The Last Knight (8 page)

She stuck the shovel into the earth before turning, revealing a face as wrinkled and homely as an old apple.

“Good mor…” Her eyes widened. Most of the swelling had gone, but I knew my bruises were fearsome. I smiled reassuringly and went on. “I’m Sir Michael, a knight errant in search of adventure and good deeds, and this is my squire, Fisk. You seem to be in need of younger hands, and ’twould be our honor to assist you.”

Her eyes widened further at this speech—a reaction to which I’ve grown accustomed. I waited for her to recover and either say
“What?”
or burst out laughing.

When I first became a knight errant, it bothered me when people laughed, though I could scarce blame them. In a child, playing knights and quests is cute. For a youth my age…But I made up my mind that I’d not quit, no matter how I was mocked. Yes, at first their amusement stung my pride. But as time passed, it stung less. The pride I took in my ability to earn a place in the world, despite the opinion of others, was greater than the injury of laughter.

But instead of the reaction I expected, she turned to Fisk, who looked far more respectable than I did.

“Yes, he means it,” Fisk told her gloomily. “It’s a long story.”

“Squire?”

Fisk looked even gloomier. “Don’t ask.”

She did laugh then, but ’twas welcoming, and the eyes she turned on me were bright as a magpie’s. “Good deeds, huh? Well, Sir Michael, if that’s your way of offering to fix my chicken coop, I won’t say no. I’m Miss Edda.”

We spent the rest of the morning restoring the chicken coop. I managed to find a winch wheel in the barn. We lashed three posts together, hung the wheel above the broken posts, and ran the rope through it and out to Chant’s saddle—a trick of leverage I learned working in the mines in the north. The broken posts popped out like rotten teeth. Sinking the new ones and tacking up the panels was simple, though Fisk had to do the heavy work. He was willing but less practiced with both hammer and shovel than I.

Mistress Edda supervised our work, also making sure we didn’t steal anything, but even Fisk forgave her suspicion when she brought out cold apple juice to ease our thirst.

We learned that she was a widow, and her son and their hired man had gone to Uddersfield to sell the excess of their harvest. Which should not have been a problem, except for a hound pack that had escaped its handler, and so startled a pair of oxen that they took an ore cart right through her fence and into the chicken coop.

Fisk exclaimed over the coincidence of her son and hired man being absent when he and I needed a place to stay, and offered to do her a further favor by renting those empty rooms.

Eyes sparking shrewdly, Mistress Edda said she was grateful for his kindly thought, but alas, she wasn’t an innkeeper. She and Fisk settled into bargaining, and the price they finally settled on seemed fair enough to me, though it was clear they both thought they’d gotten the better deal.

We washed the sweat from our bodies in the horse trough and were back on the road by midafternoon, with the promise of a meal and warm beds when we returned in the evening.

Willowere was part farming village and part river port, for the barges that traveled the Halloway frequently stopped to off-load timber or wool and take on ore, grain, or ale.

We started at dockside, for Fisk said all the gossip in port towns was heard there first. We talked to the tavern keeper, the crane master, and as many loaders as we could find. But while many men remembered Hackle, none could tell us where he’d come from, where he was going, or anything except that he’d been trying to hire men for some “shady business.”

No one seemed to realize that Fisk and I were the men he’d hired; still, we were somewhat discouraged returning to Mistress Edda’s house that night.

Next morning we spoke to the keeper of the inn where we’d met with Hackle. He did remember not only Hackle but us, and he knew what had come of that meeting. He tried to keep a courteous face, but laughter leaked out at the corners, and he knew no more of Hackle than anyone else.

Thus it was throughout the day; the smith, the shopkeepers, the ferrymen—none could tell us anything except that some of Hackle’s coins had been stamped with Lord Gerald’s marks. At Fisk’s suggestion, I had offered a gold roundel for any useful information, but no one came forward.

The knowledge of our quest spread rapidly through the town. Fisk is less accustomed to laughter than I, and even I was finding it wearisome by the day’s end, when we went to the inn where we’d stabled our horses.

“Nothing,” Fisk pronounced. “Near as I can tell, the old man stayed in this town for over a week and didn’t speak a casual word to
anyone
. It’s inhuman, that’s what it is.”

