The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (6 page)

Recalling the two cocksure young men she had briefly seen in Oakendown, Emerald did not doubt that part of the tale either. “They just let him walk out?”

“Yes. If they’d used violence on the Duke of Eastfare’s guardian there would have been a hue and cry. He’s a member of the White Star, so the King would probably have asked questions. The Lord Chancellor back then was Montpurse, another former Blade…. I wasn’t worth that sort of trouble to them. Vincent put me on the back of his horse and took me to…a safe place.”

She caught a whiff of evasion. “What safe place?”

“Valglorious.” Wart flashed his most cocky, boyish smile. “So virtue triumphed and I have never been back to see the Big Bad Baron! You believe my story?”

Not that mention of Valglorious. “Some of it,” she said, “but not all.”

He scowled and silently handed her the reins. He removed his hat, took out his knife. Every-one carried a knife to eat with, and his had seemed quite ordinary—a crude bone handle and a shabby leather sheath. When he drew it, though, she saw that it was a small dagger, with a point and two edges. He soon showed that it was as sharp as a razor, so the blade must be of much better quality than the hilt. Ignoring the bouncing of the wagon, he proceeded to cut his hair, lifting it a lock at a time and slicing it off close to the roots. Pretty soon he had trimmed his whole head to a hideous shaggy stubble.

“How’s that?” he demanded, not looking at her.

“Horrible. You look as if you had head lice and your master told the shepherd to shear you.”

“Good.” He stuffed his hat back on his head. He had slightly protruding ears and now they showed.

“Who are you trying to deceive, if not me?” she demanded.

That question the normally chatty Wart would not answer.

Peculiarer and peculiarer!

T
HE COUNTRYSIDE DETERIORATED FROM BLACK-soil farmland to a stony plain good only for sheep and goats, apparently uninhabited except for shepherds and their dogs. The only buildings were a few isolated hovels. However, its apparent flatness was deceptive, and it was tufted with patches of gorse and scrub not unlike the new condition of Wart’s scalp. Emerald had already noticed that she could rarely see very far in any direction, but she was taken by surprise when a sizable stockade came into view almost as if it had sprung out of the ground.

“Three Roads,” Wart announced. “Coaching inn. It’s called Three Roads because one road leads from here west to Tyton, one goes north to Farham and Firnesse, and a third runs south to Kysbury and Valglorious.”

“I am amazed by the depth of your knowledge.”

“We’ll spend the night here.”

“We could cover a league or two more before dark.”

“There isn’t anywhere to go. Besides, Saxon wants his oats.”
Do not argue with the driver
!

He drove the wagon through the gate to a dusty, stony yard surrounded by a variety of thatched buildings—housing, sheds, stables. A mob of ragged boys a little younger than he flocked around him, all yelling for his attention. In such a hubbub Emerald could not make out a word, but Wart obviously knew the proper procedure, for he aimed a finger at one of the largest and said, “You!” The chosen one scrambled aboard, grinning proudly. The rest fell back to wait for another customer.

“Stabling for the night,” Wart demanded. “And which road do we take to Valglorious when we leave?”

“Best yer honor park over there under cover,” said the guide, pointing with one hand and wiping his nose with the other. “South road goes to Valglorious, if it please you.”

“I expect it will whether I’m pleased or not.” Wart steered the wagon where he had been directed to park. The boy jumped down to begin unharnessing Saxon. Wart turned a complete somersault in the air before landing on his feet like a cat.

“Oo!” said the boy. “Do that again!” More of the hungry-looking urchins came running over to watch.

“Stand back, then.” Wart vaulted up on the wagon again and repeated the feat. Laughing, he refused a third demonstration and turned serious to address the hostler who had appeared to take the guest’s orders. “Oats and a good rub-down. Which way to Valglorious?”

“South road,” the man said. “You could make Kysbury before dark. Cheaper board than here,” he muttered quietly.

“The lady is weary,” Wart explained, but he made no offer to play gentleman by helping the weary lady dismount. Instead he rummaged in the wagon for his archlute. Declining offers of help from the grubby boys, he slung it over his shoulder, took up a bundle of personal possessions, and swaggered off in the direction of the hostelry office, leaving his chosen helper guarding the wagon. Emerald followed, assuring the mob of skinny minions that she could carry her own skimpy baggage. She would have hired one of them as porter if she had possessed even a copper mite to pay him.

The door of the main building opened into a sizable timbered hall, dim after the brightness outside. Clattering noises and juicy smells drifted in from a kitchen area at the back, and Emerald guessed that the long tables and benches could probably seat at least two hundred people. Some men were already sitting there quaffing ale, and the big man standing chatting to them was almost certainly the inn-keeper. They broke off their argument to scowl at the newcomers.

