Taking the old flute, so beautifully carved of dark satiny wood, out of the pack, Tymmon held it in both hands, running his fingers along its familiar surface. He could not recall exactly when his father had given it to him, he had been so young at the time. But he remembered well how proud and delighted he had been when, as a child of four or five, he had several times been allowed to entertain the king’s noble guests by his playing. How he had played at the wedding banquet when the king’s son, Prince Mindor, had married the lady Hanna, at the christening of their baby daughter, and at other grand celebrations. He could even remember some of the tunes he had played. Slowly, lost in memory, Tymmon raised the flute to his lips and began to play.
It was a slow tune that he had chosen. Sweet but sad, and there was a recurring refrain that clung in the mind, bringing with it a soft and yearning melancholy. Tymmon let the music flow out from his heart and closed his eyes against the tears that arose again, this time from the music’s bittersweet lament. He played the song through to the end and began again, but when he came to the refrain, the sweet, low notes of the flute were joined by another, wilder and more discordant, sound. As he had so often done in the forest, Troff was singing along with the music.
Somehow Troff’s singing made the threat of tears even greater, and Tymmon was forced to keep his eyes shut as he went through the song again. And again at each repetition of the refrain, Troff joined in. When the last note of the second playing drifted away to silence, there was another sound. A murmuring that came from very nearby. And when Tymmon opened his eyes he saw that he and Troff were surrounded by a small group of people, two noble ladies with their maids and attendants, and a tall old man dressed in a long, dark robe. As Tymmon stared in astonishment the murmur grew, one of the ladies began to clap her hands, and soon the others were clapping also.
“Bravo, lad,” the tall man said. “You are a gifted musician. And your large companion here is obviously gifted too.”
For a moment Tymmon was too astounded to do more than blurt out a stammering “Thank you, sir.” But when the lady who had begun the clapping asked for another tune, “Perhaps something more cheerful this time?” his mind regained its usual keenness.
“Gladly, my lady,” he said, and lifting the flute, he began another tune, a lively, high-pitched melody. One that, in the past, had brought a quick response from Troff. And Troff did sing again, this time in short, sharp bursts, quite unlike his earlier mournful wailing. And while he played, Tymmon watched his audience with growing excitement.
The tall old man listened smilingly and the ladies and their attendants seemed delighted, the ladies covering their smiles daintily, while two or three of the maids were almost collapsing in fits of giggling laughter. Before the piece was ended others had joined the group of listeners, and a sizable crowd had begun to form around the ragged boy and the great scruffy beast at the foot of the cathedral steps. As Tymmon went on playing, the crowd continued to laugh and clap, and many of them, as they went away, dropped a coin or two onto the cobblestones near Tymmon’s feet.
It was only a little more than an hour later when, after stopping to do some very important shopping, Tymmon and Troff arrived back at the inn where the red-haired manager had turned them away in a kindly manner. But this time they came only to ask for a place to sleep. They found the innkeeper presiding over the large common room of the inn.
“I have money now,” Tymmon said quickly at the large man’s questioning frown.
“And where did you get this money, lad?” The innkeeper’s tone was still kindly but his eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “I will have no thieves spending the night in my inn.”
“No, no,” Tymmon said. “Troff and I—Troff is my dog here—Troff and I earned the money by playing the flute—and singing.”
The red-haired man’s eyes narrowed further. “You and your dog played the flute—and sang?”
Tymmon glanced around the room. A few travelers were eating at the long tables before the enormous hearth, and three or four others stood around the fire-place, tankards in hand. “I will show you, sir. If you will allow me?”
The innkeeper’s frown turned into a reluctant grin. “This I will have to see,” he said. “But come with me out into the courtyard. I would not want this demonstration to disturb my guests.”
So Tymmon played again and Troff sang in the now darkening courtyard, lit only by the two large torches that illuminated the inn’s entrance. And when they had finished, the red-haired innkeeper laughed so hard that his huge belly bounced up and down.
