The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades Page 5

  Highways in Chivial were rarely more than rutted tracks and often less. The road out of Tyton was much less. The wagon had no springs, and Emerald was going to be thoroughly bruised when she reached Newhurst. That might not be until tomorrow at this pace, but she was in no great hurry to face her mother and admit defeat. Wart’s whistling was tuneful and quite pleasant. Horsemen and sometimes coaches went jingling by. The fields were lush, starting to ripen into gold. There was not a cloud in the sky and if the sun had not been shining straight in her eyes—

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded angrily. “We should be going south!”

  “You mean we’re not?”

  She should have noticed sooner. She bared her teeth at the gleam of mockery in his eye.

  He laughed. “We’ll get to Newhurst, I promise! Just sit back and admire the scenery. I call him Saxon. That isn’t his name, but he reminds me of a friend of mine.” He cracked his whip over the horse, whose large rear obscured the view directly ahead.

  Just how foolish had she been? In her stubborn fury she had trusted herself to a boy she knew nothing about. Highways were so dangerous that stagecoaches carried men-at-arms. Wart himself seemed like no great threat, but he might have friends who were. Besides, how far would the White Sisters go to prevent ex-Sister Emerald from talking about the sorcery she had witnessed? Surely they wouldn’t hire someone to cut her throat and leave her body in a ditch…would they?

  They came to a toll bridge. Wart chatted for a while with the tollman—more about weather and harvests and rumors of another attempt of the King’s life. As he paid up his copper penny, he said, “This is the road to Valglorious?”

  “Aye, lad. Keep on to Three Roads and then go south.”

  “Not north?”

  “No. North takes you to Farham. Valglorious is south, past Kysbury.”

  Wart thanked him and jingled the reins to start Saxon moving again.

  “How long have you had this job?” Emerald inquired sweetly.

  “Ever since I turned thirty,” Wart said.

  “If you get bored,” he suggested an hour or so later, “I’ll sing for you. Then you won’t be bored. Or at least you won’t complain of being bored.”

  “Try me. I’m sure you sing very well.”

  His juvenile blush burned up on his cheekbones again. “Um…truly?”

  “I’d like to hear you sing.”

  Pleased, he cleared his throat and launched into “Marrying My Marion.” His voice was a thin tenor, not strong but quite pleasant, although the jolting of the wagon naturally made it unsteady. Even Emerald could not fault his pitch or rhythm so he was probably another time person, like herself. When he reached the chorus she joined in. He shot her a delighted smile and switched to counterpoint and complex trills.

  Truth be told, Wart was good company. His quick wit, cheeky humor, and bubbling energy showed that air was his dominant manifest element. His self-confidence puzzled her, although some of it must come from being an adolescent male—she had little experience at judging those. Although air people tended to brag when they were successful and whine excuses when they weren’t, Wart seemed content with his world. He chattered, but not about himself. He had been wary when driving in the town, not unsure. The earth-time pairing made her stubborn and patient, but air-time people were usually flighty and impatient. He seemed too relaxed to fit that pattern, either. She would have several days to analyze him, though, as he deigned to explain when they had exhausted the possibilities of marrying off Marion.

  “Vincent sent me to deliver a load of hides to Wail and pick up their salt fish. Phew! If you think garlic’s bad, you should try sitting on top of that in the hot sun. I dropped the fish off at Undridge and picked up the garlic. He’d told me to stop in at Oakendown and see if they needed any loads delivered—know they’re short-handed because of the Monster War, see? Got me and Saxon a free night’s board, too. Now we’re going to Valglorious….”

  However much she might resent being called a load, his tale was believable. She gathered that the duchy of Eastfare owned dozens of estates scattered over half Chivial and ran its own cartage line, moving specialized produce from one manor to another or to a point of sale. Wart’s planned itinerary would take him close to New-hurst in another four days.

  “And who gets to keep my fare—you or the Duke?”

  “Saxon and I ate it.” He wasn’t telling actual lies, but he wasn’t revealing the whole truth, either. “I eat more than he does, as you’d expect. ’Sides, the Duke’s dead, the old one. His son died before he did; his grandson’s at court, being a squire. And if Good King Ambrose can teach that brat manners, then he’s a better man than I am.”

