The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy

  He not only relaxed, but also grinned as he straightened. ‘Not a young man any more m’self, miss, but I could wish I were, seein’ the two of you pretty as the spring daisies,’ he said. ‘From over to Relling, are you then?’

  Flora laughed, and Lorrie felt herself smiling despite her worry.

  ‘Hard by Relling,’ Lorrie agreed. ‘We’re his kin, and we’ve a message he’ll want to hear, family matters. He would have passed through day before yesterday, riding – on a good grey gelding. A young man, just seventeen, but man-tall and strongly-built, hair the shade of ripe barley and blue eyes, and a yew bow over his shoulder.’

  ‘Ah!’ the woodcutter said, rubbing his back again and stretching with both hands pressed to it. ‘Yes, I do recall; not seeing him myself, you understand, but Bessa – Bessa at the Holly Bush, just up the high road and off on Willow Creek Lane – mentioned him. No mistaking, from your telling of his looks. Fair mooning over him, she was!’

  ‘That’s my Bram!’ Lorrie said.

  ‘Ah, kin of yours, this Bram, lass?’ the woodcutter teased. ‘Lucky man, to have such sisters!’

  ‘Kin by marriage soon, like enough,’ she said. ‘We’ll ask at the inn, then.’

  The man frowned. ‘Well, I’d not do you an ill turn, so be careful,’ he said. ‘There are some rough sorts stop there.’

  ‘Drovers? Badgers?’ she said. Those who took stock on the road for sale did have a bad reputation – a man didn’t feel as restrained outside his own neighbourhood, in a place where he wouldn’t be back. Drovers and guards often caused more trouble than the money they brought justified.

  ‘Soldiers, down from the manor,’ the woodcutter said, and spat. ‘I’ll not say anything ill of the lord baron, you understand –’

  Not wanting a whipping or the stocks or your ears cropped, Lorrie thought, nodding.

  ‘– but some of the guardsmen he’s hired these last years, they’re right cut-throat, skirt-lifting bastards, and times they’ve lifted skirts will-she, nil-she.’ He winked and put his finger alongside his nose, as if making a locally recognized gesture. ‘Outsiders. Foreigners. No offence,’ he went on.

  ‘None taken,’ Lorrie said mildly – everyone back home thought of anyone from more than a day’s walk as foreign and somewhat suspicious, too.

  ‘Maybe your kinsman was thinking of taking service with the Baron?’ the woodcutter said. ‘Manor’s only a brace of miles further on. It would do the neighbourhood good to have some better-mannered boys wearing the Baron’s livery.’

  Lorrie shook her head. ‘Bram’s a farmer’s son, and badgers for caravan-masters now and then,’ she said. ‘Thanks for your time and help, gaffer.’

  ‘No trouble, talking to a pretty girl on a fine spring day. Summat to talk about, this next season!’

  Lorrie nodded thanks and they drove on, after she made sure of the directions twice; she knew how hard it could be to give good ones, when you knew your district like your own house and couldn’t imagine someone who didn’t.

  ‘We’re close,’ she said to Flora. ‘I can … feel Rip.’ She frowned; the sense wasn’t really very directional. ‘Back in Land’s End, I could say “northward, and a bit east” but here all I can say is “close”.’

  ‘And where Rip is, Bram will be, and Jimmy,’ Flora said. ‘And I know where we’ll be, if we want to find out anything.’

  Lorrie looked at her, and Flora gave a wry smile, seeming older than her age; she often did, to Lorrie’s way of thinking, like a woman grown. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the tavern. Where men drink, they talk.’ With a flick of her wrists, Flora moved the gelding to a slightly faster pace, anxious to get to the tavern.

  • Chapter Seventeen •

  Plan

  JIMMY FIDGETED.

  ‘Why aren’t we in there?’ Jimmy asked.

  Looking at Baron Bernarr’s mansion was boring; profoundly, deeply boring even to someone as patient and used to waiting as a thief. The big square building just sat there, amid its frowzy neglected gardens, silent save for an occasional voice or rider coming down the lane from the main road, and the eternal beat of the surf on the cliffs half a mile away. Even the vines growing up the grey granite sides seemed to have died of tedium; for they were brown and sere even though spring was well along.