Then he slapped Tymmon on the back. “Well, well, lad,” he said, “in God’s truth I took you to be a liar and a thief, and I see now that you are not the first and probably not the second. So I must ask your pardon, and if I had a spare bed I would indeed offer it to you for some of your honestly earned money. But as you must have seen, the town is full of holiday visitors and there is not a—” He paused and then went on, “Unless you would not mind a night in the stable. There is a cot in the harness room that was once used by a stableboy. ‘Tis not much, but it would be better, I think, than a night on the streets among the pickpockets and beggars. Would you not agree?”
Tymmon agreed as quickly and heartily as he was able. The innkeeper went back to his guests, and a moment later one of his equally red-haired sons appeared and directed Tymmon to his new lodgings.
The room was small and smelled mustily of horses and sweated leather. It contained only a wooden bench and a bed that was scarcely more than a wider bench, but on that night it seemed better than any palace bedchamber. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Tymmon untied his pack and brought out the purchases he had made from the street vendors in the cathedral square. There was a candle, two large meat pies, a sausage, some dried fruit, and a large loaf of bread.
After lighting the candle, Tymmon placed it on the bench, and arranged the food around it. He took a brief moment to offer thanks to God for such a marvelous feast, and then the eating began. And when it was finally finished, his stomach—and no doubt Troff’s also—ached pleasantly from overstretching.
The last crumb had hardly disappeared when Troff was asleep, sprawled on his side on the hay-strewn floor. Tymmon spread his blanket on the thin pallet, stretched out, and closed his eyes, but for him sleep was not so easily come by. Although his body was very tired, his mind seemed to be full of newfound energy. Calling up again and again the adventures of the day, it leaped and skittered and jiggled excitedly from one thing to the other and back again.
First and most often it dwelt on what had happened on the cathedral steps. He had, it seemed, suddenly and without aforethought, stumbled upon a way to keep himself and Troff from starving. He could stay alive by becoming a kind of jongleur, one of the many lesser musicians who made their livelihood by accompanying well-known singers or troubadours. Only in his case the troubadour was something less—or more—than human.
It was not, he told himself, a high calling. It was not a profession of which one might be proud. Especially not one who had scorned his father’s means of earning a livelihood as demeaning and shameful. His father who, after all, was not only a clown but also wrote the words and music for his own songs just as did the troubadours, many of whom were held in high regard. And now he, Tymmon, would be a street musician, playing for coppers tossed by passersby.
No, it was not a thing to rejoice over—that was for certain. But the mystery was that he knew he was rejoicing. When he went back in memory to the cathedral steps and the surrounding throng, again and again his heart sang with delight. And it was not just that the awful fear of starvation had been lifted. No, there was more to it than that. What it was exactly was hard to understand, but he knew it had to do with delighted smiles and laughter and the clapping of many hands. Tymmon smiled into the near darkness and told himself that he would think on it more in the morning.
On the floor beside the pallet Troff stirred and mumbled in his sleep, and Tymmon reached down to pat
the great round head. It was Troff’s doing, he told himself. He would never have thought of it by himself. It was Troff who had advised him to open the pack and see what was there that could be of use. Not in words, perhaps. Not even, this time, in the unspoken words with which he often communicated. But when he had pawed at the pack the message had surely been there.
“You are a true friend,” Tymmon whispered. “And a wise and clever one too. You called my attention to the flute without speaking, or behaving in any way that might have given away your true nature.”
Troff sighed heavily, raised his head, and looked at Tymmon questioningly.
“Your true nature as an enchanted beast,” Tymmon explained, and Troff sighed again and went back to sleep.
It was true. All day long Troff had behaved in a very doglike manner. Closing his eyes, Tymmon could picture him as he plodded along, as would an obedient dog at his master’s side. And he had looked as well as acted very doglike. The picture that had risen before Tymmon’s eyes was indeed that of a great dog. Bigger than most, certainly, and uglier, with a face most unlike any dog that Tymmon had ever seen. But in many other ways, quite like a dog.
