“Hit number five,” she said suddenly, catching Maddie by surprise.
Hurriedly, the Ranger peered at the turning target wheel and located the number five segment. She took a few seconds to assess the speed at which the wheel was turning and threw, aiming off to allow for the fact that the numbered segment would have moved in the time it took for the knife to reach the target.
Thunk!
The knife thudded into the nominated segment on the outer edge of the wheel. It wasn’t quite central but Sanne nodded approval.
“Excellent,” she said. “Now hit number eleven.”
She continued turning the crank, keeping the target board rotating at a constant speed. Familiar with the movement now, Maddie threw without the same delay. This time, the knife hit the outer edge of the eleven segment, exactly in the center.
“Good work,” Sanne called, a little short of breath from the effort of keeping the heavy board turning. “And number three.”
Maddie was ready with another knife. Her eyes narrowed as she sought the number three, assessed the trajectory she would need and threw.
Thunk!
Once again, it was a perfect throw.
“This time, halfway into the center—number seven.”
The target was narrower now, as the segments tapered down the closer they were to the center of the board. Maddie took a second to assess the new conditions, then hurled another knife, spinning and catching the sunlight, to thud into the board at the nominated point. Sanne stood up from the crank and let the board slow down and eventually come to a stop.
She grinned at Maddie. “You’re better at this than juggling.”
Maddie shrugged. “I’ve thrown a lot of knives over the past three years,” she said. “We have to practice with knives that aren’t balanced like these, so we can throw any type of knife.”
Sanne indicated the two knives at Maddie’s belt. “But your own knives are balanced for throwing,” she said.
The apprentice Ranger nodded. “They are. Although not as well as these.” She pointed to the knives Sanne had brought to the session. “These are excellent.”
Sanne nodded in recognition of the compliment. “They have to be,” she said.
“There’s one thing,” Maddie said. “You said you were going to add an element of risk. There’s no risk in simply hitting a rotating target.”
The juggler smiled. “There is when there’s a person strapped to it,” she said.
13
At Sanne’s invitation, Maddie stepped forward to study the target board once more. Looking closely, she could see there were two handholds at the nine and three positions, and gaps in the board at the five and seven positions.
“You place one of the audience on the board,” explained Sanne. “They hold on to the handgrips, and you pass leather straps through the gaps here to fasten their feet to the board. Then you have someone turn the crank and you have a live target spinning slowly on the board. The object, of course, is to miss them—but to do it with the smallest possible margin.”
“Of course,” said Maddie, eyeing the handles and strap holes. “I guess the trick is to aim to hit them when they’re at a certain point, knowing the rotation of the board will take them away from the spot you’re aiming at.”
“As long as the person on the crank keeps turning at a constant rate—so I’d advise you to use your master for that task, not a volunteer from the audience.”
“Yes. I don’t think I’d be wise to rely on someone who’s been drinking for several hours,” Maddie replied.
“And don’t make the target anyone too important, just in case.”
“I can see that might be unwise,” Maddie said thoughtfully. “So what’s next?”
“Practice,” Sanne told her. “Practice your juggling so you can get those three balls flying without dropping them. And practice throwing with the wheel turning. Get one of the castle servants to crank it for you. Or ask Will if he’s got the time. It’ll be good to get him used to the apparatus.”
“You won’t be with me?” Maddie asked.
Sanne shook her head. “You don’t need me anymore. I’ve shown you all you need to know. Now you need a week or so to get the movements right. Particularly the juggling. I’ll check back in a week to see how you’ve progressed. My guess is you’ll be ready to go. Your juggling won’t be anything spectacular, but it’ll be adequate. And your knife throwing will compensate for that.”
“I’m not going to have to juggle those knives, am I?” Maddie asked anxiously. She envisioned those gleaming knives spinning in the air in front of her. It was not a comforting image.
Sanne smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have time to perfect that. We’ll keep the juggling to the balls.”
She patted the young Ranger on the shoulder encouragingly. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’ve got a lot of natural talent and you’re already a perfectly competent knife thrower. We just have to add a bit of show business to that.”
“And avoid actually hitting anyone with one of the knives,” Maddie said.
Sanne nodded. “That would be ideal, yes,” she said. Then, gathering her leather satchel and slinging it over her shoulder, she prepared to leave.
“I’ll check you out in a week,” she said. “In the meantime, if there’s anything that’s bothering you, feel free to send for me and ask me.”
“There’s a lot that’s bothering me,” Maddie said, remembering how the juggling balls tended to spill from her hands as if they had a life of their own. “But I’m not sure if just asking will fix it.”
Sanne grinned, knowing what she meant. “I know the juggling seems well-nigh impossible at the moment,” she said. “But you’ll be surprised how quickly you improve.”
“I certainly hope so,” Maddie replied.
* * *
• • •
The week passed quickly, with Maddie applying herself to the two disciplines of juggling and knife throwing. Her life as a Ranger had left her well accustomed to practicing and perfecting new physical skills. She alternated between the two, ensuring that she spent sufficient time on each to ensure improvement, without becoming stale.