“Don’t need no flea-bitten minstrels here,” growled the big one. “And no dancing girls neither.”

Wart bristled. He stood the archlute on the floor and said, “Hold this.”

“What are you going to do?” Emerald asked nervously. Oakendown did not prepare a girl very well for dealing with men. The world was full of men.

Without answering, Wart strutted forward like a bulldog stalking a bull. He put his fists on his hips and sneered up at the innkeeper, who stood a head taller and twice as wide.

“Are you insulting my companion?”

“You would know that better than me,” said the big man.

The ale drinkers chuckled.

“But you do offer hospitality to worthy travelers?”

“Them ’at has money to pay for it.”

“Best board for two,” Wart said. “Private room for the lady. I’ll settle for no more than four in the room, but a bed to myself. A clean blanket. A candle for each of us. Cover and picket for the wagon; oats, water, and a rub-down for my horse.”

“Two florins and I’ll see the color of your silver now, son.”

Not silver—the coin that appeared in Wart’s fingers was gold. He flipped it at the innkeeper, who grabbed but missed it. It rolled under the table, and the big man dived for it as if frightened his customers might beat him to it. While he was down on hands and knees, Wart slapped him on the rump and said, “Good boy!” The ale drinkers guffawed. Emerald was quite certain that Wart had made it happen.

The innkeeper rose red faced and scowling at him with even more suspicion than before, but clearly gold excused anything. He slipped the coin in a pocket and fumbled for change.

“Beg yer pardon, young master. ‘Scuse the misunderstanding. I can spare a private room for you also at no extra cost, if that’ll make it up to you. Same one the Duke himself prefers when he honors us. Clean linen, of course, always. Best board tonight will be barley mash, roast swan, venison pie, and peaches poached in brandy, if that will be satisfactory, master? All the ale you can drink included. Bread and cheese and small beer to break your fast in the morning if you wish. And her ladyship has only to ask if there is anything at all that my women can do for her comfort.” He bowed to her. “Honest Will Hobbs at your service, mistress!”

There was a faint odor of magic about Honest Will Hobbs, but nothing threatening. He probably wore a mild glamour charm to sweeten his customers’ view of him.

Wart now looked quite blasé, as if this fawning was only his due. Doubting that she could achieve the same panache, Emerald said as haughtily as she could, “Have you such a thing as a bathtub?”

“Certainly, mistress! I’ll have it brought to your room directly, and ample hot water too—no skimping on the hot water, I promise. Softest towels you’ve ever met, my lady.”

“At no extra charge!” Wart said. “By the way, which is the road to Valglorious?”

Emerald’s room was cramped and stuffy in the evening heat, but far better than anything she had been granted in Tyton. She enjoyed a long soak to wash off the road dust and ease her bruises. Fresh clothing would have been a joy, but she had nothing to wear except the same drab sack and toe-biting shoes. When she had done the best she could with her appearance, she went downstairs to explore the rest of the inn.

Three Roads was thriving. Four more wagons had arrived and been parked. Like Wart’s, each was being guarded by one of the boys. As she watched, a grandiose coach in purple and gold came rattling and jingling into the yard, drawn by four matched chestnut mares. Two liveried grooms stood on the platform at the back and two men-at-arms sat on the roof. The boys swarmed around it like midges and were yelled at by the coachman. She wondered who could afford such an outfit.

On a loading dock outside one of the stable buildings sat Wart, astride a log, strumming his archlute. About a dozen boys were grouped cross-legged around him, singing as he directed. Some adults had drawn close to listen, keeping well back from Wart’s hat, which lay invitingly on the edge of this impromptu stage. Emerald wandered over. On solid ground he played much better than he had on the wagon, understandably, although once in a while he still stumbled in the bass. As with an ordinary lute, his left hand had to steady the instrument and also stop the strings while the fingers of his right hand plucked them, but on the archlute he had to pluck the extra bass courses with his right thumb, and this knack he had not quite mastered. He was already better than he had been that morning, though. She wondered again how he had acquired a thing so precious. He had admitted stealing one lute in his brief life.

“Once more right through!” he said, and led his makeshift choir into the ballad again. When they reached the end, the audience clapped. “Take a bow!” Wart said, and the boys jumped up eagerly. “All donations go to the choir, gentlemen, not to me. This minstrel has earned his crust already today.” Some men tossed coins into the hat. “Thank you, my lords! May the spirits cherish you all.”

His fingers danced over the string. “Now, how many of you know ‘Marrying My Marion’?” The show of hands disappointed him. “Suggest something, then.” In a moment he had them singing again. He had not known the melody, but he quickly picked it up.