The thought suddenly made Tymmon uneasy. He opened his mouth to ask Troff, as he had asked before, if he were truly a gargoyle, but he was stopped by the sound of deep, even breathing. It was not fair to awaken him again when he was so tired. Instead Tymmon closed his eyes and brought back another image. A picture this time of Troff as he had appeared across the fire on that first night in the Sombrous Forest. On that night when no one could have doubted for a moment that he was, indeed, an enchanted beast—a living gargoyle.
Tymmon sighed and yawned, and as he drifted toward sleep a new understanding came to him. An understanding vague and indistinct, but full of a comforting certainty. Of course, Troff was seen as a dog when he wanted to be. An enchanted creature could surely enchant the eyes of the beholder so that they would see him as he wanted to be seen.
Tomorrow I’ll think more on that also, he told himself before he blew out the candle and fell into a long, deep sleep.
ELEVEN
ON THAT FIRST MORNING in Montreff, Tymmon awoke to a mind-shattering clamor. The sound came from everywhere and filled every space so deeply that it almost seemed to arise from inside his skull or even from the pit of his stomach. Tymmon’s sleep-dulled mind, accustomed to the silence of forest mornings, was momentarily stunned and bewildered. And then he remembered—and understood.
The clanging, ringing, chiming waves of sound were only the bells of many churches, announcing Sunday morning and the hour of prime. Leaping up from his pallet, Tymmon stumbled over Troff, caught himself, and hurried to the door, a door that opened onto a stableyard at the rear of the White Boar Inn in the city of Montreff. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but a clear pale sky shimmered with its reflected light. An unpaved and dusty courtyard lay before him, beyond which rose the rear wall of the inn, half timbered and three stories high. On his right the stables, long and low and roughly thatched, bordered the courtyard on one side. And directly before him in the center of the yard was a covered well, surrounded by troughs and basins and a jumble of upended pails and tubs.
When the bells ceased to ring, the silence of early dawn returned except for, from somewhere nearby, a lonely rooster’s morning challenge. Up on the second and third stories of the inn the windows were still shuttered against the light. No one stirred in the courtyard. The patrons of the White Boar, it seemed, enjoyed their Sunday morning slumber.
Tymmon stretched and breathed deeply, savoring the almost forgotten smells of civilization—musty, spicy, smoky odors so unlike those of the forest. The deep breath ended in a shivery gasp, as a tingle of nervous excitement raced up his spine. What would Dame Fortune have in store for him today in the great city of Montreff? He could not even imagine. Glancing down at his dirty and bedraggled self, he came to the quick decision that it would be better to meet whatever fate had in store in a cleaner and more presentable condition.
A few minutes later, with the aid of a pail of water from the well, some vigorous splashing and scrubbing, and the spare jerkin from his pack (a little cleaner and less tattered than the other), he was ready to go. Shouldering his pack, he picked up Troff’s leash.
“Well, Troff,” he said. “Shall we try our luck again as minstrels?”
Troff, who had been patiently watching Tymmon’s preparations from a spot near the door, leaped to his feet, saying that he was indeed ready and had been for some time.
Tymmon grinned as Troff bounced around him, but then, as he slipped the collar over the gargoyle’s head, he frowned and spoke sternly. “Remember. Remember not to speak to anyone but me and then only silently. Your behavior must at all times be that of an ordinary dog.”
Troff had stopped leaping and stared questioningly at Tymmon, his head cocked.
Tymmon nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know. Except for the singing.” He grinned. “Your behavior must be that of an ordinary singing dog.”
A few moments later, as they were crossing the courtyard, a voice called “Good morning,” and Tymmon turned to see Master Harcor, the innkeeper, standing in the kitchen entryway. He wore an apron over a well-made jerkin and doublet, his boots were clean and new, and his red hair gleamed in the early sun. “Good morning,” he called again, and as Tymmon approached, “It would seem that you slept well last night. At least your complexion has a far healthier hue this morning.”