Will watched her approvingly, seeing her ability improving as each day went by. In the evenings, she put the knives and juggling balls away and gave herself a complete break from the work, so that the following morning she could approach it totally refreshed.
After two days, she had a life-size dummy made and strapped to the board, and co-opted two sturdy servants to crank the handle and make it rotate. She counted time for them, ensuring that they didn’t go too fast or too slow, but turned the wheel, and the dummy, at a constant speed as the knives thudded into the target board. The servants watched with some degree of awe. They were impressed by her knife-throwing skills. But when she asked if either of them wanted to take a turn strapped to the wheel, they hastily declined.
She grinned and didn’t press the matter.
Her juggling was improving rapidly. She was sending the three balls swooping through the air with great aplomb and only ever dropped one on rare occasions—usually when she was interrupted or distracted. She became so confident, in fact, that she decided she’d try juggling three of the throwing knives, reasoning that it would make a dramatic beginning to her knife-throwing act.
But knives were a lot more daunting than balls. She spent ten minutes accustoming herself to the feeling of tossing a knife in the air so that it rotated once, landing hilt-first in her catching hand. All the time, she was conscious of the sharp point as it spun slowly in the air. Eventually, she became proficient with one knife and moved on to two, as she had with the juggling balls. But the minute the two sharp points were spinning in the air, she panicked and skipped away with a startled yelp, letting them thud point-down into the floor of the practice room.
“I’ll leave the juggl
ing to the balls,” she muttered, as she pried the knives loose, studying the two new gashes in the floorboards that she’d have to smooth over.
Will, meanwhile, had his own work cut out. He needed to learn a new repertoire of songs—particularly those that were popular on the continent. Fortunately, there was a lot of traffic back and forth between Araluen and Gallica so far as entertainers were concerned, and a protégé of Malloy’s had only recently returned from a tour of Gallica and Iberion and was able to show Will some of the newer and more popular tunes.
In addition, he was supervising work on their transport—a small, gaily painted and decorated cart that would carry their equipment as they traveled, and provide shelter for those times when they might need to camp on the road. It was a short, high-sided cart, capable of being pulled by one horse—either Tug or Bumper. The cart had a high canvas top, held erect by three bent steel hoops set into the sides. Once Maddie’s throwing board and crank handle were loaded, there would be room for her to sleep inside the cart, under cover. Not a lot of room, mind you, but room nonetheless.
“What about you?” Maddie asked.
Will shrugged. “I can sleep on the ground, under the cart,” he said. “I’ve had worse beds.”
Maddie had been about to offer to alternate with him but then decided that if he felt that way, he could stay under the cart. He saw the momentary hesitation and turned away, smiling. She was learning fast, he thought.
Sanne returned, as she had promised, on the seventh day and assessed Maddie’s progress. She nodded in satisfaction as the young girl sent the balls spinning in a smooth cascade.
“You’ve come a long way,” she said, then gestured to the target board in the corner. “Have you tried this with a live subject yet?”
“Not so far,” Maddie admitted. “I’ve been using that dummy.” She indicated the burlap sack with rough arms and legs attached, all stuffed with straw.
Sanne examined it, noting the lack of tears or holes in the burlap. “Nothing like practicing with the real thing,” she said. “It adds that necessary frisson of danger.”
Maddie grinned. “Are you volunteering?”
Sanne backed away hurriedly. “Not me,” she said. “I don’t get paid enough for that.” Her gaze lit on Will, who was standing by, watching with interest. He saw her appraising him and held up his hands in protest.
“Not me either!” he said. “I’m a valuable officer in His Majesty’s forces!”
“And yet, you were the one who taught her how to throw a knife?” Sanne challenged.
“Well, yes. But not at me,” he pointed out.
“Come on, Will,” Maddie wheedled. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Neither one of us wants to hear the answer to that,” he said. But he began to move toward the target board, albeit reluctantly. Grinning broadly, Sanne adjusted the board so that it was upright. Will stepped up onto the foot stirrups and took a firm hold of the handgrips. The two women quickly strapped him in, with straps on both hands and feet, so that he was secure.
Sanne held up a hand as Maddie reached for the first knife. “Not yet,” she said. “I want you to see something.”
She wound the crank until Will was head down, then stopped.
“See how he’s dropped a little on the board?” she said. “There’s always some slack in the straps and you have to allow for that.”
“She can see,” Will said, upside down and somewhat red in the face as a consequence. “Now can we keep moving?”
Sanne laughed softly and began cranking again. “Set the rhythm,” she told Maddie, and the young Ranger began to count time. After a slight hesitation, she threw the first knife, sending it thudding into the board a few centimeters from Will’s left armpit.
“Good!” said Sanne. “Did you mean it to be that close?”
“Pretty much,” Maddie replied.
Will, his voice alternately straining and relaxing as he rotated, asked a question. “How close was she?”
