“It’s a very good thing,” he said. “I’m rather looking forward to a confrontation with Tennyson.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched. It had been a long day, he thought. And there were more long days to come.
“Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “Will, tomorrow I want you to go after Tennyson and keep an eye on him. He’s seen Horace and me, but he doesn’t know you. You can do your minstrel act again.”
Will nodded agreement. It would be relatively simple to join a large, unorganized group like the one that would be following Tennyson. As a minstrel, he’d be able to move easily among them.
“If he follows the usual Outsider pattern, he’ll take a long swing through the countryside gathering followers and reach Dun Kilty in a week or so. But once you get an idea what he’s up to, come and let us know.”
“Where will I find you?” Will asked, although he sensed that he already knew the answer.
“We’ll be at Dun Kilty. It’s time I had a family reunion with my brother.”
31
DUN KILTY WAS AN IMPRESSIVE CASTLE, HORACE THOUGHT. Built inside a walled town and set on the craggy outcrop that gave it its name, it loomed high over the lesser buildings that surrounded it, its massive gray walls standing ten meters high in places.
“This wasn’t thrown together in a hurry,” he said to Halt as they made their way up a street crowded with merchants, food stalls, artisans at work and people pushing carts full of everything from building materials to vegetables, from sides of meat to piles of fresh manure. Horace noted with some misgiving that the last two tended to brush together, leaving some of the manure smeared over the carcasses. He decided he’d have fish for dinner that night.
“It’s an ancient fortress,” Halt told him. “It’s several hundred years older than Castle Araluen. And it was here long before the town grew up around it.”
Horace pursed his lips, suitably impressed. Then Halt ruined the effect by adding, “Drafty as all hell in winter, too.”
They’d parted company with Will two days before, electing to ride directly for Dun Kilty. As Halt had predicted, vague rumors of the result of the battle at Craikennis had already gone ahead of them. Once again, he marveled at the way it happened without any apparent human agency.
Rumors were also spreading of the way Tennyson had repulsed the attack on Mountshannon, and Halt sensed an air of uncertainty among the people they spoke to. People weren’t quite sure which banner they should flock to. Rumors about the Outsiders and their ability to protect villages and settlements from the lawlessness that was rife throughout the country had been circulating for some time now. Word had even come from the other kingdoms. The Sunrise Warrior, however, was a new phenomenon, even if the legend was well known, and people were torn. There was a sense of “let’s wait and see,” which was exactly the result Halt had hoped for.
The previous night, camped by the side of the highway, he had been busy. Horace watched him unwrapping his pens, inks, parchments and sealing wax tablets and had sighed. Halt was about to indulge in what he called “creative documentation.” Horace called it forgery. He remembered a time when Halt’s skill as a forger had horrified him. He was less bothered by it now. Not for the first time, he decided that his declining moral standards were a result of his spending too much time in the company of Rangers.
Halt glanced up, seeing the expression on the younger man’s face.
“It’s just a laissez-passer from Duncan. A request that you be allowed entry to the royal throne room,” he said. “It’ll give us access to Ferris.”
“Couldn’t you just tell Ferris you’re back?” Horace said. “Surely he’d agree to see his own brother?”
Halt stuck his bottom lip out while he considered the statement. “Maybe,” he said.“Or maybe he’d find it simpler to have me killed. This is better. Besides, I want to pick the right moment to let him know that I am back.”
“I suppose so,” Horace agreed. He still wasn’t completely happy about the idea of carrying forged credentials. He watched as Halt applied a perfect copy of the Araluen royal seal to a splodge of soft wax at the base of the document.
Halt glanced up. “Duncan would have given us one himself if we’d had the time to ask. I don’t know why you’re so worried,” he said.
Horace pointed to the seal as Halt returned it to the small leather sack where he kept it.
“Maybe. But does he know you have that?”
Halt didn’t answer immediately. “Not really,” he said, “but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Or me, more importantly.”
