Sorcerer of the North (11 page)

"Who's commanding the castle while Syron is out of action?" Will asked. Halt nodded, appreciating Will's ability to get to the heart of the problem.

"Syron's son, Orman, is nominally in charge, but he's not really a soldier. According to Meralon's report, he's something of a scholar—and more interested in studying history than guarding the kingdom's borders. Fortunately, Syron's nephew Keren is also there and he's taken practical command of the garrison. He's more down to earth. He was raised as a warrior and apparently he's a popular leader."

"He can handle things for the time being," Crowley said, "but if Syron should die, then we have the problem of succession, and Orman, a weak, incapable leader, will inherit the position. That could destabilize the whole situation and leave us vulnerable to an attack from the north. That's something we have to avoid at all costs. Macindaw is too important strategically for us to take any risks."

Will tugged thoughtfully at his chin for a few seconds.

"I see," he said finally. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Go up there," Crowley replied. "Get to know the locals. Find out as much as you can. See what you can gather about this Malkallam character. See whether he really exists or whether people are just imagining things. Gain their confidence. Get them talking."

Will frowned. Crowley made it all sound so easy, he thought. "That's easier said than done," he muttered, but Halt replied with just the ghost of a smile.

"It'll be easier for you than for most," he said. "People like to talk to you. You're young. You have a fresh-faced innocent look that disarms them. That's why we chose you. They'll never suspect you're a Ranger."

"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.

"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.

"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"

Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.

"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.

Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm
not
a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."

Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't
you
forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."

"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.

"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones ..."

He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.

"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.

"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."

"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.

"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.

"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.

"A tinker?" Crowley asked.

"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and—"

"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."

"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"

"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"

"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"

"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."

"It's not a ..." Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.

"Never mind," he muttered.

He took the instrument from its case and removed the tortoise-shell pick from between the two top strings. He strummed experimentally. As he had expected, the combination of bouncing around on a packsaddle and the effect of the cool night air had affected the tuning. He adjusted the strings, tried another chord and nodded, satisfied. Then he sounded the chord again, decided that the top string was a little sharp and loosened it a fraction. Better, he thought.

"Away you go." Crowley made an encouraging gesture. Will sounded an A chord, then hesitated. He went blank. He couldn't think of a single tune to play. He tried a D chord and then an E minor and a B flat, hoping that the sounds might give him some aspiration.

"Are there words to this tune?" Halt asked, far too politely. Will turned to him.

"I can't think of a song," he said. "My mind's gone blank."

"Could be embarrassing if that happened in a rough tavern" Halt said. Will tried desperately to remember a song. Any song.

"How about
Old Joe Smoke
?" Crowley suggested cheerfully, and Halt whipped around to glare suspiciously at him.

"
Old Joe Smoke
?" Will asked. It was, of course, the song that he had turned into a parody about Halt, and he wondered if Crowley knew that. The Ranger's face was innocent of guile, however. He nodded, smiling encouragement, ignoring the glare from his old friend.

"Always been a favorite," Crowley said. "I used to dance a fine jig to
Old Joe Smoke
when I was a youngster." He made the same go-ahead gesture. Will, unable to think of an alternative, began the introduction on the mandola, his speed and fluency gradually increasing as he became more confident. All he had to do, he told himself, was remember to sing the original words, not the parody version. Throwing caution to the wind, he began to sing:

"Old Joe Smoke's a friend of mine.
He lives on Bleaker's Hill.
Old Joe Smoke never took a bath
and they say he never will.
Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke,
fare thee well I say.
Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke,
I'll see you on your way."

Crowley was slapping his hand on his knee, keeping time, nodding his head and grinning.

"The boy's good!" he said to Halt, and Will continued, emboldened by the praise. He played the intricate pattern of sixteenth notes that made up the interlude, then sang the next verse.

"Old Joe Smoke be lost a bet.
He lost his winter coat.
When winter comes Old Joe stays warm
by sleeping 'mongst the goats.
Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke,
fare thee well I say.
Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke,
I'll see you on your way."

He was well into the song now and he played the interlude again, this time trying a more ambitious pattern than before. He fumbled it once on the third bar but covered the mistake artfully, he thought, and launched into the third verse.

"Graybeard Halt he lives with the goats,
that's what I've heard tell.
He hasn't changed his socks for years,
but the goats don't mind the smell.
Fare thee well, Graybeard Halt,
fare thee well I..."

And stopped, suddenly, realizing what he had sung.

From sheer force of habit, distracted by his own astonishing skill on the mandola, he had reverted to the parody version. Crowley cocked his head to one side, frowning in mock interest.

"Fascinating lyrics," he said. "Not sure that I've heard that version before."

He covered his mouth with his hand and his shoulders began to shake.

