by Damien Black
Her father had taught her everything she needed to know about horses when he had taught her how to ride them, and Hettie prided herself on her equestrian knowledge being as good as any knight’s.
If the two roan mares that had caught her attention were agreeable to her senses, the grubby outrider selling them was far less so, and she was forced to endure his foul habit of spitting gobbets of phlegm every second sentence as she hammered out a deal with him.
He drove hard, but she drove harder still: another thing Hettie prided herself on was being nobody’s fool. What she lacked in her mistress’s intellectual acumen she made up for with worldly-wise, good old-fashioned common sense.
‘All right, all right, three regums each I’ll let them go for, plus another half a regum for all the necessary accoutrements,’ said the horse trader at last with an exasperated sigh, scratching his chest and ejecting yet another gobbet at a nearby rat that sent it scampering away through the muddy yard. ‘Good mixed stock these rouncies,’ he continued as Hettie reached for her money purse. ‘Sturdy Vorstlending thoroughbred, foaled on the plains down south – better than those overrated Northlending nags you keep hearing about, these beasts are hardy to the core - ’
‘Spare me your after-sale tittle tattle,’ said Hettie, cutting him off as she pressed seven regums into his meaty hand. ‘And I’ll be wanting my change, thank you.’
The horse trader gave her an offended look as he took the proffered coins and reached for his own money pouch. ‘Why of course, madam, what d’ye take me for, a common vagabond? Hoi, Arlus! Get thee over here now, and see to this lady’s order!’
A ragged and no less filthy-looking boy of about twelve summers bounded over to see to his guvnor’s needs. Where the tradesman was a bloated sack of a man, his apprentice was scrawny and half-starved. Hettie guessed he was not well treated.
‘Me cousin’s son,’ offered the trader as if by way of apology. ‘Nary a more fool boy as you’ll come across, still ‘e does as he’s told, I suppose.’
Hettie nodded perfunctorily. She had no wish to get any deeper into conversation with this man – apart from the fact that he repelled her, the fewer reasons for him to remember her, the better.
While Arlus was bridling and saddling up the horses and fixing bags to the saddles, the merchant pressed six silver marks into her outstretched gloved hand. Hettie took her change and paused a moment, biting her lip and weighing up her options.
She decided she probably didn’t need to bribe the horse dealer into silence and put the coins away: he hailed from the far south of Vorstlund and led a peripatetic existence by the sounds of it, travelling for most of the year. If anything a proffered bribe might only arouse his suspicions.
‘And where will ye be wanting these horses delivered to?’ asked the horse trader once they were ready.
‘I’ll send you word of that presently,’ replied Hettie, adjusting her shawl again. ‘You’ll hear from me before sunset.’ Without another word she turned on a muddy heel and set off on her third and final errand.
Merkstaed had three inns. The custom had been brought over from the Empire several generations ago and had caught on quickly; it was a fairly simple concept that promoted convenience after all, and much less difficult to mimic than some of the other wonders of that mighty and mysterious realm across the Great White Mountains.
And a good job too, Hettie reflected, for once mindful of her mistress’s numerous history lessons: in many parts of the country it was still the custom for wayfarers to seek shelter and lodgings with ordinary townsfolk. That would have most likely scuppered their plans, for most ordinary tradesmen would have raised an eyebrow at being asked to keep a pair of horses for longer than a night or two.
But amid the bustle of a busy inn, there was always a chance an ostler could be bribed into keeping a pair of horses for a while. An innkeeper would be too busy tending to his side of the trade to notice, so long as the bribe was enough to pay for the horses’ victualling and stabling too.
That was what Hettie and her mistress were hoping anyway. Their plan had seemed a devilishly cunning one when they had sketched it out over another round of herbal tea in Adhelina’s high chamber at the castle a week ago.
But as Hettie made her way through the main market square, now a roil of noonday vendors, travel-stained wayfarers, loitering mercenaries and common prostitutes, she felt a stab of doubt. She had decided to try the Flying Fish. The newest of the inns at Merkstaed, it had been built only a generation ago and was therefore the least established of the three. It would still be busy enough that two ownerless horses should not attract attention if kept discreetly, but not so busy as to be unable to spare the space.
All the same, Hettie felt increasingly anxious as she pushed her way free of the throng and up a narrow winding road that ended with the inn.
As a privileged resident of the castle she had never had any reason to set foot there, so it was unlikely she would be recognised... yet people at inns did so love to gossip. It was a perk of the trade after all, a chance to hear and give news of the wider world. Would even a bribe secure complete silence?
Her misgivings increased when she made her way around the side of the inn courtyard and sought out the ostler. He was a stocky youth with a mop of lank, sandy hair, his pasty face blemished with an unsightly crop of pimples and a perpetual smirk that Hettie did not think boded well.
Self-consciously adjusting her shawl again she did her best to sound like the noblewoman she was as she addressed him peremptorily: ‘Ostler, might we have a word to one side?’
The smirk did not leave the ostler’s face as he replied: ‘Well, I see no one else in the yard at present, but if m’lady wishes a word to one side, who am I to refuse?’