Sanne looked at him in mild surprise. “You didn’t see?”
“Can’t see with my eyes closed,” Will replied.
14
They left Castle Araluen four days later. The little cart, festooned at all four corners with red, yellow and green flags that fluttered gaily in the wind, rolled smoothly along with Tug between the shafts. Bumper trotted obediently beside his older companion, the two of them tossing their heads and shaking their manes in companionable conversation as they went.
Although neither horse had been bred as a cart horse, both had the necessary nuggety strength and endurance to pull the cart easily. It was light in weight and not heavily laden. The knife-throwing target was the bulkiest piece of equipment they carried, and usually either Maddie or Will walked beside the cart to lighten the load still further.
“Sorry about this,” Will had told his horse as he guided Tug between the shafts. He sensed there was a certain indignity involved in pulling a cart. But Tug was a Ranger horse and he understood the necessity for going undercover. They could have used a cart horse, of course, with the two saddle horses tethered behind the cart. But it might have roused suspicions for a pair of jongleurs to own three horses.
At least I don’t have to wear that ridiculous red-and-yellow getup, Tug had replied, and Will sighed ruefully.
As a Ranger, he was used to wearing subdued colors and not drawing attention to himself. Jongleurs did the opposite. Their gaudy clothing was designed to catch the eye, invite attention and provoke interest. Jongleurs wanted to be seen. Such high visibility meant that they were often asked to perform without having to ask permission or to spend excessive time attracting a crowd.
They took the cart down to the small quay a few kilometers from Castle Araluen, where cart, horses and Rangers were loaded aboard a tubby little merchant ship called Jaunty Lady, which had been chartered by the King for the journey to Gallica. The craft made its way downstream to the sea, propelled by oars and current with a speed belying its lines. At the river mouth, the crew set the sails on the ship’s twin masts and she forged out into the open sea, rolling and pitching with the short, steep waves.
“How about a tune for the lads while they work?” the skipper requested of Will. He was a short, tubby man, built rather like his ship, and with his long hair greased with tar and held back in a pigtail by a piece of twine. A shabby felt hat crowned his head, all style and shape beaten out of it by years of being drenched in seawater coming over the bow in solid waves.
Will nodded agreeably. It was some years since he had performed in public and he could use all the practice he could manage. It was one thing, he knew, to sing by the fire after dinner among friends. Singing for total strangers, who were ready to notice the slightest fault or hesitation, was a different matter altogether.
The ship’s crew of four were mainly occupied with the business of bailing the ship dry, removing the considerable volumes of seawater that sloshed in over the bow and ran down into the bilges. There was a hand pump mounted by the foremast and they took it in turns cranking the handle up and down, keeping a clear stream of water spurting back over the side. A song with a good, solid rhythm would help them along, he reasoned.
As usual when asked to perform unexpectedly, he found his mind empty when he came to selecting a suitable song. Berrigan, who had tutored him many years before, had told him this was one of the fundamental differences between an amateur performer and a professional. A professional never hesitated. He always had a string of suitable tunes ready to perform.
“I’m out of touch,” he muttered as he searched his repertoire. Finally, he settled on a sea shanty that had a strong, basic rhythm the men could work to. He set to, strumming the mandola in the stirring introduction, then followed with the first verse and chorus. He was interested to note how the men working the pump immediately conformed to the rhythm of the song. After the first run-through, they joi
ned in on the chorus, where a sailor bemoaned the fact that his love’s father had rejected him as a suitor for his daughter and sent him to sea and a life of hardship.
It was a common theme in sea shanties, he thought, and in spite of the inherent melancholy in the words, the sailors joined in cheerfully, bellowing out the words with a will, their actions on the pump adding a somewhat violent emphasis to the words.
Of course, as with most shanties it had been written by a landsman poet, who made the usual mistake of confusing a sheet with a sail, instead of the rope that controlled the sail. And he described the cheery dash of salty brine in the face with all the enthusiasm and romance of one who has never endured it. Still, the sailors didn’t seem to mind. It helped ease their labors as they worked the pump.
Will followed up the shanty with a non-nautical tale of a lad who worked for a wagoner and, once again, was rejected by his lady love’s parents. Seemed that it didn’t just happen to sailors, he mused.
But again, the song had a driving chorus that lent itself to the task the sailors were carrying out.
He finished that song and was searching his mind for another when the skipper called the hands to tend the sail and altered course south. The wind and sea were now on their beam, and the Jaunty Lady was no longer butting her way into a head sea. As a result, the water smashed over the bow in vastly reduced amounts and there was no further need for pumping.
“Good songs, those,” the skipper told Will, and handed him a large silver coin. Will nodded his thanks and put it away into his purse.
Maddie had watched the interplay between Will and the crew with interest. Initially disturbed by the surging actions of the Jaunty Lady, she had begun to feel somewhat better as she had something other than her stomach to concentrate on.
The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince Page 8