  “I don’t doubt he is.”

  He smirked. “Time will tell.” Modesty was not one of Wart’s burdens.

  “So I have to endure four days of this bouncing? And who defends me from highwaymen and brigands?”

  “How many highwaymen do you have in mind?”

  “Three would be ample.” One would be enough.

  Wart grinned. “If it’s more than three, I run for help. If it’s only three, then I kill them myself.” He reached behind him and hauled out a sword from under the bench. It was rusty and notched like a saw. Its point had been broken off, but it was a real sword, and she was surprised he had the strength to wave it around so.

  “Please! Don’t bother to brandish it. In fact I’d much rather you put it away before you killed me or the horse.”

  “You don’t trust me!” he moaned, but he slid the weapon back out of sight.

  She was starting to trust his motives a little, but she certainly would not trust herself to his arm yet. Give him ten years and he might make a competent defender. Air and time were good elements for a dancer, so they ought to make a nimble swordsman.

  They came to a wide, stagnant-looking river and crossed on a ferry that was no more than a crude log raft. Emerald was glad to climb down and walk around, easing her aches. The ferryman on board was a grizzled, surly man whose job seemed to consist solely of tying up and casting off at the jetties and collecting the fare in between. The real work was done by the boy on the far bank, who led the donkey that turned the windlass that pulled the chains that moved the ferry.

  “I’m heading to Valglorious,” Wart said. “I turn left at Three Roads, yes?”

  The ferryman spat overboard and watched what happened to his spittle before grunting, “No. That’ll take you to Farham and Firnesse. Go south.”

  “South! Thanks.”

  “Do you think you’ve got it now?” Emerald inquired.

  “See how flat the country is?” he said. “We’re in Eastfare—flattest county in Chivial. And the most law-abiding. Vincent’s peering over the sheriff’s shoulder all the time, so no highway-men!” He looked to see if she was reassured. “Besides, who’d want to steal two barrels of garlic?”

  “It would not be an easy crime to conceal,” she agreed. “You’re telling me that there’s no theft or violence here?” She had seen rows of peasants cutting hay, working their way across the meadows with their scythes and pitchforks, and their women following with sickles to collect what they had missed. She had seen herds of sheep, goats, cattle, and horses. But even in this poverty-stricken landscape, she had seen no houses, because the hamlets and villages all hid behind high stone walls. She said so.

  “Ah, I meant not much. Remember that we’re getting near the sea. Fens and salt marsh and cold gray fog. Where there’s sea there’s Baels—raiding and slaving, slipping up the creeks in their dragon ships. Even Vincent can’t do much about them.”

  “Who is this Vincent you keep mentioning?”

  “Sir Vincent. He was Blade to the Fifth Duke for umpteen years. You know how badly a Blade takes it when his ward dies, but he managed to weather the storm. The old man had named him his grandson’s guardian, which probably helped save his reason, so now he runs everything.” Wart was clearly enthusiastic about this Vincent. “He’s a kni
ght in the Order. Private Blades can only become knights after their wards die. The King summoned him to Grandon to dub him.”

  This talk of Blades was not out of place. She knew that there was an auxiliary corps of retired Blades who helped out the Companionship by performing odd jobs, although she was vague on the details. Squiring vulnerable ladies on long journeys might well be one such task. She also knew that some of these “Old Blades” had been conscripted into more strenuous duties during the present emergency. Possibly they also supplied boys with wagons as replacements. “Do you often transport Sisters?”

  “No,” Wart said indignantly, “but I can’t afford to be fussy.”

  9

  Minstrel Boy

  THE MORNING AGED AND THE DAY GREW HOTter. Wart asked directions from two shepherds, one more toll keeper, and the drivers of three other wagons, always receiving the same answer. Emerald was astonished to discover that she was enjoying herself. Having never wandered this far from Oakendown since she’d first entered its gates, she had forgotten how interesting the world was.

