The Seven Markets (25 page)

A brief flickering from the camp’s fire illuminated Cutter’s features. As their eyes met, Cutter perceived a shiver running through the boy’s body. Was he afraid? “You presume much, son.”

“Begging your pardon, sir. I meant only to say—well—if the Prince must ride for the Market, he will travel by intersect, no?”

“Possibly. Are you offering, then, to travel ahead and warn them of our coming?”

“Only with your permission, sir.”

Cutter studied the young man. His hair was fair and long past his shoulders. He wore it pulled back, exposing his ears. A brave thing in most lands, given the state of the world. He asked himself if the boy was reckless, foolish, or merely showing off, hoping to impress the Prince and his bodyguard.

“You may ride ahead of us if you wish, but do not name the Prince when you arrive. State only that travelers are coming with urgent business at the Market. That may be enough to identify us but there is no percentage in advertising our movements, especially to that hateful place. You are aware, I hope, what the Prince went through the last time he sailed to those climes?”

“The attack?”

Cutter nodded, but would not dignify the cowards’ actions by naming them.

“I will forget for whom I ride the moment I set off.”

“And a good lad, at that. Tell me, do you fancy presenting yourself into his service?”

The young man nodded, but could not seem to muster his power of speech.

“It is a good thing, to seek service. Perhaps allow yourself a handful more years, time to grow and love a bit. There will always be time to serve your Prince.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Cutter tapped out the bowl of his pipe into the snow. “Let us replenish your supplies and water your mount before you set out. Come with me. If you meet the Prince, do not speak of your task. It will be my duty breaking that news to him.”

The envoy bowed, indicating he would not enter the camp if the Captain did not precede him. With a sigh, Cutter pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning on and trod fresh tracks in the snow. His feet were bare, his breath trailing behind him as they approached the blazing fire.

The Prince, predictably, was furious. Cutter took his fury in stride, choosing his moments with care.

“I’ve half a mind not to go at all,” he said. Cutter kept silent, knowing there was no point in reminding the brat of the uproar over the debacle two centuries past. He would rant and rave and fuss and in the morning they would ride for the intersect. If the young envoy succeeded in preparing their way, it would stand ready when they arrived.

“I suppose we’ll just pick up and go at a moment’s notice then, eh, Cutter? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“No, it’s preposterous, sire. Still . . .”

“Still still still. You are a cautious minder, aren’t you, old friend? And what if I rode east in the morning instead of west? What if I refuse?”

“You know I cannot force you, sire. But it is your duty.” The words on the tip of Cutter’s tongue—“it is your
only
duty”—remained mercifully unspoken.

The Prince rolled his eyes. “Duty? Of course, that old saw. Tell me, Cutter, what do you think the King knows of duty?”

Cutter stiffened. “I could not say, sire.” The mere mention of his King sent paroxysms of pride pulsing through the bodyguard’s heart. His King—the mere mention of him was enough to bring Cutter to his knees. That he should serve such a man . . .

“I thought not.” The Prince sighed, gazing back into his tent. Cutter had interrupted him with three women who’d joined their party at the last village. “Interrupted”—it was a kind word, at that. He wondered if the women would join them on the way to the Market, or if the Prince would simply leave them in this wild place to fend for themselves.

“Very well. Make preparations to depart at first light. Select an envoy to ride ahead and warn them of our coming. It’s an intersect we’ll ride for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Dreadful things. This is poor planning, finding ourselves this far from civilized lands and with a need to travel. I’m disappointed in you, Cutter. Honestly, I thought you knew better after all this time.”

The Prince returned to his tent without another word. Cutter stood, silent as the night itself, tamping down his rage like a musketeer packing the barrel of his weapon. Only when the red had left the edges of his vision and he could once again see the hallowed visage of his King clearly in his mind’s eye did he uproot his bare feet from the snow and rouse the Prince’s servants to begin their preparations.

They would work through the night so all that would need to be done in the morning was break and pack the Prince’s tent. The whelp would still complain of the delay but Cutter comforted himself with thoughts of his King and the goodly service he did the man each and every day.

The intersect was ready when they arrived. Cutter felt it calling him all through their second day of travel.

