Despite her unprepossessing appearance,
their hostess produced a passable meal between cuffing
and scolding children, and the ale was tolerable. Having
served her guests, she dropped platters for herself
and her oldest at the far end of the long
table and she set her remaining teeth to work at a
gallop.
Durendal talked horses with Quarrel
until the meal was done and then explained that they would
be making an early start in the morning but might
return to spend another night. He slid a
gold coin along the planks to her. He asked for
directions to Stairtown, thereby confirming his
impressions of the local roads and the way
to Falconsrest without actually mentioning its name.
Finally he asked, "And where is Master Twain
on this wretched day?"
"Went with Tom, sir. My man."
"Where to?"
She wiped her platter with the last of her bread.
"Hunting for Ned, sir, over at Great Elbow.
Disappeared. They're all out looking for him.
He's simple, you see. Must have wandered off."
Ward and Blade exchanged horrified
glances.
Durendal slept. Quarrel wakened him when
the second candle was two thirds gone. He
wrapped himself in his cloak and trudged out into the
night, shivering and still half asleep, to find that his
efficient Blade had already saddled the horses and
brought them to the door. Although the rain had stopped,
the night was dark as a cellar. That should be an
advantage when they reached Falconsrest, because
skulking around any place guarded by Blades was
a very dangerous occupation; but it made their chances of
ever arriving there much slimmer. As it was, the
horses could go no faster than a walk.
They were on their way before he realized that he was
astride Gadfly again. Quarrel had held a
stirrup for him without a word and he had accepted
without looking. A very neat maneuver! He would not
be petty enough to make an issue of the matter now,
but if Junior thought that Destrier was to be his mount
from now on, he was grievously mistaken.
"Just reconnaissance?" Quarrel asked as they
rode into the wind.
"I hope so. If they're doing what we fear
they're doing, then it must be done in the lodge itself.
It has two rooms up and two down, separated
by chimneys, garderobes, and a stair. An
elementary has to be on the ground, of course, and
there used to be an octogram laid out in
the room they now use as a kitchen. It's
probably still there. The outside door's in the
other, the guardroom. Ideally, I'd like to creep
up to the kitchen shutters at dawn and listen. If
I hear chanting, we'll be certain. If I
don't, we'll know we're wrong."
"You better let me do that, my lord. No
point in both of us going."
Blast that binding!
Receiving no reply, Quarrel muttered, "Must
we do this at all? That simpleton's disappearance
seems like pretty strong evidence to me. If we
asked around Stairtown and learned of any other people
gone missing, then we would know, wouldn't we?"
"You're right, I suppose, but I ...
Curse it, this is the King we're accusing!
We're saying he's turned his Guard into a
wolf pack. I just can't be as logical as you,
I suppose."
"It must be another side effect of the binding,"
Quarrel said indignantly. "I never used to be
logical or cautious or anything like that!"
"Nothing wrong with logic, and you're only
cautious where I'm concerned. You'll be rash
to madness with your own life."
"I certainly hope so."
"Not necessarily. A good Blade uses his
head. There's a time to lunge and a time to recover,
a time to thrust and a time to parry. When Wolfbiter
and I were trying to escape from the monastery, I
didn't stop to argue that I was the better
swordsman and ought to bring up the rear. I let
him do his duty and ran like a rabbit. It's where you
get to that matters, not how."
Having delivered himself of that profound homily,
Lord Roland promptly got lost. When the
clouds turned brighter before the slow winter dawn,
he managed to find a road that he thought was the one
he wanted. He had to leave the trail before it
reached the outer gate, for there would be a guard there.
Then he had to find a way through the patchy woods
that cloaked the hills, navigating by instinct and
hoping to come out somewhere near the lodge. He got
lost again. Curse Byless for not being available as
a guide!
The sun was glinting between the clouds and the horizon
when he reined in at the edge of the trees above the
little cup-shaped valley. Below him, the lodge
stood on a spur that protruded like a ship's
prow from the steep hillside--a small
stone house and a wooden shed for horses. The
royal standard still flew from the flagpole. Down
on the flats, the village slept on, showing no
signs of life.
He said, "Too late. If they did it,
they've done it already."
"We can wait and see if they bring out a body
... remains of a body."
"I'm not sure what they'll do with it. The
bones are too valuable to throw away."
Growing steadily more chilled by the wind, they
waited to see what might happen. Soon a
carriage and two outriders emerged from the
village and crept slowly up the steep trail
to the lodge. A man came out to wait for it, then
scrambled inside. It turned and went back
down, then headed off along the road to the outside
world.