  “What about you?” Wart asked. “Why are you not going to Newhurst by coach?”

  That was none of his business, but if she lied to him, he would be entitled to lie to her. She wasn’t very good at lying anyway. “Someone used some nasty sorcery right in the heart of Oakendown. I detected it and wouldn’t lie about it, so they threw me out.”

  “Oh, that’s tough! What sort of sorcery?”

  The inquisitors of the Dark Chamber claimed they could detect any spoken lie. Although they did not brag of it, most White Sisters could do the same, smelling the taint of death on the falsehood. Emerald had enough of the knack to know that Wart had faked his reaction. Sadly she concluded that he was not what he said he was. He was playing Mother Superior’s evil games.

  “Nasty. I was attacked by a spider bigger than you. I don’t honestly know if it was meant to kill me or just frighten me. It certainly did that. No one else will admit it existed at all. I was outvoted.”

  “Not fair! What do you do now?”

  “Find a rich husband.”

  “Truly?” He had not expected that. He looked at her doubtfully. “Mightn’t that be even tougher? Not finding, I mean—I’m sure you won’t have to look very long. I mean, finding a husband you want.”

  “Very likely.”

  “No parents, brothers?”

  “My mother’s still alive, but she hasn’t got two copper mites to clink together.” Either Emerald needed to hear her problem set out in words or else young Wart was just skilled at asking questions, but she found herself telling him all about her father’s illness and the enchanters of Gentleholme Sanctuary. “They said they could cure him, but the pain grew worse and worse. Soon he was screaming all the time unless he got a fresh enchantment every day.”

  Wart’s lip curled in horror. “They made his sickness worse?”

  “Don’t know. Some diseases act that way, so perhaps not. We certainly couldn’t prove anything. But they did keep putting their price up.”

  “This is why the King is trying to suppress the elementaries!” he said indignantly. “His new Court of Conjury is turning up all sorts of horrible cases like that. They have some good sorcerers helping them, and some White Sisters, too. And the Old Blades, of course. You must’ve heard of Sir Snake, who used to be Deputy Commander of the Royal Guard? He’s their leader…. Officially they’re called the Commissioners of the Court of Conjury—but they’re all knights in the Order, so everyone calls them the Old Blades—and they go in and investigate the elementaries. But often the sorcerers fight back with monsters and fireballs and terrible things. They’re doing a wonderful job, and—” His baby face colored again. “I’m raving, aren’t I?” he muttered. “But you have heard about the White Sisters who help? They’re not called the Old Sisters, but…Well, you must know.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Emerald had volunteered to join them, but so had a hundred others, so she had been turned down. “Some of them have died, also.”

  “I didn’t know that!”

  “Why should you?” she asked quietly.

  He gulped awkwardly. “Well, I’m interested.” After a moment he sneaked a look at her and evidently decided he had failed to convince. “I met Sir Snake once. You should tell him about this Gentleholme gang.”

  “I can’t prove they made my father’s sickness worse. They did put their price up and up until they had taken all our money. When he died there was nothing left.” Not even Peachyard, the estate her mother’s family had owned for generations.

  “Or they let him die when there was nothing left to take?” That was a surprisingly cynical remark. At times Wart sounded much older than he looked. She sensed an unexpected element in his makeup—a faint trumpet note in the far distance, a whiff of familiar scent on the wind. It might be the fading trace of some old magic, perhaps a healing, but somehow she thought it went deeper than that.

  “You may be right,” she said.

  Her brothers had gone off to war and died together in their first campaign. The White Sisters offered almost the only respectable profession open to a woman and would pay even a novice a stipend if she had real promise and the money was needed—as it was in her case. Her mother could no longer see well enough to sew. She could do washing and cleaning, but the rich folk who employed servants had no use for elderly women with twisted hands. She had been living on Emerald’s wages. Now it was rich husband or nothing. Trouble was, most rich suitors were old, ugly, crabby….

  “If you can detect sorcery,” Wart protested, “why can’t you get a job doing what White Sisters do? Protecting warehouses from thieves and so on?”

