in peace.”
The bard knew when he’d been dismissed. He tugged the hood back up over his head and lightly touched one heel to the flank of his horse, and it trotted on.
Once they men were all well clear of the gate, Allystaire waved Harrys and Gideon on, but held out a hand to stop Norbert. As Gideon turned to look at him curiously, he thought, I want you there to keep an eye on everything. Let Idgen Marte, Torvul, and Mol know who comes.
The boy nodded and turned to go when Allystaire suddenly smiled inwardly. On second thought—let Torvul and Mol know. Let Idgen Marte learn on her own.
Gideon’s smile when he heard was a match for Allystaire’s own, and the boy let his horse run a few paces to catch up to Harrys.
Allystaire then swung his gaze towards Norbert, frowning. Once the squire caught the paladin’s look, he winced.
“Draw your bow, Norbert,” Allystaire said.
The boy’s left hand slide to his side, and his wince deepened into a close-eyed grimace. He then reached to his right side, fumbled, started to draw the weapon free, only to have it suddenly tug on his reins and pull them out of the too-loose grip of his hands. His horse took a couple curious steps to the side, then raised its head and sent an almost mournful look at Allystaire. Meanwhile, Norbert struggled to grab bow and reins both, succeeding only in getting them more thoroughly tangled.
“What have you learned, Norbert?” Allystaire said as he rode over and took hold of the gelding’s bridle. The horse snorted, in thanks, Allystaire thought.
“Make sure I put m’bow case on my left side.”
“And?”
“To make sure my reins are clear.”
“Those are the specifics of the lesson, yes,” Allystaire said, assuming the tone of a tutor nearing the end of a vast store of patience. “Now induce to the general.”
Norbert thought hard for a moment. “Always be…ready?”
“Close,” Allystaire said. “Be certain that nothing you can control comes between you and the means to do your duty. You can control the placement of your weapon, your reins, the movement of your horse. None of those things should ever impede you. It is not enough to assume that they will not. Be certain of it.”
“And things I can’t control?”
“Those are usually the things you will want to put arrows in. But there are others, of course,” Allystaire said. As Norbert finally untangled weapon and reins and grasped one firmly in each hand, he let go of the gelding’s bridle and the two of them began riding, side by side, back into the village. “You cannot control what other men, those with you, or those against you, might do. But you must always control what you do.”
“I’m sorry, Arm,” Norbert said. “I will work harder.”
“Not today, no,” Allystaire said, cutting him off with a hand slashing through the air. “Today, the snow is melting on the green, as they say, and even squires are given the liberty of the day. Do you as you wish this day. Take joy in the celebration. Now, give that horse its head and let us have a run back to the green, eh?”
Without waiting for a response, Allystaire gave Ardent a flick of his heel and the grey’s muscles bunched and gathered beneath him, then set them rocketing down the track, churning cold mud into the air. Norbert did the same with his gelding, who joined the run with spirit, though it had no hope of catching the warhorse.
Though the air still stung with cold, the quality of the light held a promise of spring. As they often were in the Baronies, the season of the new would be brief and quickly give way to the pounding heat of summer. But at least on the day that winter officially ended in the minds of the people under their care, Sir Allystaire Stillbright and his squire Norbert briefly filled the air with laughter at the joy of a simple race.
CHAPTER 19
The Peddler and the Bard
By the time Allystaire and Norbert pulled up their mounts at the edge of Thornhurst’s oval green, Timmar had prised the lid off a barrel, and foaming mugs were being passed around the crowd, with no special care paid to who was given one and no links changing hands. A few of the children who weren’t curious enough or thirsty enough were busy packing snow and slush into missiles and hurling them at each other, but in large part they had the good sense to remain at the edges of the crowd.
Allystaire caught Norbert eyeing the ale line. “Always see to your animal’s needs before your own,” he said, and the youth nodded wistfully as he and Allystaire led their mounts away.
Across the oval of melting snow and small patches of brownish grass, Rohrich had set chocks behind the wheels of his wagon and was busy pulling the canvas cover down, with his surly guard lingering nearby.
As they led their horses away, Norbert said, “Why’d ya take the crossbow but not his mace?”