He was a real mystery, was young Wart, and not just because of that faint discordant spiritual element she kept detecting and failing to identify. He went out of his way to draw attention to himself with this public lute playing and by asking every man, bush, and tree the way to Valglorious. He tamed the innkeeper with gold. If he was really the sort of lowly stable hand he was pretending to be, he would never have touched gold in his life. A genuine wagoner would eat in the commons and sleep in his wagon, certainly not in a private bedchamber. Yet he had hacked off all his hair to make him-self seem more in character!

Emerald could be sure of only two things. She was certain Wart was in league with Mother Superior, but she enjoyed his company in spite of that. Bother him! Villains were not supposed to be likable.

He wound up the song with a fancy arpeggio, and again a few men threw coppers. “May the spirits favor you, my lords!” He had not been exaggerating about his experience as a minstrel. He was working his audience like a seasoned performer. “This is only our first lesson, you understand, but what better solace than music to ease the cares of a long day? Madrigals and cantatas will have to wait for our second lesson, but if there is any country ballad or simple roundelay that your lordships especially favor, these honest men here will be happy to hazard it for you! Won’t you, lads?”

A well-dressed man called for “The Baker’s Kittens.”

“‘The Baker’s Kittens’!” Wart exclaimed. “You all know ‘The Baker’s Kittens,’ my hearties! So let’s hear it—‘The Baker’s Kittens’ for two silver florins!” He strummed a few chords, which were almost drowned out by the onlookers’ laughter and a howl from the requester that he had never agreed to such a price. It was a good choice, a counting song that anyone could learn as it went along.

The boys had not reached the second kitten before Emerald was distracted by a thin, shrill whistling. Even as she wondered who would be so callous as to spoil a children’s singsong like that, she realized that the sound was entirely in her own head. What she was hearing was magic, and the moment she looked around she saw the woman she had encountered at the Acorn in Tyton. She was still some distance away, but the recognition was mutual.

The woman’s customary pout twisted into an expression of surprise. She said something to her companion, who offered his arm to lead her over to Emerald. Her voluminous scarlet gown was too heavy for such weather and much too grand for traveling the dusty roads of Chivial. Under a floppy bonnet, her face was shiny with sweat, and her efforts to smile produced a bizarre leer. The steady scream of her amulet was even shriller than Emerald remembered.

“Fancy meeting you here, child! The spirits of chance keep throwing us together! Is this not good fortune?”

That would depend on one’s point of view. Plank walls would not keep out magic, so Emerald was in for a wretched night if the inn-keeper had assigned this woman a room near hers.

“The pleasure is mine, mistress.”

The woman simpered. “Just an hour ago I was telling Doctor Skuldigger your theory that there could be no such thing as a good luck charm. Wasn’t I, Doctor? And now see how my amulet has brought us both good fortune!”

“Perhaps it has.” Emerald reminded herself that earth people never lost their tempers. That sorcerous racket had nothing to do with luck. She always heard spirits of chance as a thin dry rattle like dead leaves in the wind—or like dice being rolled. She could not guess the purpose of this discordant whistle, only that it twisted every nerve in her body.

“Your lack of faith surprises me.” The man had the saddest face she had ever seen, its flesh hanging in folds like a bloodhound’s under silver eyebrows. The sword he wore was merely the badge of a gentleman; at his age he would not be expected to use it. His hair was hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, and his expensive, heavily padded doublet and jerkin made his torso seem bulkier than it possibly could be. His spindly shanks could not fill his silken hose, although he stood straight enough. He uttered a sad moaning noise, “Aw? Wherever did you get such a notion?”

None of his business! “From my dear, late grandmother. A White Sister told her so, many years ago.”

“Perhaps it was true in her day, but sorcery has made great advances in the last twenty or thirty years.” Doctor Skuldigger’s voice was as melancholy as his face, a deep groan. “Aw?” he moaned again. “Adepts now can separate the chance elementals, binding the favorable and dispersing the unfavorable.” He waited courteously for her to comment. His eyes were bright enough, but the lower lids had sagged to reveal their red lining. Emerald found the effect so repulsive that she had difficulty looking at him.

“I thank you for correcting me, sir. Are you a practitioner of the arts magical?” If he was, then he must be one of the rogues the King had sworn to suppress, because he was talking nonsense. She could not tell whether he was merely ignorant or deliberately lying—the most skilled mother in the Companionship would have had difficulty detecting a death taint under the shrill screech of the woman’s spell.

“Aw? Merely a doctor of natural philosophy.”

“A scholar of international repute!” said the woman. “I am Mistress Murther.”

Emerald curtseyed, as she was expected to. She had still not decided what name she would use in future. “Lucy” she detested. “Emerald Pillow” sounded absurd. And what title could she claim? In her father’s day she had been Mistress Lucy of Peachyard. Now she was old enough to style herself Mistress Pillow. Alas, her present threadbare garments would allow her no such grandeur. “I am Emerald, may it please you, mistress.”