Then there was the matter of the three new arrivals, the crossbowmen. It might be timely for Halt to hear about them. Will was sure that his old mentor would know who they were—or at least, where they came from and what their purpose would be.
All in all, Will decided, it was time for him to leave the followers of Alseiass.
He clicked his tongue and Tug trotted briskly to him, all thoughts of grazing forgotten. Quickly, Will saddled the horse, strapping his pack, mandola case and camping gear to the ties provided for them. Then he took a long oilskin-wrapped bundle that remained on the ground and opened it to reveal his longbow and quiver. He strung the longbow, slipped the strap of the quiver over his shoulder and mounted Tug.
He rode quickly through the outskirts of the camp, not making any attempt at concealment. That would only attract suspicion, he knew. As the tent lines began to thin out, he increased the pace to a trot, stopping briefly when one of the outer ring of pickets stepped into his path, his hand raised.
“Just a moment! Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m leaving,” Will said. The man was standing on his right side, and Will slipped his right boot out of the stirrup.
“Nobody leaves,” the sentry said. “Get back into camp now.”
He had a spear. So far, he had kept the haft grounded, but now he began to raise it, to bar Will’s way.
“No. I have to go,” Will said in a pleasant tone. “You see, my poor old auntie on my mother’s side sent me a letter and said . . .”
A little pressure from his left knee had told Tug to shuffle closer to the man as he was talking. He could remember Halt’s teaching: If you’re planning to surprise someone, keep talking to him right up until you do it. He could see the annoyance on the sentry’s face as he rambled on about his auntie on his mother’s side. The man was drawing breath to cut him off and order him back into camp when Will shot his booted right foot forward, straightening his knee and slamming the sole of the boot hard into the man’s face.
The man stumbled and went down, and Will urged Tug into a gallop. By the time the dazed sentry had regained his feet and found the spear that had gone spinning out of his hand, Will and Tug had been swallowed by the early evening gloom. There was only the sound of fast-receding hoofbeats to mark the fact that they had been there.
35
HALT AND HORACE RETURNED TO THE COURTYARD, WHERE Kicker and Abelard waited patiently.
Halt was silent as they mounted and rode out of the castle, deep in thought. Horace was hardly surprised. Halt at the best of times was taciturn, and today he had a lot to occupy his mind. Horace tried to imagine what it must have been like for his unofficial mentor—for he too had learned a great deal from Halt and continued to do so—to face his treacherous brother after his long absence. A wry grin touched his mouth as he considered the other side of the coin. Presumably it had been a disturbing experience for Halt. But it must have been ten times worse for Ferris, he thought, and the King’s behavior had borne that out. The thought of the King brought a question to his lips, and he asked it abruptly, without any preamble.
“Do you trust him, Halt?” The Ranger looked up at him, and his answer told Horace that he had been thinking along the same lines.
“Ferris? Not as far as I could kick him. And I’d enjoy seeing how far that might be,” he added, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “But I trust Sean. He’ll keep Ferris in line.”
“He’s a good man,” Horace agreed. “But can he really do that? After all, Ferris is the King. Surely he can do as he likes?”
But Halt shook his head.“It’s not that easy, even for a king. Especially for this one,” he added. “Ferris knows he needs Sean. He relies on him. You don’t think any of those castle guards care a fig about what Ferris wants, do you? Didn’t you notice that when Ferris dismissed them, none of them moved until Sean gave them the nod? If Ferris tries to cheat us or trick us, he’ll alienate Sean. And right now, he needs him.”
“I suppose so,” Horace agreed. Halt invariably knew more about this sort of thing than he did. Horace, like most soldiers, hated politics, and avoided it as much as he could. Rangers, as he’d noted on more than one occasion, seemed at home with the secret dealing, scheming and subterfuge that seemed to go with ruling a country. If Halt was satisfied, Horace thought, that was good enough for him. He had more pressing matters to engage his attention.
Like lunch.
“What do we do now?” he asked after a few more minutes of silence. Halt looked up, snapped out of his reverie by the question.