“A mace is often the choice of the unskilled, for one,” Allystaire said. “And I do not feel right depriving a man of the means to do his job, for another. If he was hired to guard that peddler, he should be able to do it within reason. I doubt anyone will give him much of one. As for the crossbow, well.” He shrugged, feeling the weight of the chain shirt he’d been wearing since that morning’s run. “That weapon allows the wielder to kill silently, at a distance, and in a moment. With a crossbow, if he had a mind to stir trouble and a steady enough hand, he could kill me, you—maybe any one person in the village, excepting Idgen Marte—before we could react. With a mace? By the time he can work up to serious, permanent mischief, there is a good chance of having to deal with more than he can handle.”
“Meanin’ you?”
“Or Torvul, or Idgen Marte, or Gideon. Or Harrys. Or, for that matter, you.”
“I woulda been no use if it’d come to a fight just now.”
“It might have taken you some time to get into the fight, mayhap,” Allystaire said. “But you have months of training now. You have gotten faster, more accurate. Most importantly, I know how you react in a crisis. I have known for weeks.”
By now they’d reached the stables, and Norbert went ahead to open the doors, leading his gelding in ahead of Ardent. They led them to adjacent stalls and began removing saddles and tack.
“What d’ya mean?” Norbert’s voice was muffled as he bent to work at the belly-cinch.
“When the late, unlamented Sir Donals Brinden got hold of a knife and put it to a man’s neck, a lot of armed men stood around watching when they should have been drawing weapons,” Allystaire said. “Harrys filled his hands with steel. Landen tried to take charge of the moment. But before either of them could act, I heard the sound of a bowstring drawn.”
Norbert stood up, sliding the saddle off of his gelding and only just managing to catch it before it hit the ground. “Didn’t e’en think really,” he muttered. “Arrow was in m’hands ‘fore I knew what I was doin’.”
“That is how it ought to be,” Allystaire said as he lifted his saddle clear of Ardent’s back and set it on the edge of the stall. He picked a brush from where it hung on the same wall, began gliding it over the destrier’s back, his hands so accustomed to the work he barely thought on it. “Tell me something. If I had told you to loose, could you have hit Brinden?”
“I dunno,” Norbert answered after thinking on it a moment. He’d picked up a brush as well, though his hand was stiffer than Allystaire’s, the movements slower and less sure.
> Allystaire sighed. “Then you have more work to do.”
“He had that man in front of ‘im. It woulda been a risk.”
“I know,” Allystaire said. “That moment was a rare exception to the rule I am about to tell you. When you brandish a weapon, it ought not to be to threaten a man, to impress a woman, to reassure yourself, or to bluff. You put steel in your hands for one reason, and one reason only. And that is to kill. Do you understand?”
Norbert lifted his head to look at Allystaire, who’d looked over the stall divider and set the brush back upon its hook. He nodded slowly.
“It may not sound very knightly, putting it that way,” Allystaire added, rubbing Ardent’s long neck absently with one hand. “Yet there is no sense in hiding from the truth. What is more,” Allystaire went on, as he exited Ardent’s stall and shut the door closed behind him, “if you are going to aim a lance, cut with a blade, swing a hammer, or loose an arrow, you cannot doubt, you cannot hesitate, you cannot think ‘I do not know if this will work.’ You must believe that it will.”
“Then what’ll you do if it don’t? I mean, if ya miss.”
“You do it again, or you try something else. But your belief must never, ever falter.”
They packed their tack away, and pushed back into the bright of the afternoon, out of the heavy reek of horse and hay and into the fresh bite of the air. “Go on, lad. I promised you no more work today, and I have already broken that promise. Go,” he said, waving the boy ahead of him. “Drink, dance, sing if you have a mind. I will be along.”
Norbert nodded smartly, then trotted off to join the throng gathered on the green. Allystaire could hear the general hubbub, snatches of song, the barking of Rorhrich’s patter, the squeals of children as they struck or were struck with balls of wet snow.
He was practically lost in a brief reverie as he strolled aimlessly towards the green, when he was jolted out of it by a thump, and an impact against his chest that momentarily stole his breath.
Allystaire looked down to see the slushy remains of a wet, well-thrown clump of snow splattered across his vest and coat. He looked up, caught sight of Gram, standing several paces away, a guilty grin on his face, hands behind his back.
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