"Very funny, Crowley," Halt said in an exasperated tone of voice as the Ranger Commandant made strange choking sounds behind his hand, his face lowered and his shoulders shaking even harder Will looked at Halt in horror.

"Halt... I'm sorry ... I didn't mean ..."

Crowley finally gave up the struggle and burst into peals of uncontrolled laughter. Will made a helpless gesture at Halt. The older Ranger shrugged resignedly, then glared at Crowley. He leaned sideways and dug the Ranger Commandant painfully in the ribs with his elbow.

"It's not
that
funny!" he snarled. Crowley held his bruised rib and pointed at Halt.

"It is! It is! You should have seen your face!" he gasped. Then, to Will, he said: "Go on! Are there more verses?"

Will hesitated. Halt was glaring at Crowley, and Will—even though he was a fully fledged Ranger, a wearer of the Silver Oakleaf and, technically, Halt's equal in rank—knew it would be unwise to continue. Very unwise.

"I think we've heard enough to judge," Halt said. He turned to the three small tents that they had pitched, now just at the edge of the fire's glow, and called in a louder voice, "What do you say, Berrigan?"

There was a rustle of movement behind the tents as a tall figure stood slowly and limped into the firelight. Even before he noticed the six-string
gitarra
that the man was holding in one hand, Will recognized the limping gait. He had seen Berrigan several times before, usually at the Rangers' annual Gathering, when he entertained the assembled Corps. A former wearer of the Oakleaf himself Berrigan had been forced to resign from active service when he lost his left leg in a pitched battle with raiding Skandians. Since then, he had earned his living as a jongleur, showing a high degree of skill as a musician and singer. Will also suspected that he had from time to time been used to gather intelligence for the Corps.

He realized now that the former Ranger had been listening in for the purpose of judging him. Berrigan smiled at Will as he eased himself down beside the fire, the peg leg he wore making the movement a little difficult as it stuck stiffly out before him.

"Evening, Will," he said. He nodded at the mandola, now laid across the younger man's lap. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

He had a lean face, with high cheekbones and a large, hawk-like nose. But the outstanding features were the bright blue eyes and the wide, friendly smile. He wore his brown hair long, as befitted his calling, and his clothes were those of a typical jongleur—marked in haphazard patterns of bright colors that seemed to shimmer as he moved. Each jongleur, Will knew, had his own distinctive set of colors and patterns. He noticed now that the pattern on Berrigan's cloak was markedly similar to that of the cloaks that all Rangers wore—although more brightly colored than the drab browns, grays and greens of the standard Ranger cloak.

"Berrigan. Good to see you," he said. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned to Crowley. "Crowley, wouldn't it make more sense if Berrigan took this mission? After all, he is a professional jongleur and we all know he still works for the Corps from time to time."

The other three exchanged glances. "Oh, we all know that, do we?" Crowley asked.

Will shrugged diffidently. "Well, we don't
know
it exactly. But he does, doesn't he?"

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Berrigan broke the tension around the campfire, saying with a lazy grin, "You're right, Will. I still do some work for the Corps when asked. But for this job, I'm a bit short. About a foot or so."

"But you're way taller than me ..." Will began and then realized at Berrigan was looking meaningfully at the peg leg that stood straight out in front of him. He stopped in embarrassment. "On you mean your ..." He couldn't say the word. It seemed so crass somehow. But Berrigan's smile widened even further.

"My peg leg, Will. It's perfectly all right. I'm used to the fact by now. No need to pretend it's not there. From what Crowley has told me about this job, it needs someone who's fast on his feet, and I'm afraid that isn't me anymore."

Crowley cleared his throat, glad the awkward moment had passed. "What Berrigan
can
do is tell us if you'll pass muster as a jongleur. What do you say, Berrigan?"

Berrigan cocked his head to one side, thought for a moment, then replied. "He's good enough. It's a pleasant voice and he plays well. Certainly well enough for the sort of remote places and country inns he'll be performing in. I don't know if he's ready for the court at Castle Araluen yet." He smiled at Will to take any sting out of the words. Will grinned in return. He was pleased with the assessment. Then Berrigan went on.

"But the giveaway is his unpreparedness. It always shows up a non-professional."

Crowley frowned. "How do you mean? You say he's good enough singing and playing. What other preparation does he need?"

Berrigan didn't answer directly but turned to Will.

"Let's hear another tune, Will. Any one you like. Quickly now," he said. Will picked up the mandola and ...

And again his mind went blank.

"There you have it," Berrigan said. "The amateur always dries up when he's asked to perform." He turned back to Will. "Do you know
Lowland Jenny
?
Spinner's Reel
?
Cobbington Mill
or
By the Southland Streams
?"

He shot the song titles out in rapid succession and Will nodded glumly to each of them. Berrigan smiled and shrugged.