“I suppose we find a comfortable inn,” he said. Horace nodded, then a thought struck him.
“What about Will? How will he know where to find us?”
“He’ll manage,” Halt said confidently. Then he stretched his stiff back and shoulder muscles. “Let’s find that inn. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a few hours’ sleep.”
Horace nodded agreement. “Yes, a good meal and then a few hours in a soft bed would do wonders.”
“I think I’ll skip the meal,” said Halt.
Horace looked at him, horrified. How anyone could contemplate such a thing was beyond him.
They found a suitable inn at the base of the hill that led up to Dun Kilty castle. The inn was a two-story building—as most inns were—but this was more substantial than most. The taproom and bar were large, and the ceilings a little higher than normal, avoiding the cramped feeling that Horace had experienced in the Mountshannon and Craikennis inns. He could stand erect under the ceiling beams in this building, and he gave a small sigh of relief when he realized the fact. More than once since they’d been traveling in Hibernia, he’d managed to crack his head on low ceiling beams.
The guest rooms were on the second floor. They were large and airy, with glass-paned windows that opened wide to let the breeze in and allowed a view of the high street in either direction. If you craned out, as Horace did, you could even catch a glimpse of the castle, high on the hill above them.
The sheets on the beds were clean, and the blankets had been well aired. Too often in his long career, Halt had been forced to stay in establishments where the sheets bore ample evidence of those who had gone before him. He looked around the room with approval, tested the mattress with his hands, and the approval grew.
“We’ll take it,” he told the landlady, who had showed them the room. She nodded. She had expected no less.
“How many nights?” she asked. Halt considered the question.
“Tonight and tomorrow night,” he told her. “We may stay longer, but that’ll do for the moment.” He reached into the wallet hanging at his belt and paid her in advance for the two nights. The landlady curtseyed with surprising grace for one with such a large girth and squirreled the money away into a pocket in her apron.
“Thank you, your honor,” she said, and Halt nodded.
She stood expectantly. “Will there be anything else?”
“No. We’ll be fine,” Halt said. But Horace interrupted him.
“Are you still serving food in the taproom?” he asked, and her face was wreathed in a huge smile.
“God’s love, but of course we are, young man! And you with the look on you that you could eat a horse!”
Halt never ceased to be fascinated by the way women, young or old, big or small, could not resist the temptation to feed Horace.
“I’d prefer a steak,” the young warrior said, grinning.
The landlady chuckled, her multiple chins wobbling with the effort. “And you’ll have it, young sir! I’ll tell Eva to put one on for you.”
“I could be a bit peckish myself,” Halt said peevishly. He wasn’t. He merely said it to see what would happen. As he guessed, his comment was completely ignored. The landlady continued to beam at Horace.
“Just come on down whenever you’re ready, young sir,” she told Horace effusively.
Halt shrugged and gave up. He slumped back on the bed, hands behind his head, and heaved a si
gh of satisfaction. The landlady regarded him icily.
“Boots off the bed cover!” she said archly, and Halt complied quickly.
She sniffed and was turning away as he mumbled, “Bet you wouldn’t have said that to Horace.”
She swung back instantly, suspicion writ large on her face. “What was that?”
In his life, Halt had faced Wargals, the terrible Kalkara, blood-mad Skandians and charging Temujai hordes without a quaver. But a bad-tempered landlady was a different matter altogether.
“Nothing,” he told her meekly.
When Horace returned an hour later, his belt satisfyingly tight around his middle, Halt was stretched out on one of the beds. Horace locked and bolted the door, then smiled as he saw that the Ranger’s boots were standing together beside the bed and the cover had been turned back.
Halt was snoring softly, a fact that interested Horace. He had never known Halt to snore when they were camped out in hostile territory. The Ranger always slept as light as a cat, woken by the slightest sound. Perhaps when they were in such situations, Halt never reached the realm of deep sleep that led to the gentle whiffling sound that he heard now.
