Diviciacus came to the point with barbarous directness: “Himself wants to know if you’re of a mind to join forces with him and squeeze the pimple called Aragis off the arse of mankind.”
“Does he?” Gerin said. In a way, that was logical: Aragis blocked Gerin’s ambitions no less than Adiatunnus’. In another way … “Why wouldn’t I be more likely to combine with a man of my own blood against an invader?”
“Adiatunnus says he reckons you reckon Aragis more a thorn in your side than his own self.” Diviciacus smiled at the subtlety of his chief’s reasoning, and indeed it was more subtle than most northerners could have produced. The envoy went on, “Forbye, he says that once the Archer is after being cut into catmeat, you can go your way and he his, with no need at all for the twain of ye to clomp heads like bull aurochs in rutting season.”
“He says that?” Gerin didn’t believe it would work so; he didn’t think Adiatunnus believed it, either. Which meant—
He was distracted from what it meant when Duren came in and said, “I’m bored, Papa. Play ball with me or something.”
“A fine bairn,” Diviciacus said. “He’d have, what—four summers on him?” At Gerin’s nod, the Trokmê also nodded, and went on, “Aye, he’s much of a size with my youngest but one, who has the same age.”
Gerin was so used to thinking of Trokmoi as warriors, as enemies, that he needed a moment to adjust to the notion of Diviciacus as a fond father. He supposed he shouldn’t have been taken aback; without fathers, the Trokmoi would have disappeared in a generation (and the lives of all the Elabonians north of the High Kirs would have become much easier). But it caught him by surprise all the same.
To Duren, he said, “I can’t play now. I’m talking with this man.” Duren stamped his foot and filled himself full of air, preparatory to letting out an angry screech. Gerin said, “Do you want my hand on your backside?” Duren deflated; his screech remained unhowled. Convinced his father meant what he said, Duren went off to look for amusement somewhere else.
“Good on you for training him to respect his elders, him still so small and all,” Diviciacus said. “Now tell me straight how you fancy the notion of your men and those of Adiatunnus grinding Aragis between ’em like wheat in the quern.”
“It has possibilities.” Gerin didn’t want to say no straight out, for fear of angering Adiatunnus and of giving him the idea of throwing in with Aragis instead. The Fox reckoned Aragis likely to be willing to combine with the Trokmê against his own holdings; no ties of blood or culture would keep Aragis from doing what seemed advantageous to him.
“Possibilities, is it? And what might that mean?” Diviciacus demanded.
It was a good question. Since Gerin found himself without a good answer, he temporized: “Let me take counsel with some of my vassals. Stay the night here if you care to; eat with us, drink more ale—by Dyaus I swear no harm will come to you in Fox Keep. Come the morning, I’ll give you my answer.”
“I’m thinking you’d say aye straight out if aye was in your heart,” Diviciacus said dubiously. “Still, let it be as you wish. I’ll stay a bit, so I will, and learn what you’ll reply. But I tell you straight out, you’ll befool me with none o’ the tricks that earned you your ekename.”
Since persuading the Trokmê not to leave at once in high dudgeon was one of those tricks, the Fox maintained a prudent silence. He suspected Diviciacus and his comrades would use the day to empty as many jars of ale as they could. Better ale spilled than blood, he told himself philosophically.
Fand came in, wearing the silver-and-jet brooch just above her left breast. Diviciacus’ eyes clung to her. “My leman,” Gerin said pointedly.
That recalled to Diviciacus the reason he’d come. “If you’ve allied with us so, why not on the field of war?” he said, hope for success in his mission suddenly restored.
“As I said, I’ll talk it over with my men and tell you in the morning what I’ve decided.” Gerin went out to the courtyard, where Van was practicing thrusts and parries with a heavy spear taller than he was. The outlander, for all his size, moved so gracefully that he made the exercise seem more a dance than preparation for war.
When Gerin told him what Adiatunnus had proposed, he scowled and shook his head. “Making common cause with the Trokmê would but turn him into a grander threat than Aragis poses.”
“My thought was the same,” Gerin answered. “I wanted to see if you saw anything on the other side to change my mind.” Van shook his head again and went back to his thrusts and parries.
