“Yes, Father. Uh, sorry. Get the horse fitted, ploughing…”
His father gave him one of his sideways stares before he resumed his place out in front. Daric appeared oblivious to the heat, swinging his pack from one shoulder to the other. The older man whistled while he walked, casting an eye over the fields. Now and then, the man would turn back to pet Pepa, encouraging her to keep straight. The young horse had a tendency to wander if he saw something that interested him.
Gialyn knew his father wouldn’t complain about the heat; he never did. He would turn anything into a lesson on duty or honour or responsibility. He might have left the guards—left Bailryn—to move to this backwoods of a town, but he is still the same man, still a soldier.
The town green was on the outskirts of Albergeddy—although, in truth, it wasn’t really a green at all, more a field that fit the purpose. Gialyn guided Pepa along the lane as it splintered from the main road. After taking a final look at his giant, he led her through the narrow gates and on to the green.
The “town green” sloped gently to the south. A long line of wild berry bushes ran along the edge on three sides. The centre was fenced off into pens of varying sizes. Half already contained livestock, mostly goats. The Spring Feast organisers—most, if not all of the town council—pitched a dozen large white tents around the outer rim of the field, with long tables set up in front for displaying country-fair produce of every kind. A play area—probably for the younger children—was set up near the food stall. The shooting range, for the archery tourney—an annual favourite, so Gialyn had heard—was at the far end of the field, safely out of the way.
Groups of small children ran around Pepa’s cart as Gialyn led her towards the produce tents. He laughed at their “tutting” and “arghing” when they discovered the cart was half-full of beets and beans. He laughed again when Daric produced a basket full of sweetroll that Mairi—Gialyn’s mother—had prepared. Daric gave them one each; there was just enough.
“Best move on before they tell anyone else,” Daric said, chuckling.
Vin, the local leather merchant, waved Gialyn over. “Why do they bother building a place for children to play if they’re just going to let them run around causing a nuisance?”
For a moment, Gialyn wondered whether Vin was talking to him or his father.
“Pepa doesn’t mind, Vin,” Daric said. “And it is supposed to be a family day.”
Gialyn knew his father was none too keen on Vin Calande; he thought the man was always too eager to complain.
“It’s not right,” Vin said. “They should do something about it. Now if I were on the council… Do you know they have a girl in the archery tourney this year? Yes… Theo Tanner’s girl, Elspeth. Have you ever heard anything so daft? What is the betting her father had something to do with it? So what if he is the emissary? That doesn’t give him the right to change rules. It is just not proper, girls shooting arrows, phaw. There will be women on the council next, you mark my words!”
“I didn’t know there was a rule against girls competing, Vin. Are you worried she might win?” Daric said.
Gialyn tried not to laugh.
“Well, it’s just not—”
“Sorry, Vin, have to get the table set up in the shade before my beans sweat too much.”
“Uh… oh… right. We will talk later, I expect.”
“Not if I see you coming, we won’t,” Daric whispered so only Gialyn could hear. Though he suspected his father wouldn’t mind much if Vin had overheard.
Gialyn led Pepa around the back of the tents. He unhitched her and handed the reins to Gobin the blacksmith. As usual, it would be Gobin’s job to take care of the horses for the day while their owners manned their stalls.
“Has Vin been chewing your ear as well?” Gobin asked. “The man just cannot shut up about young Elspeth and the bloomin’ archery. If you ask me, I’d say good luck to her. What do you think, Gialyn my lad?”
“I do not know, Mr. Gobin. I thought the idea was to find out who is best, man or woman… or girl.”
“Well said, lad. You have the making of a council member here, Daric. He has a good head on his shoulders, this one.” Gobin nodded at Daric while patting Gialyn on the shoulder.
“Ask him his opinion if it were anyone but Elspeth, Gobin.” Daric cast one of his sly sideways glances at the blacksmith.
“Aye… bit of young romance blossoming, is it?” Gobin smiled and gave him a wink. Gialyn felt the heat flushing his cheeks. The blacksmith loosened Pepa’s straps as he spoke. “Thought she was too busy sharpening her knives to notice the boys.” He laughed at that. “If you do end up courting, don’t be getting in any arguments, my lad. With that one, you’ll probably come off the worse for it.”