"I would almost swear that was Kromman,"
Durendal said. "Wearing black?"
"He moved like a young man, my lord. I've
only seen the Secretary once."
Was the new Chancellor commuting to Grandon every
day? If he was now a Samarinda immortal,
then he would seem roughly his proper age by the time
he arrived at Greymere. He might be able
to spend two or three hours on business there and
depart before he became too old to manage the
journey. Would it be possible to ambush him on his
return?
Down in the village, people were stirring, tending
livestock, heading to the mess for breakfast. Then
half a dozen men came out of the lodge and went
into the stable shed.
"My lord, we should leave. They may have
spotted us."
"I think I agree with that cautious remark,"
Durendal said, turning Gadfly's head.
Infuriatingly, clouds hid the sun so
effectively that he managed to get lost again, or
at least became uncertain how far from the palace
they were. When they emerged from the trees onto the
road, he said, "I'm not sure we're outside
the gate."
"Nor I, sir."
"Let's take it gently, in case we have
to make a sudden detour."
They rode at a slow trot along the narrow
trail, which wound through woods, roughly following a
noisy, rain-swollen stream. Quarrel
studied the ground with youthfully sharp eyes.
"Horses have come along here since the carriage
did, my lord. There are hoofprints on top of the
wheel marks."
"Relief for the guard on the gate?"
"Possibly. Or those six may have gotten
ahead of us. You suppose they've gone hunting
another victim?"
"Don't even talk about it! It makes me
ill!"
In a few moments the road emerged from the dense
wood to cross an old clearing, now overgrown with
thick thorns and scrub, impenetrable to man or
horse. The trail was barely wide enough for two
abreast.
"I think I know this spot," Durendal said.
"We're outside. Another couple of miles and
we'll be into farmland near Stairtown."
They rode across the clearing, back into pine
woods, around a corner, and came almost
face-to-face with six mounted men, lined up in
two rows of three.
Dragon bellowed, "Halt in the King's
name!" and spurred his horse forward. The others
came close behind.
"Ride!" Quarrel yelled, wheeling
Destrier.
Durendal copied. A second later he
decided that they had made the wrong decision and should
have tried to bull their way through, but by then they were into a
chase and it was too late. They were heading back
to Falconsrest. Through the clearing again, then pine
woods ... Hooves thundered, mud sprayed.
Quarrel was struggling to hold the black in so that
Gadfly could keep up. Durendal glanced behind
and saw that four of the pursuers were gaining, two
lagging behind.
"Turn at the next corner!" he yelled.
"We'll double back."
But the next corner was too late. Straight
ahead was the guardhouse. Three more Blades had
heard the approaching hooves and were mounting--on the
near side of the gate. Nine Blades were not good
odds. The trees rushed past, the gate raced
toward him.
"Over it!" he shouted. He thumped his heels
against Gadfly's ribs with little effect, while
Destrier shot forward like an arrow. The guards were
drawing their swords, their mounts shying away from the
great stallion charging them. Quarrel had
drawn Reason, but there were two horses converging
on him and he had a gate ahead. Confused
voices shouted, "Spirits, it's Paragon!"
"Take them alive." "I know that horse."
"Stop them!" Quarrel parried one man's
sword, trying to dodge a stroke from the other and
gather his horse for the jump all at the same time.
Destrier flashed a bite at one of the horses,
then the beat of his hooves ended as he took to the
air. Oh. beautiful!
Again Dragon bellowed, "Take them
alive!"
Ignore the swords, then. Close on
Destrier's tail, Durendal gathered his reins,
sat down tight, dug in his heels, and whispered,
"Do it, Gadfly!" He knew she couldn't,
though. Even he could not put her over that gate.
She tried her best. She might even have
succeeded, had not one of the guard's mounts cannoned
into her as she took off. She clipped the top
rail and pitched. He saw trees whirled against
the clouds and filthy black mud coming up and nothing
more.
The chant was familiar. So was the scent of
fresh-cut greenery. Yes, this was a conjuration for
healing wounds, the one the Guard used and
Ironhall used. And--Uh!--the surge of
spirits was painfully intense. The last time he'd
felt it this strong was when he'd broken his leg
fooling around on the armory roof with Byless and
Felix.
There must have been an accident. He was lying on
a straw pallet in the center of the octogram.