Hettie did not care for the sarcasm in his voice any more than the suggestiveness of his words. Nevertheless she thanked him cordially as they removed themselves to a corner of the yard.
‘I would have you keep two horses for me in yonder stables,’ she said, meeting the ostler’s eyes. They were a pale watery colour, curiously bland and unpleasant to look at.
‘Aye, m’lady,’ he smirked. ‘This is an inn, and these are stables – you needn’t have taken me to one side to ask me that! And where are these beasts, pray tell? You have the look of one who has trudged here on foot: aye, and taken the long way about if I’m any judge!’
He was staring at her boots and lower skirts, which were both caked with mud. Hettie cursed inwardly but quickly regained her composure.
‘My horses are elsewhere, but I can have them brought to you directly. I need them to be kept here, to be fed, watered and tended to, for the next fortnight. Do you know how to keep the calendar?’
The youth did not leave off fixing her with a cold-eyed stare as he replied: ‘I don’t, not personally. But I knows well enough from the merchant folks as stays here the date, if you follow m’lady.’
‘Very good. In that case you’ll know that today is the 1st of Varmonath. On the 15th I shall return to collect my horses, and if you have kept them well you shall be rewarded handsomely.’
The ostler’s expression did not change. ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘I take it there’s more to this than just a matter of fourteen days’ stabling and victualling then?’
‘There is,’ confirmed Hettie. ‘You must not let on to anyone, not even the innkeeper, that you are keeping my horses. Of course I will pay in advance for the cost of keeping them, plus another sum... to ensure your silence on the matter. Finally, a third sum will be paid to you for the inconvenience when we arrive to collect the horses.’
‘We?’
‘Of course. One rider hardly needs two horses.’
‘Mm-hmm, I see... And what is this inconvenience you speak of?’
‘When we arrive to collect our horses on the 15th, it will be well after sunset… close to the Wytching Hour. I will ask that you remain alert, which will mean giving up a good night’s sleep.’
The ostler’s eyes narr
owed another fraction. Keeping horses in secret was suspicious enough, but as far as most ordinary townsfolk were concerned, riding around in the dead of night was the preserve of outlaws or worse – very few folks had any business being abroad at the Wytching Hour, fewer still any good business.
Hettie held her breath behind her shawl. This was precisely what she had feared. That the ostler could be bribed for his pains, she doubted not: townsfolk loved money more than any good Palomedian ought to. But the suspect nature of the situation might prompt him to report her to the watch – the prospect of a veiled woman asking him to keep horses in secret so she might collect them in the dead of night two weeks hence was almost too suspicious for him not to.
These thoughts went galloping through Hettie’s mind as the ostler continued to stare at her for moments that seemed like hours.
Then, still smirking, he asked: ‘Well, how much?’
Hettie felt a sense of relief wash over her.
They did not take long to agree terms. The ostler was greedy, but in a small-minded way; his sort were not used to seeing more than a few coppers a week besides bed and board, and the prospect of silver, let alone gold, in his hand seemed enough to induce him to do Hettie’s bidding with no further questions asked.
He did not even comment on her secretive appearance – but then her whole manner was secretive, her needs clearly motivated by the wish to go unremarked. And of course the date of their departure was risky – just a few nights before the wedding, which had by now been announced to all and sundry by the town criers. But the prospect of an heiress defaulting on a marriage was unthinkable to most ordinary folk – and most high-born ones too come to that. She could only hope that would keep the ostler from joining up the dots.
In the end it was agreed that besides the cost of keeping the horses she would pay the ostler five silver marks now, and another five upon collecting them. He seemed content enough with the arrangement, nodding agreeably when she told him Arlus would be along with the horses shortly.
That the horse dealer’s assistant would know where they were being kept did not trouble Hettie overly – the horse market would be finished in three days, after which he and his master would leave town.
She only wished she could feel as sure of the ostler, in spite of everything.
His sleeping quarters were located in a corner of the stables, allowing him to be alerted at night without waking up any of the inn’s other occupants – everything in this part of the plan seemed settled with her third and final errand.
Yet as Hettie turned to leave the yard she still felt anxious; turning once to look back she saw the ostler still standing in front of the stables, his hands tucked into the rude pockets of his breeches, the same smirk plastered across his pallid face.
On her way back up the hill to the castle Hettie ducked behind a tree when she felt sure there was no one else in sight. Removing her cloak and shawl she stuffed these inside a bag she had brought for the purpose, extracting in turn her more familiar russet-red mantle.
The latter was a gift Adhelina had given her four years ago for her fourteenth birthday, when she had come of age. It was made of the richest wool and lined with pretty silver sequins and quite valuable – Hettie was rarely seen about the castle without it.
She fastened it about her neck with a silver clasp fashioned to resemble two embracing cherubs. It felt good to be one’s true self again – really all this subterfuge was too much for an honest girl to bear, but she supposed it was sadly necessary. Her mistress’s mind was set on this course of action – and Hettie would follow her to the ends of the earth if need be.
Stepping back on to the road, she continued her steady trudge back up to the castle.
CHAPTER III
The Harpist On The Roof
Adelko and Vaskrian had just reached the top floor of Strongholm Palace when they heard the plangent notes of a harp from somewhere above them.