He was gratified to see the young envoy had not spread news of their coming. Spiriting the Prince into town unnoticed was a simple matter. They’d made excellent time, riding hard, swapping horses whenever possible, leaving a trail of exhausted servants the entire way. Those who could would catch up. Those who could not would be forced to make their own way in the world. So it had always been, so far as his charge was concerned.

The Prince announced he would take lunch in his rooms. “Go examine the intersect and see about hiring more servants.”

“Yes, sire.”

When he was outside and well shod of the brat, Cutter allowed himself a fresh pipe and a moment’s peace. The day was balmy; what snow remained on the ground was melting and would be gone before nightfall. He checked their horses in the stable, ordering their saddles removed and stored, and walked an easy, winding path to the intersect’s location just beyond town. Cutter found it by following the familiar tug in the back of his head. This close, it would have been harder missing the intersect than finding it.

“Sir! Sir!” Cutter spotted the young envoy a good distance away. He’d exchanged his fine clothes for a more appropriate traveling cloak. His face was streaked with dirt, and for all Cutter could see, he had not slept since they’d first met. As he closed the distance, Cutter noticed the boy was standing barefoot in the snow. His toes burned bright red and were going gray in spots.

“Boy, where are your boots?”

“Away, sir.”

“And why is that?”

The young man glanced down at Cutter’s feet. He looked surprised to see the fur-lined, heavy boots the bodyguard wore.

“Ah, I see. Let me tell you, if I’d had my boots, I’d have been wearing them. Come, let’s get you warmed up.”

They found a tree that had been downed in one of the recent winter storms. Cutter laid out his cloak for the young envoy and assisted him in drying his feet. His boots were fine and warm. Examining his feet, Cutter decided any damage he’d suffered from his foolish attempt at heroism would not be permanent.

It was an unlikely circumstance that his posting as the Prince’s bodyguard had earned him a certain infamy in many of the lands they traveled. Youths like this one, hardly more than a boy himself, found him standing barefoot out in the snow and sought to emulate the feared Captain Cutter.

“Use your head, boy. You think I chose to go bootless in ankle-deep snow?”

“Of course, sir. Our lands are distant, but we have heard your tales.”

“My tales,” Cutter said, suppressing his dismay. “If half of them are true I’ll eat my own hat. Boy, if you hope to make yourself useful, the first task you must complete is gaining an ounce of common sense.”

“Yes sir.”

But Cutter could see his entreaties fell on deaf ears. He drew his sword.

“Do you know this blade, boy?”

“Of course, sir, that is—”

Cutter pressed a finger to the young man’s lips, silencing him. “Well if you know its name, surely you can tell me how many men it’s killed. A blade such as this must drink deeply of the blood of its foes, no?”

“Sir?”

“Now you’re thinking. But a drawn blade is no different from a man standing barefoot in the snow. It tells a tale, yes, but perhaps not the tale you expect.” Cutter sheathed his sword and threw an arm over the young man’s shoulders. “Tell me, do you have a name, boy?”

The young envoy impressed him then; he nodded and said, “Yes, sir” instead of blurting out his name. There might be hope for him yet.

“You’re a quick study. I’ve seen more than a few fall for giving of their names too freely. Now, what may I call you?”

“My mother called me Felwyn, sir. Will that do?”

“Is it your true name?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it will do. Hold a minute, that I might do my duty. Then we will return to town and you can tell me of your heroic deeds.”

“Sir? I have performed no such deeds.”

“Did you not just this day arrive to guard this intersect for your Prince? Did you not, foolishly or otherwise, execute this duty with your bare toes upon the frozen ground?”

Felwyn nodded, lowering his eyes.

“There’s heroism enough in that. I imagine if we continue talking we’ll discover even more bravery in your heart. The trick is filtering out the foolishness. Really, it’s just as brave standing guard with your boots on, and more comfortable, too.”

Cutter left the boy sitting on the downed tree and left to inspect the intersect. It was a simple enough thing, a doorway formed from the trunks and branches of two trees growing close together. He laid his hand on the wood, careful not to pass into the space between the sister trees. It was warm to the touch, warm as an oven filled with baking bread. The air shimmered with radiant heat, distorting the rolling field beyond so that it might have been a mirage out on the wide desert. Smiling to himself, Cutter wondered if young Felwyn would go barefoot on the open sands, should he find himself wandering them.