It was a capital crime in Araluen to even possess a replica of the King’s seal, let alone use it. Duncan, of course, was only too aware that Halt had forged his seal and signature on numerous occasions. He thought it better overall to pretend that he knew nothing about it.
Halt shook the sheet of paper to dry the ink and allow the wax to harden. Then he laid it down carefully.
“Now for your shield,” he said.
The linen shield cover had been badly torn during Horace’s encounter with Padraig. He needed something more permanent. During the afternoon, they had passed a village and Halt had procured paint and several brushes. Now he busied himself painting the sunrise insignia onto Horace’s shield. Horace noted that the tip of Halt’s tongue tended to protrude as he concentrated. It made the grizzled Ranger look surprisingly youthful.
“There!” he said, as he concluded drawing the horizontal black line along the bottom of the three-quarter circle depicting the sun. “Not bad at all.”
He held the shield up for Horace’s comment and the warrior nodded.
“Nice work,” he said. “A bit more stylish than the old oakleaf you painted on my shield in Gallica.”
Halt grinned.“Yes. That was a rush job. Bit rough, wasn’t it? This is much better. Mind you, circles and straight lines are a bit easier to paint than an oakleaf.”
He leaned the shield against a tree stump to dry. By morning, the paint had hardened and they rode on, Horace once more bearing the insignia of the Sunrise Warrior.
Occasionally, as they rode through Dun Kilty, there were murmurings and fingers pointed at the insignia. Comments were made behind hands. People had noticed, he thought. And they recognized the design.
Something had been troubling Horace, and he decided it was time to raise the matter.
“Halt,” he said, “I’ve been wondering . . .”
Instantly, he regretted beginning that way, as Halt assumed the long-suffering look he always adopted when either of his young companions gave him an opportunity.
“Aren’t you concerned,” he forged on, “that people might . . . recognize you at the castle?”
“Recognize me?” Halt said. “Nobody there has seen me since I was a boy.”
“Well, perhaps not you. But you and . . .” He hesitated, then decided that it might not be wise to mention Halt’s relationship to Ferris in the street. “You know who . . . are twins, right? So presumably you look alike. Aren’t you worried that people might go, ‘Oh, look, there goes . . . you know who . . . in a gray cloak’? ”
“Aaah, I see what you mean. I doubt it’ll happen. After all, the cowl of my cloak hides most of my face. And people will be looking at you, not me.”
“I suppose so,” Horace admitted. He hadn’t considered that.
Halt continued. “In any event, there are substantial differences these days between you know who and myself. I have a full beard, whereas he trims his as a goatee, a ridiculous tuft on the chin only. And his mustache is smaller.” He saw the question in Horace’s eyes and explained, “I have been back here occasionally. I just never let anyone know.”
Horace nodded, understanding.
“In addition,” Halt continued, “he wears his hair drawn back from his face, while mine is sort of . . .” He hesitated, looking for the right word.
“Shaggy and unkempt—” Horace stopped himself just too late. Halt’s haircut was a so
re point. People were always criticizing it. The Ranger eyed him grimly.
“Thank you for that,” he said. There was a pause, and he concluded stiffly, “I don’t think it will be a problem. Nobody expects a king to be ‘shaggy and unkempt,’ as you so kindly put it.”
Horace considered replying, but decided it might be wiser not to. They rode on, up a steep, winding path that led to the castle gates. They rode slowly, passing traffic traveling on foot. They were the only mounted men to approach the castle, and they drew interested glances from the locals.
“Look haughty,” Halt said out of the side of his mouth. “You’re on an official mission for the King of Araluen.”
“I’m on a forged mission, as a matter of fact,” Horace replied in the same lowered tone. “That’s not something to look haughty about.”
“They’ll never know. I’m an expert forger.” He sounded pleased with the fact, and Horace glanced at him.
“That’s not really something to be proud of, you know,” he said.
Halt grinned cheerfully at him. “Aaah, I enjoy being around you, Horace,” he said. “You remind me of how decadent I’ve become. Now, look haughty.”