Gerin put the same question to Drago. The Bear’s response was simpler: “No way in any of the five hells I want to fight on the same side with the Trokmoi. I’ve spent too much time tryin’ to kill them buggers.” That made Gerin pluck thoughtfully at his beard. Even had he been inclined to strike the bargain with Adiatunnus, his vassals might not have let him.
He went looking for Rihwin to get one more view. Before he found him, the lookout called, “Another man approaches in a wagon.”
“Great Dyaus, three sets of visitors in a day,” Gerin exclaimed. Sometimes no one from outside his holding came to Fox Keep for ten days, or twenty. Trade—indeed, traffic of any sort—had fallen off since the northlands went their own way. not only did epidemic petty warfare keep traffic off the roads, but baronies more and more either made do with what they could produce themselves or did without.
“Who comes?” called a warrior up on the palisade.
“I am a minstrel, Tassilo by name,” came the reply—in, sure enough, a melodious tenor. “I would sing for my supper, a bed for the night, and whatever other generosity your gracious lord might see fit to provide.”
Tassilo? Gerin stood stock-still, his hands balling into fists. The minstrel had sung down at the keep of Elise’s father, Ricolf the Red, the night before she went off with Gerin rather than letting herself be wed to Wolfar of the Axe. Just hearing Tassilo’s name, and his voice, brought those memories, sweet and bitter at the same time, welling up in the Fox. He was anything but anxious to listen to Tassilo again.
But all the men who heard the minstrel name himself cried out with glee: “Songs tonight, by Dyaus!” “Maybe he’ll have ones we’ve not heard.” “A lute to listen to—that’ll be sweet.”
Hearing that, Gerin knew he could not send the man away. For his retainers, entertainment they didn’t have to make themselves was rare and precious. If that entertainment made him wince, well, he’d endured worse. Sighing, he said, “The minstrel is welcome. Let him come in.”
When Tassilo got down from his light wagon, he bowed low to the Fox. “Lord prince, we’ve met before, I think. At Ricolf’s holding, was it not? The circumstances, as I recall, were irregular.” The minstrel stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek.
“Irregular, you say? Aye, there’s a good word for it. That’s the business of a minstrel, though, isn’t it?—coming up with words, I mean.” Being moderately skilled in that line himself, Gerin respected those who had more skill at it than he. He eyed Tassilo. “Curious you’ve not visited Fox Keep since.”
“I fled south when the Trokmoi swarmed over the Niffet, lord prince, and I’ve spent most of my time since then down by the High Kirs,” Tassilo answered. He had an open, friendly expression and looked as much like a fighting man as a singer, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. In the northlands, any traveling man had to be a warrior as well, if he wanted to live to travel far.
“What brought you north again, then?” Gerin asked.
“A baron’s daughter claimed I got her with child. I don’t think I did, but he believed her. I thought a new clime might prove healthier after that.”
Gerin shrugged. He had no daughter to worry about. He said, “The men look forward to your performance tonight.” Lying a little, he added, “Having heard you those years ago, so do I.” The minstrel could sing and play, no doubt about that. The Fox’s memories were not Tassilo’s fault.
After a few more pleasantries, Gerin strode out ov
er the drawbridge and headed for the peasant village a few hundred yards away. Chickens and pigs and skinny dogs foraged among round huts of wattle and daub whose thatched conical roofs projected out far enough to hold the rain away from the walls. Children too young to work in the fields stared at Gerin as he tramped up the muddy lane that ran through the middle of the village.
He stuck his head into Besant Big-Belly’s hut, which was little different from any of the others. The headman wasn’t there, but his wife, a scrawny woman named Marsilia, sat on a wooden stool spinning wool into thread. She said, “Lord, if you’re after my man, he’s out weeding the garden.”
The garden was on the outskirts of the village. Sure enough, Besant was there, plucking weeds from a patch of vetch. Not only did he have a big belly, he had a big backside, too, which at the moment stuck up in the air. Resisting the urge to kick it, Gerin barked, “Why have you been blowing the horn with the sun only halfway down the sky?”