Tymmon grinned and touched his face. “ ‘Tis the color of food and rest, sir. And cleanliness. ‘Tis the true color of my skin, actually, recently relieved of several layers of dirt. I took the liberty of making use of some water from your well.”
“So I had guessed.” Harcor grinned. “And judging by the change in your appearance, I would say that water from my well has seldom been put to better use. Are you off, then, on further journeys?”
“Oh, no, sir. At least not immediately. I would like to stay here in Montreff for several days, at least. And I would like very much to continue to rent your harness room at the same daily rate, if I may.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “I see no reason to refuse,” he said. “As long as your great beast here does not frighten my guests or their horses.” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment he contemplated both Tymmon and Troff thoughtfully. “Tell me, lad. Did you say you were from...?”
Tymmon could not remember giving the innkeeper that information but he said quickly, “Nordencor. I am called Hylas, son of Lindor, and I am from the fiefdom of Nordencor.”
“I see. And you were there born and raised? And to what station in life?”
Tymmon looked up quickly, a faint alarm sounding in the back of his mind.
The innkeeper smiled disarmingly. “I ask only because your knowledge of music seems unusual for one of your apparent station. And there is also your manner of speech. Your tongue seems trained to the accents of court and castle. And as innkeeper I have dealings with people of all ranks and stations and I have learned to recognize the accents of different regions as well as those common to people from different walks of life.”
So Tymmon again told his story of being the son of the unfortunate huntsman of Nordencor. He made the part concerning his father’s death even more heroic, and went on to explain how, living with his father in the lord’s castle, he had sometimes played with the children of the nobility and thus had perhaps, without intending to, picked up some of their habits of speech.
“I see,” Harcor said with what seemed to be sympathetic understanding. “ ‘Tis a sad tale and a most sad fate to be alone and homeless at such a tender age.” His words were kindly, but his still-narrowed eyes and tilted eyebrows were perhaps saying something else.
Later, as Tymmon, with Troff beside him, made his way along the narrow streets of Montreff among a scattering of early-rising citizens, his mind returned to Harcor and his searching questions. Did the innkeeper’s probing arise from simple curiosity? Or had he he
ard of a reward offered for the capture of a young fugitive?
“What do you think, Troff?” Tymmon said. “Do you think he knows who I really am?”
Troff cocked his head and seemed about to answer when Tymmon noticed a passerby’s amused interest. Stooping quickly, he pretended to be adjusting Troff’s collar while he whispered in his ear, “Remember, Troff. Do not answer.” Then he hurried on, telling himself silently that he must remember in the future not to speak to Troff in public, except in the manner that one speaks to a dog.
Even at that early hour on Sunday morning the cathedral square was filling rapidly with churchgoers. Men, women, and children, of every class and dressed in everything from rough homespun to the finest velvets and satins, were making their way to and from the cathedral.
At the bottom of the wide stairway Tymmon stopped and looked around at the passing throng. He found that he was breathing deeply, and a rapid pulse was beating at the base of his throat. But it was a condition that did not seem to be caused by fright. Or at least not entirely by fright. There was also an element of anticipation that was, if not entirely pleasant, at least certainly exciting.
He looked down at Troff. The gargoyle was sitting beside him, surveying the crowd with calm interest. Tymmon took a deep breath, pulled the flute from the pack, and raised it to his lips. “Ready?” he whispered to Troff. “Are you ready to sing?”
Tymmon was barely into the first song when a merchant and his family stopped to listen. They crowded around him, a short man with a tall wife, both well dressed and portly, and a horde of children, ranging in age from infancy to almost adult. A group of peasants, mostly women and children, came next, followed by a trio of richly clad young men. As Troff began his first refrain there were startled gasps, much laughter, and then, as the song ended, a burst of applause. Others joined the crowd and soon coins began to be tossed onto the cobblestones.
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