  An occasional glitter of steel showed at the big iron-strapped doors, as a sentry paced. That was it. Jarvis Coe shrugged. ‘Three reasons,’ he said, holding up a hand and bending down fingers. ‘First, what’s loose in there makes anyone reluctant to go in; so we’ve been finding reasons not to.’

  He looked serious; Jimmy glanced over from behind the tree that sheltered him and stared at Coe in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘You mean we’re delaying and making excuses and you know it?’ he burst out.

  ‘Yes.’ Jarvis held up a hand. ‘It’s not procrastination. It’s magic. Sometimes you can’t tell the difference.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jimmy had no idea what ‘procrastination’ meant, but he wasn’t about to let on; besides, he thought he understood the gist of what Jarvis was saying. Jimmy shivered a little at the idea of things affecting his mind and emotions without his knowing. ‘What are the other reasons?’

  ‘Second, it’s difficult to get in – it’s a fortress, even if it isn’t a very strong one, and it is garrisoned, even if the troops aren’t very numerous or very good. There are only two of us.’

  ‘Why can’t you get … oh.’

  ‘Yes. Right now, Bas-Tyra has other things on his mind. By the time an official complaint went through, all the evidence would be safely buried.’

  ‘Oh.’ As I thought, the sea hides a lot of sins. ‘What’s number three?’

  ‘It isn’t quite time yet. We’ll have to strike when they’re distracted – and that means waiting almost until the time for their sacrifice.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Yes. That means risking them going through with it before I can get inside to stop it.’ Jarvis took out a stick of jerky and began chewing it. ‘That would be very bad. And the magic – the side-effects of that necromancer’s magic – is affecting our judgment.’

  I want to go home to Krondor, Jimmy thought. The wrath of the Upright Man and the menace of the secret police was looking more attractive all the time.

  ‘At least Flora and Lorrie are safe,’ he said.

  The Holly Bush wasn’t much of an inn, Flora decided as she jumped down from the dog-cart in the dying hours of the day.

  In fact, it was more of a farmhouse, judging by the odours of hay, turned earth, manure and mud. It had two storeys, to be sure, and was sheathed with plank which had weathered silvery-grey from many seasons without paint, but it was a thatched farmhouse just the same, with a barn and sheds behind, a field of young wheat beyond that, and an orchard still bearing drifts of blossom. The only signs of its trade were the branch of holly pegged over the lintel, the benches set outside on either side of the door, and the width of the beaten muddy path that led up from the ruts of the road and a larger-than-usual paddock for stock in which travellers’ beasts might be accommodated.

  No, I take it back, Flora thought. They’ve put half a dozen flagstones around the door, and there’s a wood scraper. Civilization!

  One of the worksheds was a smithy, not a fully equipped one, but a little farrier’s set-up with a small charcoal-fired hearth, a bellows and a single anvil: just right for shoeing horses, or doing minor repairs. A man was at work there, tapping a shoe-blank into shape with the ring of iron on iron; a youth worked the leather bellows. She waved, and he dipped the blank into a tub of water and set it aside. Then he came striding through the barnyard, the wooden pattens on his shoes keeping the valuable leather out of the mud. He went to take hold of their horse’s bridle, looking at it with respect.

  ‘Will you be staying, then, missies?’ he asked, in a burr much like the woodcutter’s.

  ‘If you’ve room,’ Flora said, and saw him perk his ears up at her Krondor speech.

 
‘Room and to spare,’ the innkeeper-cum-farmer said. ‘No merchants or travellers by right now.’

  He was a man of medium height and build, already getting summer’s tan, and knotty with the muscle of hard work. The only thing unusual about him was the tint of red in his hair, and the freckles that stood out on his face.

  ‘I’m Tael, and I keep this inn and farm. Bessa!’ he went on, turning his head to shout. ‘Bessa! Come on, take the ladies’ trap. Davy, get out here!’

  Flora moved to help Lorrie down from the dog-cart, as Tael clucked at the sight of the stick she used to spare her leg. ‘Here, lean on me, miss,’ he said. ‘Bit mucky here, with the rain.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lorrie said shyly. ‘My name’s Lorrie.’

  A brow raised at the accent, so similar to the local’s, and quite different from Flora’s. He glanced back and forth between them; they didn’t look like kin either, though he had probably assumed they were.