Horace yawned. The sight of the Ranger stretched out and relaxed made him realize how tired he was himself. It had been a hectic few days, and the only good night’s sleep they had enjoyed had been at Mountshannon, in the deserted inn. Since then, there had been a lot of hard riding. He sat on the other bed, removed his boots and lay back. The pillow was soft, and the mattress, after weeks of sleeping on cold, unyielding earth, was heavenly. He was still marveling at how comfortable he felt when he fell asleep.
Someone coughed.
Instantly, Horace shot upright in the bed, confused and disoriented, wondering where he was for a few seconds before he remembered. The light outside the window was dying as dusk crept over Dun Kilty. He glanced at Halt. The Ranger was still lying on the bed, hands behind his head. In the dimming light, Horace could see that Halt’s eyes were closed, but the Ranger spoke now without opening them.
“That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there,” he said.
“I thought I’d stumbled on Sleeping Beauty and her ugly sister,” said another voice, “waiting for the kiss of true love to wake them from their slumbers. Forgive me if I didn’t oblige.”
Horace spun around at the voice. A cloaked, cowled figure was sitting in the darkest corner of the room—Will, he realized.
Halt’s voice was scornful when he replied. “Sleeping? I’ve been wide awake since you stumbled up the stairs and crashed through the door like a one-legged kick-dancer. Who could sleep through that racket?”
I could, obviously, Horace thought. Then he remembered that he had locked the door behind him and wondered how Will had managed to bypass that little problem. He shrugged. Will was a Ranger. They could do such things. His friend laughed as he replied to Halt’s statement.
“That’s a strange noise you make when you’re wide awake,” he said, the smile evident in his voice. “What is it they call it? Oh, yes, snoring. Quite a talent. Most people can only do it when they’re asleep.”
Halt sat up now, swung his legs off the bed, stretched his arms above his head and shook himself.
“Well, of course I continued with the pretense of snoring,” he said. “I wanted to see how long you’d continue to sit there.”
“And how long did I?” Will challenged.
Halt shook his head sadly and turned to Horace. “Horace, when you get older, try to avoid being saddled with an apprentice. Not only are they a damned nuisance, but apparently they constantly feel the need to get the better of their masters. They’re bad enough when they’re learning. But when they graduate, they become unbearable.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” Horace said gravely. But he noticed that Halt had contrived to avoid answering Will’s question. The younger Ranger had noticed it too, but he decided to let his mentor off the hook.
Halt busied himself lighting the small lantern on the table between the two beds. As the flame flared up and the lens of the lamp spread its soft light into the corners of the room, he turned to Will curiously.
“I didn’t expect you so soon,” he said. “Did something go wrong?”
Will shrugged.“Not really. Tennyson decided that minstrels weren’t welcome in his camp and wanted to confiscate my mandola, so—”
“Your what?” Halt asked, frowning.
Will sighed in frustration. “My lute.”
Halt nodded, understanding now. “Oh. Right. Carry on.”
Will raised his eyebrows at Horace, and the warrior smiled in sympathy.
“So,” Will continued, “I decided to get out. They’re breaking camp anyway, and they’re heading directly here.”
Halt rubbed his beard reflectively. “I didn’t expect that,” he said. “I thought he’d spend a few more days gathering supporters.”
“He doesn’t need them. He must have four hundred with him now. Plus, I think the news of Craikennis has spooked him. A messenger arrived the other day, and his news had Tennyson very upset indeed. I think he had the messenger killed, as a matter of fact.”
“Makes sense,” Horace put in. “He wouldn’t want news of the Sunrise Warrior’s victory getting out.”
“No. He wouldn’t,” said Halt. “And you say he has four hundred people with him now?”
“At least,” Will said. “Of course, the bulk of them are country folk, not trained fighters. But he’s got an inner circle of supporters, including those two giant bruisers, Killeen and Gerard.”
“Still, a force of four hundred isn’t to be sneezed at. I doubt if Ferris could raise more than a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty troops. That’s if they chose to obey him.”
“How did it go with Ferris?” Will asked. “Was he pleased to see you after all this time?”