  “We don’t—I mean they don’t protect anything. All they can do is warn. Who’s going to take my word for what I can do? They’d assume I was in league with a gang of thieves.” She smiled at him. “That’s enough about me. Let’s hear your story.” He didn’t look old enough to have one.

  “Me? I’m a wandering minstrel. Hold this.” Thrusting the reins into her hands, he squirmed around to rummage in the cargo. Saxon accepted the change of command without argument, although he twisted his ears nervously when Wart’s legs waved in the air. In a few minutes he turned right side up again, clutching a contraption longer than himself.

  “Is that a chitarrone?” she exclaimed.

  “Almost—an archlute. Very similar. Its mother was a lute and its father an unscrupulous harp.”

  That described it well. It had the usual catgut strings and a lute’s sound box in the normal half-pear shape, in this case beautifully inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl rosettes. But instead of stopping at the keys, the neck continued for another three feet or more and ended in another set of keys that tuned a second course of strings—metal ones, running the whole length of the instrument.

  Leaving Emerald to steer Saxon—who was quite capable of looking after himself—Wart went to work to tune the monster. That would have been a hard enough task on level ground. On a small and bouncing bench, it proved impossible, because the keys for the bass courses were out of his reach. But he tuned up the standard lute portion well enough and soon his fingers were dancing on it, plucking out torrents of melody. He played a few pieces, sometimes singing, sometimes not.

  “Wonderful!” Emerald said when he paused to adjust the keys again. “You are as good as any minstrel!”

  “Better than most.”

  “You could earn a living with that skill!”

  He shook his head pityingly. “There are more worthy ways a man can earn a living. Any requests?”

  She told him to play whatever he wanted.

  He stopped at a ford to let the horse drink and eat from a nose bag. From one of the bundles in the wagon he produced two meat pies and a flagon of small beer to share with his passenger. He played his archlute again, doing much better on steady ground, but she noticed he was making little use of the extra strings, and when he did the result was not always tuneful. It was a ver
y beautifully crafted instrument, worth more than he would earn in years.

  As their journey resumed, Emerald tried again. “What do you do the rest of the time, when you’re not wrestling that lute or following Saxon around?”

  He shrugged vaguely. “Odd jobs.”

  That was a very terse answer from an air person. Sterner measures were called for.

  “Who cuts your hair?”

  That alarmed him. “What?”

  “All the stable boys I ever met looked like pitchforks in hay season. Your clothes are dirty enough and you remembered not to wash your face this morning, but those fingernails? You don’t stink and scratch. A skilled barber cut your hair. You don’t talk like a hayseed. You’re interested in things a hayseed would not be—Sir Snake, for example.”

  He flushed yet again, this time obviously furious. His anger was directed at himself, though, not her. “I wait on table sometimes. Vincent’s very particular about things like fingernails.”

  He was lying. She just shook her head.

  “And I overhear the gentlefolk talking about things like the Old Blades.”

  “Go tell an owl, boy! You said earlier that you’d met Snake, one of the King’s most trusted officers. And ‘Vincent’?—you’re on first-name terms with a man who runs a county?”

  “That has nothing to do with…with you.”

  “Tell me anyway. All of it.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me,” Wart said, sounding as if he were trying to talk and keep his teeth clenched at the same time.

  “Try me. We have several days to kill.”

  He sighed. “I ran away from home when I was ten. I had to. My stepfather drank all the time and beat me. He was going to kill me or cripple me. My name was Wat in those days, Wat Hedgebury. I teamed up with a wandering minstrel. He showed me how to strum a lute. Owain was his name, kindest old man you’d ever hope to meet. I sang a bit and passed the hat for him; I learned to do a little juggling and tumbling and carried his bedroll on the road, so I wasn’t just charity for him. One day we were performing in Firnesse Castle, which isn’t very far from here, and he had a stroke. He died the next day. Baron Grimshank had no use for a minstrel’s apprentice—I was ordered to try another county, and soon. On the other hand, he did fancy Owain’s lute, which was a good one. Owain had told me I could have it, but no one listened when I said so.” Wart grinned ruefully. “I became more than a little cheeky, I’m afraid.”