  ‘We’re looking for Lorrie’s friend Bram,’ Flora said, and Tael’s face changed briefly, for an instant.

  ‘Later,’ he said crisply. ‘Come inside. Room’s three a night, and that includes the evening meal.’

  Two youngsters came bustling up; a boy like the man with fifteen years cropped off and an amazing scatter of pimples with purple rims, and a buxom young girl with freckles of her own, who took the wicker box that held their luggage.

  The innkeeper led them respectfully to a table in the main taproom, and Flora realized that she was enjoying herself. It was nice to be treated with respect – not chased out, or shaken down for a share of her earnings or personal favours on the side.

  With sunset coming on, the interior of the inn was dim and a middle-aged woman made her way around it and lit bundles of oil-soaked rag in clay dishes. These added a smoky tang of linseed oil to the cooking smells in the room; the floor had good fresh rushes on it, though, and the hearth was cheery.

  ‘Bean soup with ham,’ the woman said, calling from where she ladled two bowls full from a big iron pot hanging over the coals. ‘There’s sweet cider, hard cider, ale and small beer. Cider mulled, if you want it. You’ll be hungry, travelling far. From Land’s End?’ She set the crockery bowls down before them, and rounds of bread, butter, cheese and onions with them, and a wooden dish of sea-salt.

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘I … live with my Aunt Cleora, in Land’s End. Mulled cider for me.’

  Tael came back in, stepping out of his pattens, his feet crunching on the cut river-reeds that covered the floor which gave a pleasant green scent, for they’d been mixed with pungent herbs and flowers that gave off a scent of dried memory, like hay.

  ‘Cleora Winsley, that would be,’ he said, catching what she said. ‘Karl Winsley’s wife, and Yardley Heywood’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said, a little surprised. It’s nice to have a family people know, too, she thought.

  ‘I’ve done business with Karl Winsley,’ Tael said. ‘Buying hops.’ He looked at Lorrie. ‘And Bram is your friend?’

  ‘We’re neighbours,’ Lorrie said. ‘His … his horse came back to Land’s End, saddle empty and an arrow in it. I’m staying with Mistress Winsley. We came to see if he’s all right.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Tael said.

  His wife returned with mugs made of turned maple, and an iron rod with a wooden handle; the tip of the metal glowed white-red.

  ‘Thanks, pet,’ Tael said.

  He took the mulling iron from her and plunged it into Flora’s cider. The drink bubbled and seethed, hissing as the metal quenched; the iron had gone dark when he removed it a moment later, but it was still hot enough to make him cautious as he returned it to the hearth. A pleasant smell of apples and spices rose; Flora sipped cautiously.

  Tael took a long drink of his beer as he came back, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, taking the last of the foam from his moustache, thinking hard. Flora spooned up some of her soup – she was hungry, and it smelled good – and ripped apart one of the small loaves for dunking. It was hot enough to steam slightly, and good wheat bread, nearly white.

  ‘Well, as to young Bram, he stopped here for food about noon couple o’ days ago,’ Tael said abruptly, like a man who’d been ordering his thoughts. ‘Nice lad, polite, for all he’s from Relling way. Sorry.’

  ‘No offence,’ Lorrie said; a small smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘And he came looking for a young lad named Rip, who he thought would have been in the company of two men, and maybe not happy about it.’

  Flora and Lorrie nodded. The innkeeper hesitated and drank again, then nodded as if to himself after some internal dialogue.

  ‘Well, I’d seen no such boy,’ he said. ‘But I had seen two men who might have been the ones he were looking for, you see.’ Another hesitation, then: ‘Men-at-arms from the manor; men of the Baron’s. Skinny and Rox, they’re called; gallows-bait. I soldiered a bit myself when I was younger, and I met enough like them; ready-for-aughts, if aught were somethin’ that meant money for no work, but not the sorts a good captain would have in his troop, or ones that a wise comrade would trust with his purse or back, if you takes me meaning?’ They nodded. ‘I told your Bram that much, for he seemed a good enough sort, and they’re no friends of mine, for all they spend their pay here. Then he thanked me, polite-like, and rode up north toward the lord’s hall. The next we see is his horse running south; we tried to catch it and couldn’t. Didn’t think to lure it with grain until it was half-way down the road to Land’s End. Glad it got back to you; I’d have sent word had I caught the beast.’