Gialyn pulled the last crate of beets from the cart as Gobin led Pepa to the makeshift stable, still laughing to himself as he walked.
“Where do you want this?” Gialyn asked his father.
“It can go under the table for now. Keep it in the shade.”
Daric had reserved his space in the tent. That, apparently, wasn’t easy; newcomers were not often welcomed. Gialyn watched as his father placed his produce into small punnets and then arranged neatly across the top of the table. The proud look in his eye lasted until he noticed his neighbour’s stall. Mrs. Caulthan’s vegetables were easily twice the size and greener. “Oh well, it is our first season.” He gave Mrs. Caulthan a friendly nod.
“Can I go now?” Gialyn asked.
At the same time, Theo Tanner bellowed at Daric, “Good day, Mr. Re’adh.”
Theo Tanner was a large man—very large. He was nearly as round as he was tall. He was the emissary for Albergeddy, which meant responsibility for running the mine and collecting taxes. His broad grin split his round face and caused even more chins to appear. The big man was in his usual garb. Not even this heat would stop him from wearing his coat of office. His thinning grey-brown hair plastered to his forehead and droplets of sweat trickled from his temples. Gialyn thought he looked ridiculous. None of the noblemen coming and going through the streets of Bailryn—the kingdom’s capital—would wear a coat like that in this weather. The man must be a fool.
“Afternoon to you, Mr. Tanner.” Daric bowed.
“I see you made it,” Theo said. “A bit late, but never mind that. Nothing much has started yet.”
Daric looked surprised; Theo was never this talkative. Indeed, Gialyn couldn’t remember the last time the emissary had spoken to any of them, apart from once when he welcomed his mother to the town granary.
The fat man continued. “Did you know my daughter is in the archery tourney this year?”
Theo picked up one of Daric’s beets, sniffed at it, gave it a squeeze, and put it back. He didn’t look impressed.
“Yes,” Daric said, putting the beet back into the correct punnet. “Quite a fuss, so I hear.”
“Really!” Theo scowled over the word. “Who is making a fuss?” He folded his arms, pulled his shoulders back, and stared defiantly at Daric.
“Did you think there wouldn’t be, Mr. Tanner? First time a girl has ever entered for the archery prize.” Daric folded his arms, too, and stared right back.
Gialyn backed off a pace, looking between the two, wondering who would answer first. He knew it wouldn’t be his father; he had that look in his eyes. The look he’d seen him give a thousand times. Whether it was a drunkard at the palace gates or a disobedient sergeant, the look was always the same. You may as well argue at a stone once Daric Re’adh’s mind was set.
Finally, Theo broke. “Yes, I suppose you are right. A little animosity is to be expected, especially when she wins.” He picked up another of Daric’s beets. “Did you warm the soil before you planted these?”
“Sorry, what? Warm the soil?” Daric looked puzzled.
“Early beets, Daric,” Theo said in a lecturing tone. “You must warm the soil; lay some hay down to drag out the last of the frost. Not saying they won’t grow without, but they’ll be more like Mr
s. Caulthan’s if you do.” Theo shot a smile and a bow over to Daric’s neighbour.
“Oh, I will remember for next time.” Daric snatched the beet from Theo’s hand and placed it gently back in its punnet.
“Anyway, Daric, there is another reason I’m here. Did you know a royal messenger is in the town?” Theo said, clasping his lapel and rocking back and forth on his heels. With chin raised, the fat man smiled as if there were something important to it and only he knew the answer.
Daric cringed; a flash of anxiety filled his eyes. “Why? What has happened? Are we at war?”
“What? No, no, no, nothing of the sort, nothing for you to be concerned about.” Theo waved away Daric’s comments. He looked a little surprised to hear them. “However, I would very much like to have a talk with you, once he has spoken, or even while he is speaking. It won’t matter if I tell you once the messenger has begun his announcement.”
“I suppose you already know what the message says.”
“Of course I do. He has to tell me first. It is the law.”
“And the contents of the message are what you want to talk to me about?” Daric couldn’t hide his annoyance.