Besant jerked as if Gerin had kicked him after all. He whirled around, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. “L-lord Gerin,” he stuttered. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“If you don’t want more unexpected visits, make sure you work the full day,” Gerin answered. “We’ll all be hungrier come winter for your slacking now.”
Besant gave Gerin a resentful stare. He was a tubby, sloppy-looking man of about fifty in homespun colorless save for dirt and stains here and there. “I shall do as you say, lord prince,” he mumbled. “The ghosts have been bad of late, though.”
“Feed them more generously, then, or throw more wood on the nightfires,” Gerin said. “You’ve no need to hide in your houses from an hour before sunset to an hour past dawn.”
Besant nodded but still looked unhappy. The trouble was, he and Gerin needed each other. Without the serfs, Gerin and his vassal barons would starve. That much Besant Big-Belly knew. But without the barons, the little villages of farmers would be at the mercy of Trokmoi and bandits: peasants with pitchforks and scythes could not stand against chariots and bronze armor and spears and swords. The headman did his best to ignore that half of the bargain.
Gerin said, “Remember, I’ll be listening to hear when you blow the horn come evening.” He waited for Besant to nod again, then walked off to see how the village fared.
The gods willing, he thought, the harvest would be good. Wheat for bread, oats for horses and oatmeal, barley for ale, rye for variety, beans, peas, squashes: all grew well under the warm sun. So did row on row of turnips and parsnips, cabbage and kale, lettuce and spinach. Gardens held vetch, onions, melde, radishes, garlic, and medicinal herbs like henbane.
Some fields stood vacant, the grass there lengthening for haymaking. Cattle and sheep grazed all the way out to the edge of the trees in others. A couple of lambs butted heads. “They might as well be barons,” Gerin murmured to himself.
The peasants were hard at it as usual: weeding like Besant, repairing wooden fences to keep the animals where they belonged, unbaling straw to repair a leaky roof—all the myriad tasks that kept the village going. Gerin stopped to talk with a few of the serfs. Most seemed content enough. As overlords went, he was a mild one, and they knew it.
He spent more time in the village than he’d intended; the sun was already sinking toward the treetops when he headed back to Fox Keep. No, Besant won’t blow the horn early tonight, not with me here so long, he thought. We’ll have to see about tomorrow.
When he returned to the castle, the cooks were full of praise for the way Otes son of Engelers had fixed half a dozen pots. The Fox nodded approvingly. The large sale the jeweler had made to Fand (or rather, to Van) hadn’t kept him from doing the other half of his job. On seeing Otes himself, Gerin invited him to stay for supper and pass the night in the great hall. By the way he grinned and promptly accepted, the neat little man had been expecting that.
In the great hall, Tassilo was fitting a new string to his lute and plucking at it to put it in proper tune. Duren watched him in pop-eyed fascination. “I want to learn to do that, Papa!” he said.
“Maybe you will one day,” Gerin said. Stored away somewhere was a lute he’d had as a boy. He’d never been much good with it, but who could say what his son might accomplish?
After supper, Tassilo showed what he could do. “In honor of my host,” he said, “I shall give you some of the song of Gerin and the dreadful night when all the moons turned full together.” He struck a plangent chord from the lute and began.
Gerin, who had lived through that dreadful night five years before, recognized little of it from the minstrel’s description. Much of that had to do with the way Tassilo composed his song. He didn’t create it afresh from nothing; that would have overtaxed even the wits of Lekapenos, the great Sithonian epic poet.
Instead, like Lekapenos, Tassilo put his song together from stock bits and pieces of older ones. Some of those were just for the sake of sound and meter; the Fox quickly got used to hearing himself called “gallant Gerin” every time his name was mentioned. It saved Tassilo, or any other poet, the trouble of having to come up with a new epithet every time he was mentioned in the story.
And some of the pieces of old songs were ones Gerin had heard before, and which didn’t perfectly fit the tale Tassilo was telling now. The bits about battling the Trokmoi went back to his boyhood, and likely to his grandfather’s boyhood as well. But that too was part of the convention. More depended on the way the minstrel fit the pieces together than on what those pieces were.