‘Where d’you think that’s coming from?’ said Vaskrian, his eyes lighting up.
‘It sounds like it’s coming from up above us,’ replied Adelko, casting his eyes to the ceiling, ‘it must be the roof.’
‘Let’s go and find out!’ said Vaskrian with a grin, tugging at Adelko’s habit and bounding off down the corridor.
The squire had good reasons to be cheerful. They had been staying in the palace for a week, and already he had found his own personal paradise in the well-equipped royal barracks.
Better still, he’d secured himself a new position. Lord Visigard, the Royal Marshal in charge of the capital’s security, had pressed him into the King’s Army. Sir Ulfstan of Alfheim was a respectable vassal who hailed from the plains north of Strongholm: his old squire had been recently knighted, opening up a vacancy for a promising young sword.
A warm bed and three square meals a day were enough to keep Adelko in high spirits of his own. And then there was the palace itself: it was by far the largest building he had ever been in, and he’d longed to explore it.
He hadn’t had the chance to do that properly until today: Horskram had insisted on confining him to the chamber they shared during the day, so he could resume his long-delayed instruction in lore and scripture.
Both he and Vaskrian had been left at a loose end that afternoon: Horskram was conferring with the King and his advisers, while Sir Ulfstan was visiting a house of ill repute in the low city (perhaps he wasn’t so respectable after all). They had decided to explore the palace together, to while away the hours until feasting time after sunset.
It had proved time well spent. The palace’s vaulted corridors and grand chambers – festooned with a rudely splendid assortment of arms, tapestries, skins, furs and the odd statue and rough-hewn fresco – had given the pair plenty to marvel at. If this was what the Northlending King’s residence looked like, Adelko could only wonder what the palaces of richer realms like Pangonia and the Sassanian Sultanates must be like. Perhaps he’d get to visit the famous White Palace at Rima too, if they ever got there.
A few servants had scowled at them suspiciously, but the King had let it be known they were in service with Master Horskram, a cherished friend to the House of Ingwin. The exorcism he had performed on Lady Walsa, Freidheim’s cousin and sister to his late wife Queen Weirhilda, had placed him in high standing with the royal family. Privilege by association was always worth taking advantage of – commoners didn’t get the freedom of their king’s palace every day.
Adelko followed Vaskrian, struggling to keep up – he’d never been a fast runner and wasn’t nearly as athletic as his older friend. But something in that music was having the same effect on him as the squire.
He hadn’t heard anything quite like it before – even through the ceiling, the notes were alluring and stoked up mixed emotions in his breast. He felt euphoric and melancholy at the same time. Feasting-time in the Hall of Kings also meant jugglers, musicians, dancing girls and other ribald entertainments, but Northlendings didn’t play music like this.
A few minutes of scurrying up and down corridors brought them to a narrow flight of stairs leading up to the roof. The music was louder now; above the melodious strings they could hear a dulcet voice begin to sing. As they ascended the stairs, Adelko tripping clumsily on his habit, it grew louder still; other voices could be heard singing in harmony with the leader.
‘Come on!’ hissed Vaskrian, grabbing Adelko and hauling him back on to his feet.
They emerged on to the windswept roof of the palace. Perched against its crenelated walls lounged a handsome knight, playing a harp and singing in a high clear voice. Another half a dozen men of similar appearance loitered around him, joining their voices to the chorus with gusto.
The leader knight was tall and slim, his lithe body well made despite his lack of bulk. His long auburn tresses swirled about him; grey-green eyes sparkled in acknowledgement as the two youths approached him. He was sumptuously dressed in black velvet breeches and doublet trimmed with gold lace arranged in pleasing arboreal
patterns. Around his slender waist was a girdle of dyed green leather with a gold clasp fashioned to resemble two interlocking daggers. A real poignard hung from this, its hilt and baldric chased with damascened silver that offset the rich bark-coloured leather of the scabbard. His boots were of the supplest doe-skin and a rich green colour.
Three of his companions were similarly attired, though somewhat less splendidly, while the other three were more plainly dressed in similar colours. Most of them had the same pale complexion and auburn hair as their leader. One knight was considerably older than the rest, with greying hair; another had raven-black tresses and looked almost as handsome as the knight playing the harp.
Several of them bore signs of injury: Adelko could spot the tell-tale bulk of bandages beneath the rich clothing. His own head injury had healed somewhat, though his swaddled forehead still throbbed. He suddenly felt self-conscious: what must he look like, a pious monk with his head all trussed up?
The flamboyant knights did not cease their song. Adelko recognised the language as Thrax. He wasn’t quite fluent, but he knew enough to follow the words:
From far across the field
The sun reached for the sky
The sad knight raised his shield
As he prepared to die
His coat of mail was stained
With blood from head to toe
His heart forever pained
By thoughts no swain should know
High above the clouds
The mountain castle loomed
The damsel wept aloud
She knew her love was doomed
Her face was streaked with tears
Her soul it knew remorse
Her brave knight knew no fear
His life had run its course
At this point the rest of the company joined in on what Adelko supposed must be the chorus:
So be wary ye knights and ladies