“Have patience, Daric. As I said, it is no reason for concern. We are not at war, the palace still stands, and the Salrians have not invaded. I will come find you once the messenger is on stage.” Theo took a final look at Daric’s produce before walking off.
“That man!” Daric bit at his lip, almost growling the words. “What I wouldn’t give to have him in my battalion for a week.” He shook his head. “Small town bureaucrats, they are worse than city folk.”
And he meant it. Daric wasn’t one for repeating himself, but if Gialyn had heard it once… “If a man can’t look you in the eye and tell you what he thinks,” Daric would say, “then best you just walk away.” Conniving politicians were right at the top of Daric’s list of “scheming leaches”—as he called them. Indeed, getting away from that sort of thing was one of the reasons why they had left Bailryn. Although in truth, Gialyn didn’t know half of that story, nor did he want to.
“Can I go now?” Gialyn asked. “Father?” A distant, glazed expression had settled on Daric’s face, as though he were preoccupied, deep in thought. “Father!” Gialyn leaned forward to catch his father’s eye.
“Uh… oh yes, yes, go. Wait a second.” Daric fished into his shirt pocket and handed Gialyn two silver coins. “Here, and do not let me catch you buying ale. I don’t care if you’re old enough to carry a sword—no son of mine is going to be drunk in public, least not when I’m nearby.”
Gialyn grinned. Two silver! “Thank you, Father. Thank you very much!”
“And, uh… don’t tell your mother I gave you that much. Go on, off with you, and keep out of trouble.” Daric waved Gialyn away before continuing to arrange his beets and beans.
It seemed strange… somehow, watching his father arrange the food he had grown while standing behind a stall amongst other amateur gardeners and such. It just wasn’t him. Not that Gialyn thought it bad or wrong. It was just…. Well, he didn’t know what it was. He bowed and ran off towards the field—best to be gone quick before Daric thought up something else for him to do.
The centre field was busy. There wasn’t much in the way of farming in the northern Geddy. The soil wasn’t very good. Beets, beans, and a few hardy vegetables were the best most folk could manage. Of course, Geddy wasn’t a farming town. It wouldn’t be there at all if it weren’t for the Rundair mines. Most of their food came from Beugeddy, shipped up the Geddy River once a week by barge. Despite this, the town folk were prideful of what little they could cultivate, and the soil was no bar to raising livestock; there was plenty of grassland.
Men gathered by the pens, showing off their pigs and goats and chickens. A few had cows, but not many; they ate too much. Women gathered by the stalls, discussing the best way to make country cake. Foot races were already underway. Groups of small children ran half the length of the field to win themselves some sweetroll or gum root. There was even a travelling minstrel prancing on a low stage, playing a harp and singing ballads of Ealdihain. No sign of a giant, though.
Most of the men—those that hadn’t brought pigs and such—gathered at one end of the field. The garden of the Lesgar Inn backed onto the green. Taft, the landlord, had set up an ale tent. Gialyn was surprised men would be drinking this early, but given the weather, he could hardly blame them. He settled on lemonade, bought for a copper from one of the Miller’s young daughters. Cheap enough, but he had to go back to the cart and fetch his own cup.
Gialyn heard a shout, someone calling his name.
“I thought that was you, Gialyn. Is your father here?” Grady Daleman sauntered over with a mug of ale in one hand, waving a salute with the other.
Grady was an old friend, most likely Daric’s closest friend—they had both served together in the guards, and both chose to move to Albergeddy to make new lives for themselves. Grady wasn’t a very tall man, not that anyone would call him short, just… not tall. He had dark, cropped hair—a style left over from his guardsman days—a strong, manly face, and arms as thick as a blacksmith’s. He wasn’t married, nor did he have any children. Daric would often tell him that he spent too much of his time in the Lesgar Inn and he should “settle down.” Gialyn liked the man very much and thought of him as an uncle.
“Yes, sir,” Gialyn said. “He is over in the produce tent, showing off his beets.”
“Showing off his beets!” Grady laughed uproariously and slapped Gialyn on the shoulder.