All the same, Gerin leaned over to Van and said, “One thing I remember that Tassilo isn’t saying anything about is how bloody frightened I was.”
“Ah, but you’re not a person to him, not really,” Van replied. “You’re gallant Gerin the hero, and how could gallant Gerin be afraid, even with every werebeast in the world trying to tear his throat out?”
“At the time, it was easy,” Gerin said, which won a laugh from Van. He’d been through the werenight with Gerin. “Bold Van,” Tassilo called him, which was true enough, but he hadn’t been immune to fear, either.
And yet, the rest of Tassilo’s audience ate up the song. Drago the Bear, who’d gone through his own terrors that night, pounded on the table and cheered to hear how Gerin had surmounted his: it might not have been true, but it sounded good. Duren hung on Tassilo’s every word, long after the time he should have been asleep in bed.
Even the Trokmoi, whose fellows had been on the point of putting an end to Gerin when the chaos of the werenight saved him, listened avidly to the tale of their people’s discomfiture. Well-turned phrases and songs of battle were enough to gladden them, even if they came out on the losing side.
Tassilo paused to drink ale. Diviciacus said to Gerin, “Give me your answer now, Fox, dear. I’ve not the patience to wait for morning.”
Gerin sighed. “It must be no.”
“I thought as much,” the Trokmê said. “Yes is simple, but no needs disguises. You’ll be after regretting it.”
“So will your chief, if he quarrels with me,” the Fox answered. “Tell him as much.” Diviciacus glared but nodded.
When Gerin, who was yawning himself, tried to pick up Duren and carry him off to bed, his son yelled and cried enough to make the Fox give it up as a bad job. If Duren wanted to fall asleep in the great hall listening to songs, he’d let him get away with it this once. Gerin yawned again. He was tired, whether Duren was or not. With a wave to Tassilo, he headed for his bedchamber.
What with Fand and Van in the next room, the noise up there proved almost as loud as what the minstrel made, and even more distracting. Gerin tossed and turned and grumbled and, just when he finally was on the point of dropping off, got bitten on the cheek by a mosquito. He mashed the bug, but that woke him up again. He lay there muttering to himself until at last he did fall asleep.
Because of that, the sun was a quarter of the way up the sky when he came back down to the great hall. Van, who was just finishing a bowl of porridge, laughed at him: �
��See the slugabed!”
“I’d have gotten to sleep sooner if someone I know hadn’t been making such a racket next door,” Gerin said pointedly.
Van laughed louder. “Make any excuse you like. You outslept your guests, no matter what. All three lots of them are long gone.”
“They want to get in as much travel as they can while the sun’s in the sky. I’d do the same in their boots.” Gerin looked around. “Where’s Duren?”
“I thought he was with you, Captain,” Van said. “Didn’t you take him up to bed the way you usually do?”
“No, he wanted to listen to Tassilo some more.” Gerin dipped up a bowl of porridge from the pot over the fire, raised it to his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “He’s probably out in the courtyard, making mischief.”
In the courtyard he found Drago the Bear pouring a bucket of well water over the head of Rihwin the Fox. Both of them looked as if they’d seen the bottoms of their drinking jacks too many times the night before.
“No, I’ve not seen the boy all morning,” Drago said when Gerin asked him.
“Nor I,” the dripping Rihwin said. He added, “If he made as much noise as small boys are in the habit of doing, I’d remember seeing him … painfully.” His eyes were tracked with red. Yes, he’d hurt himself last night.
Gerin frowned. “That’s—odd.” He raised his voice. “Duren!” He put two fingers in his mouth, let out a long, piercing whistle that made Rihwin and Drago flinch.
His son knew he was supposed to come no matter what when he heard that call. He also wasn’t supposed to go by himself too far from Castle Fox to hear it. Wolves and longtooths and other wild beasts roamed the woods. So, sometimes, did wild men.
But Duren did not come. Now Gerin began to worry. Maybe, he thought, the boy had gone off to the peasant village. He’d done that alone once or twice, and got his backside heated for it. But often a boy needed a lot of such heatings before he got the idea. Gerin remembered he had, when he was small.
Werenight Page 28