“Hardly,” Halt said dryly. “He’d already been in contact with Tennyson. He was thinking of selling out.”
“Was?” Will prompted.
“I think Halt persuaded him otherwise,” Horace said, with a grim smile. “We’re going back for his decision tomorrow.”
Will shook his head doubtfully. “You’re cutting it fine, then. The Outsiders could be here by tomorrow.”
“ That could make things awkward,” Halt said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. If I try to rush him and see him tonight, he’ll dig his heels in. Particularly if he thinks we’re panicking.” He considered the matter in silence for a few seconds, then continued. “No. We’ll stick to the original schedule. Will, for the moment, we’ll keep you out of sight. You stay here.”
Will shrugged. “If you say so. Any particular reason? You’re not ashamed of me, are you?” he added in a bantering tone.
A faint smile touched Halt’s face, the equivalent of a guffaw in anyone else. “No more than normally,” he said. “No. But Ferris is used to the two of us. If we turn up with an extra person, it’ll make him suspicious.” He sighed. “Anything makes that man suspicious. And besides, it might be useful if we keep you in reserve. It never hurts to have a potential ace up your sleeve.”
“So I’m an ace?” Will grinned. “I’m flattered, Halt, flattered. I had no idea you regarded me so highly.”
Halt gave him a long-suffering look. “I might have been more accurate to say a joker.”
“Whatever you say.” A thought struck Will. “Oh, I meant to say: Tennyson has three new recruits. Foreigners, dressed in leather, with dull purple cloaks and large, feathered hats. They carry crossbows and a whole array of nasty-looking daggers—and they look as if they know how to use them.”
Halt’s expression grew serious. At the mention of the weapons, he nodded.
“Genovesans,” he said softly.
“Whonovesans?” Horace asked. He’d never heard the word before.
Halt shook his head. “You warriors don’t do much geography in Battleschool, do you?”
Horace shrugged. “We’re not big on that sort of thing. We wai
t for our leader to point to an enemy and say, ‘Go whack him.’ We leave geography and such to Rangers. We like you to feel superior.”
“Go whack him, indeed,” Halt said. “It must be comforting to lead such an uncomplicated life. They’re from the city of Genovesa, in Toscana. They’re mercenaries and professional assassins—that’s pretty much the main industry in the city. In addition to their weapons, they usually know a dozen ways to poison their victims. If Tennyson has hired three of them, he’s upping the stakes. They don’t come cheap, and they’re trouble.”
Will was nodding knowledgeably. “Genovesans. I thought as much,” he said. Horace shot a pained look in his direction.
“You had no idea,” he said, and Will couldn’t manage to keep a straight face.
“Maybe not. But I knew they were trouble,” he said. His smile faded as Halt replied.
“Oh, they’re trouble, all right. They’re big trouble. Be very careful if you come up against them, both of you.”
36
“I CAN’T DO IT,” SAID FERRIS. HALT’S EYES DARKENED IN ANGER AS he looked at his brother. Ferris shrank back onto his throne as if the oversized wooden seat gave him strength.
“I won’t,” he repeated petulantly. “I can’t. And you can’t force me to do it.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Halt told him. He glanced at Horace and Sean, saw the contempt on one face and the bitter disappointment on the other. But he knew Ferris was right. He couldn’t force him to stand up to Tennyson.
“Why should I, Halt? Why should I do what you say? What’s in it for you, after all?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he said the words. In Ferris’s world, people only did things out of self-interest. Now he wondered what Halt stood to gain if he, Ferris, denounced Tennyson as a charlatan. And as he had the thought, the obvious answer rose up before him. He slid off the throne and stepped forward to face Halt, emboldened now that he could see his brother’s ulterior motive.
“Suddenly, I see. You want me to stand against Tennyson in the hope that he and his followers will kill me. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll let them do your dirty work for you, and then you’ll magically reappear and take my place on the throne. And I wager you’ll simply accept Tennyson’s conditions when you do.”
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 24