“But not so peculiar,” I answered, “when you consider he was here to arrange a prison break. Would
you
chat with strangers under such circumstances?”

Fisk scowled, but he couldn’t argue. The stableboy who was leading Chant and Tipple out to us caught sight of Fisk’s face and approached with more caution. His hair was straight as straw, and one of his front teeth was missing.

“Two days wasted,” Fisk grumbled. “We might as well have asked this boy! You, boy, did old man Hackle tell you secrets?”

“Well, Sir, he—”

“Of course he didn’t. Why should he? How should anyone in this rustic backwater know…”

Fisk went on, but I’d stopped listening. The boy’s eyes flashed when Fisk asked his question, and his face fell when my squire interrupted. I held up a hand to silence Fisk.

“Lad, do you know something?”

“No, Sir. Not really.”

This time Fisk caught it too. “What is it that you don’t
really
know?” His voice had gentled, but the lad’s eyes remained downcast.

“It’s nothing, Sir.”

Fisk looked urgently at me. I looked back at him blankly, for I had no idea how to get the boy to speak.
The money,
he mouthed silently.

“Of course!” The jingling of coin lifted the boy’s eyes.

“Oh no, it’s not that. I just don’t think what I noticed is worth anything. It was stupid, really. I’m probably wrong.”

“Let us be the judges of that,” said Fisk, in a voice so persuasive it could have pulled fish from the water. His con artist voice? I held a gold roundel so it flashed in the light.

The boy eyed it. “It’s just that I thought I recognized his clothes.”

“His clothes?” Fisk and I spoke together.

“I said it was stupid.”

“No, go on. This is the best information we’ve had all day.” ’Twas the only information, but Fisk’s encouragement served the purpose.

“It was the patches on his tunic,” the boy went on more confidently. “Remember how ragged he was? I thought I’d seen that pattern of patches before, on Long Tom’s clothes, though Tom’s patches were brighter, and these were better fabric. The clothes didn’t fit well, so I wondered if he’d stolen Long Tom’s clothes and repatched them. But that didn’t make sense, and they’d have called me a simp, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Who’s Long Tom?” I asked.

“He’s a beggar, sir, comes through here in spring and fall, for he works a regular route. He left a few days before Master Hackle came. He tells me stories of his travels in exchange for what I sneak out of the kitchen, and when I recognized the tunic I worried a bit for Tom,” the lad finished in a rush. “But I know it’s silly. Who’d want a beggar’s clothes?”

Fisk’s eyes met mine.
A man who needed a disguise to get past Lord Dorian’s border guards.

“You’ve won yourself a roundel, lad.” He caught it with a joyful squeak. “Just one more thing. You say Long Tom works a regular route. Do you know where he’d be now?”

“Not for certain,” the boy admitted. “But he winters in Uddersfield, most times.”

Fisk and I passed a second night at Mistress Edda’s, much of it spent in argument, though I can’t think why we quarreled, for we agreed on everything.

We agreed that Hackle had bought the beggar’s clothes to pass Lord Dorian’s border. We agreed that he’d then replaced the beggar’s gaudy patches with something more respectable, so he could stay in town without exciting comment.

We also agreed that it was cursed unlikely that Hackle, who’d been so closemouthed with the townsfolk, had said more to a chance-met beggar, so pursuing him was a waste of time.

Unfortunately neither of us had any better ideas.

The sun was still bright next morning, but the wind that had come up during the night was rattling the last leaves out of the trees like a housemaid beating dust from a rug. ’Tis fine weather for travel in my opinion, though Fisk pulled his cloak tight and prophesied storms.

For all his pessimism, Fisk was a good companion, able to talk or be silent as the mood took us. ’Twas in one of the silent times that the feeling came upon me, so soft I’d scarce have noticed it had not Fisk said, “That’s the fourth time you’ve looked over your shoulder. Did you forget something?”

“No.” I pulled Chant to a stop and turned to look back, watching and listening carefully now.

The road behind us was empty. The woods held only trees, brush, and two squirrels chasing each other through the branches. The wind carried a steady stream of leaves to the forest floor and blew my hair into my eyes. But in the cellars of my mind, where Gifts reside, was a nagging feeling that someone watched me.