“I’d rather look enigmatic. I think I’ve got that down pretty well by now,” Horace told him. Halt glanced up in mild surprise. Horace was growing up and gaining in confidence, he realized. It wasn’t as easy to confuse him these days as it used to be. Sometimes, Halt even had the suspicion that Horace was indulging in the sort of leg-pulling that Halt used to do to him. He couldn’t think of a suitably crushing reply, so he simply grunted.
The castle gates were open. There was, after all, no immediate threat to the town, and there was a constant stream of traffic moving in and out of the castle forecourt.
Wagons, carts, people on foot carrying bundles on their backs, all streamed back and forth. A royal castle, of course, had a constant need for foodstuffs and other comforts such as wine and ale. And in an ancient castle like this, there was always repair work to be done. Provedores mingled with workmen and tradespeople in a mass of seething humanity. Horace was reminded of a disturbed anthill as he looked around him.
Yet, even though the gates were unlocked, there were still guards on either side of the entry. Seeing the two mounted strangers, they stepped forward, holding their spears crossed to bar them access until they were identified. A few pedestrians in front of Halt and Horace shoved and sidled past the crossed spear shafts, anxious to get inside and get on with their work.
“And who might you be when you’re at home?” the taller of the two guards asked.
Horace hid a smile. Things had a certain raffish informality here in Clonmel. At Castle Araluen, a guard would have pronounced the formulaic demand: Stand and be recognized.
“Sir Horace, knight of the Kingdom of Araluen, the Sunrise Warrior from the East, with messages from Great King Duncan for King Ferris,” Halt replied. Horace stared straight ahead, his face a mask. So, King Duncan was Great King Duncan whereas Ferris was just King Ferris. Halt seemed to be indulging in a little verbal oneupsmanship, he thought.
Horace kept his face impassive, but his eyes were alert, darting around the crowd, and he saw a few people stop and take notice as Halt said the words Sunrise Warrior.
The guard, however, didn’t seem to be impressed by the title. Guards were seldom impressed by anything, Horace thought. The guard held out a hand to Halt.
“Documents now? Would you be having any of ’em to say you are who you say you are?”
Hibernians had a lilting way of talking, Horace thought. But he reached into his gauntlet and produced the laissez-passer that Halt had prepared the previous night. He passed it to Halt, who passed it to the sentry. Horace looked away and yawned. He thought that was a nice touch—the sort of thing he might do if he were haughty. Or enigmatic.
The sentry scrutinized the pass. Of course, he couldn’t read it, but the royal crest and seal of Araluen looked official and impressive. He looked at his companion.
“They’re all right,” he said. He handed the document back to Halt, who passed it to Horace. Then the sentries uncrossed their spear shafts and stood back, allowing Halt and Horace to pass into the courtyard of the castle.
They rode toward the central keep, where the administrative section of the castle would be situated. They went through the rigmarole of having their documents examined once more, this time by a sergeant of the guard. Horace reflected that Halt had been right. Few people looked at the Ranger. Instead, they tended to concentrate their attention on Horace, who, in full armor and riding a high-stepping battlehorse, appeared to be the more impressive of the two visitors. If any of the guards were asked later to describe Halt, he doubted that they’d be able to.
They left their horses outside the keep and were directed inside by another guard, to the third floor, where Ferris’s audience room was situated. Here they were stopped yet again—this time by his steward, a young, pleasant-faced man. Horace studied him keenly. The steward had the look of a warrior about him. He wore a long sword and looked as if he might know how to use it. He was nearly as tall as Horace, although not so broad in the shoulders. Dark, curly hair framed a thin, intelligent face, and he had a ready, if slightly tired, smile for them.
“You’re welcome here,” he said. “We’re always glad to see our Araluen cousins. My name is Sean Carrick.”
From the shadows of his cowl, Halt looked at the young man with interest. Carrick was the royal family name. This young man was some relative of Ferris’s. That made sense, he thought. Kings often appointed their family members to positions of trust. It also meant he was a relative of Halt’s.