  Lorrie had no doubt he meant that, but she knew country ways and ‘sending word’ would be to mention to a passing wagon driver heading towards the city that he’d found a horse, just in case someone came looking.

  ‘And next evening, in come Rox and Skinny, laughing, and spending free – a roast goose between them, and everything of the best. Wine and beer and spirits, and I had to send Bessa to bed early.’

  Flora looked at Lorrie, and their hearts sank. Lorrie leaned close and whispered, ‘Rip’s here … not far at all. Close.’

  ‘And if Rip is, and these two men are, maybe Bram is too.’ Unless he’s dead, Flora thought. And that would be a pity. He’s sweet, and pretty as a picture. And Lorrie’s a friend, I wouldn’t want her to lose her man before she’s even had him.

  Tael observed the byplay, crunching an onion between strong yellow teeth. ‘Thing is …’ he said when they looked at him.

  ‘Yes?’ Lorrie said eagerly.

  ‘Lass, they both looked as if they’d been in a fight, not a bad one, but bruises and such. And that Skinny, he carries a bow in a case at his saddle. Short bow, horn-backed and double curved, Great Kesh style.’

  With that he nodded to them and went about his work. Flora looked around as the two girls ate. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, glancing up at the roof.

  It wasn’t very high – seven feet at most, likely kept low to make the main room easier to heat. The rafters were roughlyadzed pine-trunks, and the planks pegged over them had generous cracks, probably to save expensive sawn lumber; bits of straw stuck through them.

  The singing below their room had died away. Flora and Lorrie lay prone on the boards; Lorrie had her eye to a crack, and they’d carefully picked out a clear place between two of the planks. Loud voices came up from the table below them, harsh and slurred. Flora shivered a little.

  Jimmy was right, she thought, remembering the quick hot glint in the eyes of the sergeant who’d flung her into the cart in the sweep of Mockers in Krondor. I’m well out of the trade.

  ‘It’s them,’ Lorrie whispered.

  She was white-faced; Flora realized suddenly it was anger, not fear. Killing anger.

  ‘It’s the two who took Rip,’ she said, her voice like ice crackling on a winter puddle when you stepped onto it, crackling and letting things ooze through. ‘And burned my home and killed my parents.’ Flora patted her shoulder awkwar
dly; she’d lost hers early, and from what she remembered they were no prizes anyway.

  Then she pressed her eye to the crack again. There were four of them sitting around the table and the picked remains of several chickens; she could recognize Skinny and Rox from Lorrie’s description. Bad ones, she thought, wrinkling her nose; she could smell the stale beer in their sweat, and the jerkins that had never been cleaned, with old blood on them and worse, and the neat’sfoot oil on weapons. Badder than most.

  Skinny smiled too often, and Rox not at all. They did look as if they’d been in a fight lately; Skinny had a fading shiner, and Rox a set of puffy knuckles on his right hand. The other two were nondescript men, nothing out of the ordinary about them except an unusual number of scars, hard feral eyes that showed occasionally when they tilted back their flagons and greasy dark hair that swirled back from their foreheads.

  One of them took something out of a belt-pouch and shook it in his closed hand – dice, probably. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘Let’s see some of that gold you were boasting about. I can feel it calling to me – wants to rest in my purse, it does.’

  ‘Sure it would if I were fool enough to use your dice, Forten.’

  Forten’s fist closed on the knuckle bones he had produced; perhaps he would have made something of it, if Rox had not been hulking on the other side of the table. From where she lay, Flora could see Skinny’s right hand, where the fingers brushed the hilt of the knife tucked into his boot.

  ‘And we haven’t got all of it, yet, not the fee for the new one,’ Skinny said.

  Forten grunted as he put away his dice, then poured more wine from a pitcher into his mug. ‘Bad enough those little ‘uns hiding and skulking in the walls. Fair near broke my head, where they’d rubbed grease on them stairs by the main gate. That new one, he could be real trouble if he got loose, big as a grown man. Bugger him anyway. The Baron and that wizard’ll sort him out soon enough.’

  The mercenaries fell silent for an instant, looking uneasy; one or two made signs against evil with their hands, and they all drank.