The sensing Gift is a steady, reliable thing, for magic is either there or it isn’t, and you can tell with a single touch. Other Gifts are more…ambiguous. I learned not to ignore them on the day a dog with a happily wagging tail turned and sank its teeth into my wrist. But I’d also learned that this vague disquiet could be caused by many things. Mayhap someone was thinking of me—I’ve felt such things before, even when the person was half a county distant. At all events, there was nothing to be done about it, though I resolved to sleep in safe shelter tonight if the feeling lingered.

But my uneasiness had passed off long before we made camp that evening, and I had forgotten about it. So I was taken unawares when Fisk, who was unpacking the saddlebags, exclaimed in disgust and dropped something.

“What under the two moons is that?” he asked, wiping his hands on his britches.

The light was dimming. I had to go stand beside him to make out the crumpled dark thing that lay at his feet.

“It looks like hide.” A rank stench reached my nose and I grimaced. “Boar’s hide, uncured.” I dropped to my knees. The moment I touched it I felt the familiar tingling, faint with the death of the beast, but unmistakable. My hand jerked back and I jumped away.

“’Tis magica! Where did you find it?”

The dusk drained everything of color, but Fisk’s face was paler than usual.

“In Tipple’s pack. But surely…I mean,
we
didn’t kill it! If whoever did made the appropriate sacrifice, then—”

“Then why place it with us? Unless the proper sacrifice was made, no one who owns this hide will be forgiven. Get Tipple’s pack back on her—we’ve got to get out of here.” Chant’s pack was still on his saddle—all I had to do was yank the girth taut.

“But we don’t
own
it.” Fisk was gathering Tipple’s pack as he spoke. “We didn’t kill it, we didn’t buy it, we had nothing to do with it!” He shouted the final words into the empty forest, as if the Furred God might hear and forgive us. But the gods aren’t human, and they don’t reason as we do.

“We have to find a Savant.” I swung into Chant’s saddle. “Fast. There’s a village about half an hour west of here. We might make it.”

Fisk didn’t reply.

“Fisk?”

He stood, frozen, with Tipple’s pack slung over his shoulder, his gaze on a patch of shadow at the edge of the clearing.

Staring into the shadow, I could just make out the high-peaked shoulders and tiny, pricked ears of the wild boar. Its eyes were fixed on my squire.

It has been several centuries since anyone was insane enough to hunt boar for sport, and when they did they used a spear. A long spear, with a heavy cross guard to keep the boar from running up the spear and savaging the hunter. I decided to remain mounted.

“Don’t move,” I murmured, my throat so tight ’twas a wonder my voice didn’t squeak. The warning was unnecessary—Fisk didn’t seem to be breathing. I hoped my squire would know enough to climb a tree, as boars are not equipped for climbing. Meanwhile, I moved my right hand, as slowly as I could, over the pack on Chant’s rump in search of my sword hilt.

Heroes in ballads are always wearing their swords when trouble arises, but frankly, wearing a sword is cursed inconvenient. ’Tis always in the way when you try to sit down, or whacking into things when you turn around. So I kept my sword in Chant’s pack, but I made one concession to knight errantry and the slim possibility of encountering bandits: I’d left the hilt free, so I could draw it from the pack with a single pull. In a full year’s adventuring, I’d never before had cause to use it. Now, unable to take my eyes off the boar, I groped over leather, canvas, and buckle and wished I’d had the sense to practice this a time or two. I couldn’t find the cursed hilt!

Without so much as a twitch to warn us, the boar charged. Fisk tried to flee, but it ran right under him and knocked him flat as a ball-struck skaddle pin.

The boar turned, snorting, stamping the ground.

Fisk thrashed back through the drifted leaves, his face twisted with terror. He grabbed Tipple’s pack and threw it at the beast.

The unwieldy bundle lurched toward the boar, which, thinking itself attacked, charged the pack.

Fisk scrambled away, as the gleaming tusks slashed through canvas as if ’twas paper.

I tore my gaze from the beast and
looked
for my sword hilt. How could it have worked its way under there? No matter. The sword rang softly as I pulled it free, and I made a hissing click with my teeth that reminded my half-lame riding horse that he had once been a tourney-trained destrier. He quivered and his ears whipped forward. Tourneys were supposed to be training for war, although generally against taller opponents.