Gialyn winced and rubbed the site of Grady’s slap, wondering if the thick-armed brute realised how painful his friendly slaps were. If he did, it didn’t show. He just kept talking.
“You are a funny one, boy. What are you doing all alone? Where’s that big friend of yours? Are you competing in the hill climb this year?” Grady had a habit of asking three questions at once.
Gialyn chose the latter. “I don’t think so, sir. I came seventh last year.”
“Well, seventh isn’t that bad, lad.”
“Out of eight! And the only reason I beat Sal Reddish was because she stopped to pick up her hat.”
Gialyn just managed to move clear of yet another slap.
Grady laughed. “Lad, you should be on stage with the minstrel. You can’t be any worse. Gods, I can sing better than that fellow.” His broad shoulders shuddered just as the minstrel—as if for effect—plucked a raw note. “It sounds like the man’s strangling a cat. Who told him he could play the harp, his mother?”
Gialyn laughed. “I don’t know about that, sir. Telling funny stories on a stage, who ever heard of such a thing? As for the hill climb…” Gialyn sucked air through his teeth. “I will have to think about it.”
“Well, you do that, lad. I’m going over to talk to your father, see if I can drag him away from his beets for half an hour.”
Grady left, promising to come find him later. This time, he only gave Gialyn a light tap on the shoulder; maybe he did realise.
Gialyn began to wander.
An hour passed. He had more lemonade, spent an annoying ten minutes listening to some of the wives talk about how tall he had become and how he would “make someone a good husband” one day. The ones that didn’t pinch his cheek ruffled his hair. He could do nothing but smile and be polite.
Some of the serious competitions had started. Men, six to a team, pulled at rope. Others threw a sack full of sand over a high pole. A small group were racing to see who was quickest at cutting through a log with an axe, while another threw horseshoes as far as they could into a neighbouring field.
The women were mostly in the tents, mostly. However, a few braved the sun and joined in with the men. Looks like Elspeth Tanner has them all at it. Even Mrs. Balland is doing the sack toss! It did seem as though more women than usual joined in, though most of them were busy under cover and out of the worst of the heat. The largest group watched the fiddle contest. They made little pic
nics for themselves while sitting on blankets under an awning next to the ale tent.
Gialyn was about to go and listen for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Gialyn turned. Meric Taduin—one of the few people of his own age that Gialyn got along with, not that there were many his age, barely a handful in the whole town—smiled at him in between large mouthfuls of sweetroll. Meric was a big lad, as tall as Gialyn but twice as wide. His barrel-shaped stomach hung over his loosely fitted breeches, and a white shirt the size of a small tent hung on his broad shoulders.
“Hello, Meric. What have you been up to, then? I haven’t seen you all day.”
“Aye… My father had me helping with the horses.” Meric was Gobin the blacksmith’s son. “He let me loose not ten minutes ago. He would have me shoeing half of them if Mother hadn’t turned up. You know what father is like. If I stand still for two minutes, he’ll find me a job to do. Are you coming to watch the archery tourney? See if your Elspeth wins?” Meric added a wry smile at the end of his question.
Gialyn tried not to flush. He looked down at the ground and scratched his fingers through his hair. Does everybody know? It’s not as if I have told anyone. “I expect so,” Gialyn said, lifting his head while trying not to look too enthusiastic. “If only to see her beat Vin.”
Meric looked amazed. “Do you really think she can?”
“I have seen her practice in this field every day since last autumn. I will be surprised if she loses… very surprised.”
Gialyn only then realised he had told Meric he spent every day spying on Elspeth. He waited for the sarcasm, or at least a joke. Who cares if he knows anyway? It isn’t as if he hangs around with Ealian and his crowd.
Gialyn was surprised when Meric said nothing. Yes, he was a good friend.
“I must admit,” Meric said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing her beat Vin, either. Only problem I see is that she’s already a show-off. What is she going to be like if she beats all the men folk?”
Gialyn hadn’t thought about that. Not that it mattered; it wasn’t as if he had ever tried to talk to her. “I suppose you’re right.” He nodded in agreement. “Meric, did you see that giant? Well, not a giant, just a really big—”
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 2