Satisfied, Cutter returned to collect the boy. The walk back to town was short and filled with silence. He desired another pipe, but his grumbling stomach suggested waiting until after a hearty meal.

“Have you eaten, boy?”

“Breakfast, sir. Bread and good cheese. If you’re hungry . . .”

He smiled at the young man’s generosity. It would not do to let him pass into the Prince’s service. His stout heart and eager nature would be wasted on that petulant brat. Still, there were more options than pressganging him into service as a cook or luggage bearer.

“Do you know, Felwyn, I’ve never had a squire? Do you think you might be up to tending my horse, shining my boots, that sort of thing?”

“Oh yes, sir!”

“Very well. Here, hold on a moment.” Cutter produced a ring from within his coats. It was gold with a green face, and when the hazy daylight caught it, it brightened. He squeezed it in his fist and passed it over to the young man. “Wear that and you may serve me. When you decide you’re tired of my grumbling, simply return it and may we part as friends.”

“Thank you, sir!” Felwyn dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Cutter realized he was expecting, what, to feel the flat of a blade against his head? Gods above and below.

“Get up, get up. We can’t have anyone seeing you like that, take it from me. Bitter experience. I’ll tell you about it someday.” Cutter’s finger found the length of his pipe within his pocket. That smoke might not wait until after lunch. “For your first task, go and secure us a table at the inn. Order well and expansively—you will be graded on your efforts. I’ll be along once I’ve sorted out a small personal matter.”

Cutter watched his new squire race off, unable to keep the smile from his face. The Prince would be furious, of course. He’d scream like a child and insist Cutter press the boy into his service.
Once the ring is given it cannot be taken back, only accepted when returned.
The Prince knew this, loath though he might be to admit it. It was possible he might attempt to lure the squire away from his master, if he got it into his head to try.

“Let the royal bastard try it,” Cutter said, drawing out his pipe, packing it, and striking a match on his thumbnail.
Let the royal bastard try.

The fresh mud sucked at their boot heels as they led the Prince to the intersect by the light of the falling moon.

“See?” Cutter said. “Bet you’re glad for a good pair of boots now.”

“Truly, sir.” Felwyn hid his smile beneath a guise of concentration, taking his cue from the bodyguard’s hushed tones.

“This mud alone is reason to turn back.” Surprising absolutely no one, the Prince had been complaining in a steady stream since being roused from his bed just before midnight. “Really, you’d think there could be some consideration. Mud! This is worse than the horrid snow we rode through to get here. Where is the summery weather? Bad enough to travel at night, worse still to travel by intersect. Cutter, you
know
I hate using the intersects! Why didn’t we account for this possibility as we traveled? Would it have been so hard to situate ourselves better than this?”

Cutter’s face was a stoic mask as he turned. “My apologies, sire.”

“Damn right
your apologies
. Next time we’re in the King’s lands, please remind me to bring up this whole ‘three days’ warning’ nonsense. I don’t know whose idea that was, but I’ll have his head, mark my words. Three days? How is that even a reasonable timeframe? It’s abuse is what it is, pure and simple. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to learn it’s the Market-folk behind it. Waiting for us to be out in the hinterlands before raising the flag. ‘Oh, it’s time for the Market. Summon the Prince.’ Who are they to summon me, I ask you? They’ll hang for this, the lot of them. We’ll find out who’s responsible and stretch their necks like taffy-pudding.”

They marched in single file. The trees seemed to have grown denser since their earlier visit, huddling together like old wives whispering gossip. The deeper into the woods they went, the more the Prince’s servants needed to clear encroaching branches off the path, and it was not long before the party’s pace had slowed to a crawl.

“Cutter, I need more light here,” the Prince said. Cutter shone his lantern at the brat’s feet, offering a hand to help him over a small obstruction in the road. The Prince swatted him away—then took his hand a moment later. “In the King’s lands, intersects are better maintained than this. Guarded, protected, just on the outskirts of town. What woods there may be are fiercely tended, kept from growing into the path. These bumpkins, you’d hardly think they were aware of its presence.”