He was the one being enchanted ... might explain
why he hurt, although not why hurt in so many
places ... couldn't have been fighting ... unless
chopped to pieces. Not falling off roofs again,
surely? He peered up blearily at a dim
plank ceiling and a whole army of men, swaying like
trees above him, far too many. Bare stone
walls, chimney, underside of a wooden stair.
Things were coming and going.
The conjuration ended. Two round, pink,
identical faces peered closely into his
eyes. Fingers pried. A voice complained
fussily.
"Well, that's the best we can do for him here. I
think he'll be all right in a day or so. How many
fingers am I holding up, my lord?"
Eight fingers waved in front of Durendal's
eyes. The question did not feel as if it had been
directed at him, so he did not interrupt the
conversation.
"Can you speak?" asked the two faces.
Stupid question.
The faces went away. The sixteen or so men
all looked down from an enormous height. He
ought not to lie here or he'd get stepped on.
Too much effort not to.
"Let him rest for an hour or two," the
petulant voice said. "Then we may try again.
I really do not understand what has gone wrong with this
octogram. The balance of elements is very wrong,
very strange. It was all right last week, I know
it was." It grew confidential. "It is perhaps
just as well that His Majesty has chosen
bring in a conjurer to attempt a realignment.
Now, you said there was another patient?"
"A sword wound, Doctor. He's lost a
lot of blood."
Durendal felt strong hands lift his pallet
and bear it away. His annoyance at this impiety
turned to interest as he noted corn mills,
chopping blocks, water butts--two of everything.
Shelves, bins. Two door lintels, even.
Another room, just as cold. Being set down again.
"I don't think he's faking," said a new
voice, "but don't take your eyes off him for a
second. Just remember who he is. Even half
dead, he's still a match for any of you lubberly
lot."
Someone draped another blanket over him.
Chair legs scraped on flagstones. Soon the
chanting began again, farther away.
The mists cleared, swirled again. cleared again.
He was in the guardroom of the lodge at
Falconsrest--lying on the floor, not as close
to the fireplace as he would like and about as far as
possible from the outside door. There were four
Blades with him, two sitting, two standing--
guarding him, of course. He wasn't going to be
making any breaks for a while yet, though. Left
wrist hurt. Face hurt--mouth and left eye.
Ribs ac
hing. Could have been much worse;
the old man not too fragile yet. Vision still
blurry, so better to keep eyes shut, listen
to the sounds of conjuration drifting in from the kitchen.
Quarrel being repaired, too? Two heads
better than one. Time to think of escape when they
were both mobile. Have to do it before breakfast time
tomorrow.
He could drift off to sleep if he tried
...
"Well, he's young," said the prissy voice.
The doctor had come into the guardroom. The chanting
was over. "He'll make up most of the blood
loss within a couple of hours. Plenty to drink,
plenty of red meat, and he'll be a tiger again in
a week. Now, I'll just take a quick look at
His Majesty and--"
"His Majesty does not wish to be
disturbed." That was Bowman's voice. Where was
Commander Dragon? When had Bowman left
Greymere?
The doctor made a sound of distress, although a
hushed and subdued one, because the King's room was
directly overhead. "But, Sir Bowman, its
over a week since he accepted any medical
assistance or advice at all! The dressing on
his leg--"
"You saw him last night, Doctor."
"Only, er, socially. I admit that his
appearance was extremely encouraging, but--"
"And the way he threw you all out of the room was
almost like old times, wasn't it? Well, he
plans to go down and sup at the village tonight. I
expect you can thrust all the medicine and conjuration
you want on him then."
"Thrust?"
"Manner of speaking. Thank you for your help,
Doctor. Now Sir Torquil will see you
safely--"
"Ah, I shall just have another look at Lord
Roland first."
Fuzzy or not so fuzzy, Durendal knew
he could not fake coma to a doctor. He opened his
eyes and smiled. "Much better, thank you. Is
it permissible for me to sit up now?"
"My, what a quick recovery!" muttered one
of the watchers.
"He always was quick," said another, equally
sarcastic.
The doctor beamed and knelt down
to investigate pulse rate and pupil size and
other phenomena. "Do as much as you feel able, but
don't force it. You had a very nasty tumble, my
lord. You remember?"
"I fell off a horse?"
"You did indeed. How many fingers?"
"I assume three, although I can see about four
and a half."
The plump man chuckled politely at the
lordly wit. "Vision still a bit blurred? Rest