Horace reached out a hand. “Horace,” he said. “Knight of the court of Araluen. Company commander of the Royal Guard, champion to the Royal Princess Cassandra.”
Sean Carrick glanced down at the document that Halt had tendered yet again, a small smile on his lips. “So I noticed,” he said. Then he added, his head cocked sideways, “But I’ve heard rumors about someone called the Sunrise Warrior?” He let the question hang between them, looking pointedly at the insignia on Horace’s surcoat. In addition to the shield art, Halt had provided Horace with a new linen surcoat bearing the sunrise coat of arms.
“I have been called that,” Horace told him, neither confirming nor denying the identity. Sean nodded, satisfied with the answer. He glanced at the woodsman standing slightly behind the tall warrior facing him. He frowned. Was there something vaguely familiar about the man?
Before he could frame the obvious question, Horace said casually, “This is my man. Michael.” He recalled that he himself had been Michael earlier in the week. It was a name that got about, he thought, grinning to himself.
Sean Carrick nodded, instantly dismissing Halt from his mind. “Of course.” He glanced at a massive pair of doors behind his desk. “The King has no visitors with him at the moment. Let me see if he’s prepared to receive you.”
He smiled apologetically, then slipped through the doors, closing them behind him. He was gone for several minutes. Then he returned, beckoning them forward.
“King Ferris will receive you now,” he said. “I’ll ask you to leave your weapons here.”
The request made sense. Horace and Halt left their various weapons on his massive desk. Horace noted, with slight misgiving, that although Halt’s throwing knife scabbard was empty, the weapon was nowhere to be seen on the desk. He pushed the moment of doubt aside. Halt knew what he was doing, he thought, as they moved toward the big double doors.
Carrick ushered them into the throne room. It was small as throne rooms went, Horace thought, although he really only had experience of Duncan’s throne room. That was an elongated affair with high, soaring ceilings. This one was square in shape, with the sides of the square no more than ten meters in length. At the far end, on a dais and seated on a plain wooden throne, was King Ferris.
Sean Carrick introduced them and then backed away. Ferris looked up at them curiously, wonde
ring why there was a delegation from Araluen and why he hadn’t heard of it any sooner. He beckoned them toward him. Horace led the way, Halt shadowing him a few steps behind.
As they came closer, Horace studied the King of Clonmel. The relationship to Halt was plain, he thought. But there were differences. The face was fuller, and the extra flesh meant that the features were not so well defined. Ferris was obviously a man who enjoyed the comforts of his table. And his body showed signs of it as well. Whereas Halt was lean and tough as whipcord, his twin was slightly overweight and looked soft.
Then there were the differences of style. As Halt had said, Ferris wore his beard in a goatee, and the mustache above it was trimmed neatly. His hair was pulled back tightly from his forehead and held in place by a worked leather band that went around his temples. And Ferris’s hair and beard were jet black, making him look at least ten years younger than his grizzled, gray-bearded twin. Horace looked more closely. The hair color was artificial, he decided. It was too glossy and too even.
The eyes were different as well. Where Halt’s were steady and unwavering, Ferris seemed to find it difficult to hold eye contact for a long period. His eyes slid away from those who faced him, searching the back of the room, as if ever fearful of trouble.
Horace and Halt heard the door click softly shut behind them as Carrick left the room. They were alone with King Ferris, although Horace was willing to bet there were a dozen men within easy reach of the throne room, all peering through spyholes to make sure no threat was made to the King.
Ferris spoke now, indicating the cloaked, cowled figure beside Horace.
“Sir Horace,” he said. Horace started slightly. The voice was almost identical to Halt’s. He doubted that he’d be able to tell the difference between the two if his eyes were closed. Although Ferris’s Hibernian accent was more marked, he realized. “Does your man have no manners? It’s not fitting that he keeps his head covered before the King.”
Horace glanced uncertainly at Halt. But the Ranger was already reaching up to push the cowl back from his face. As he did so, Horace glanced at the King once more. He was frowning. Something was familiar about the roughly dressed figure before him, but he couldn’t quite . . .
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 21
