Simon could not help gloating a little, although he had decided to keep it to himself for the time being. Still, he could not help grinning cheerfully down the long table at anyone whose eye he caught.
When Jeremias appeared, Simon forced him to sit down beside him. In the company of the prince and the other “high folk,” as Jeremias called them, the onetime chandler’s boy was still generally more comfortable waiting on Simon as his body-servant—something that Simon did not find comfortable at all.
“It’s not right,” Jeremias grunted, staring down at the cup that Simon had placed in front of him. “I’m your squire, Simon. I shouldn’t be sitting at the prince’s table. I should be filling your cup.”
“Nonsense.” Simon waved his hand airily. “That’s not the way things work here. Besides, if you had gotten out of the castle when I did, it would have been you that had the adventures, and me who wound up in the cellar with Inch. …”
“Don’t say that!” Jeremias gasped, eyes full of sudden fright. “You don’t know …!” He struggled to control himself. “No, Simon, don’t even say it—you’ll bring bad luck, make it come true!” His expression changed, the fear gradually giving way to a look of wistfulness. “Besides, you’re wrong. Such things wouldn’t have happened to me, Simon—the dragon, the fairy-folk, any of that. If you can’t see that you’re special, then …” He took a deep breath, “… then you’re just being stupid.”
This kind of talk made Simon even more uncomfortable. “Special or stupid, make up your mind,” he growled.
Jeremias stared at him as if sensing his thought. He seemed to consider pursuing the subject, but after some moments his face twisted into a mocking smile instead. “Hmm. ‘Specially stupid’ would be about right, now that you mention it.”
Relieved to find himself back on safer footing, Simon dipped his fingers in his wine cup and flicked droplets onto Jeremias’ pale face, making his friend splutter. “And you, sirrah, are no better. I have anointed thee, and now I dub thee ‘Sir Stupidly Special.’” He gravely flicked a few more drops. Jeremias snarled and swiped at the cup, spilling the dregs onto Simon’s shirt, then they began to arm wrestle, laughing and swatting back and forth with their free hands like sportive bear cubs.
“Specially Stupid!”
“Stupidly Special!”
The contest, although still good-natured, soon became a little more heated; those guests seated closest to the combatants moved back to give them room. Prince Josua, despite certain reservations, found it hard to maintain his look of detached propriety. Lady Vorzheva laughed outright.
The trolls, whose state occasions took place in the awesome vastness of Chidsik ub Lingit and never included anything as trivial as two friends wrestling and rubbing wine in each other’s hair, watched the proceedings with grave interest. Several wondered aloud if any particular augury or prophesy was determined by the winner of this contest, others whether it would be insulting to their hosts’ religious beliefs if they made a few quiet wagers on who might be the winner. Regarding this last, a quiet consensus developed that what was not noticed could not offend; the odds changed several times as one or the other of the combatants seemed on the brink of crushing defeat.
As long moments passed and neither warrior showed any sign of surrender, the interest of the trolls grew. For such a thing to go on so long at a celebratory banquet in the cavern of these lowlanders’ Herder and Huntress—well, clearly, the more cosmopolitan of the Qanuc folk explained, it must be more than a mere contest. Rather, they told their fellows, it was obviously a very complicated sort of dance that solicited luck and strength from the gods for the upcoming battle. No, others said, it was likely nothing more intricate than a combat for the right to mate. Rams did it, so why not lowlanders?
When Simon and Jeremias realized that almost everyone in the room was watching them, the arm wrestling match suddenly came to a halt. The two embarrassed contestants, red-faced and sweating, straightened their chairs and addressed themselves to their food, not daring to look up at any of the other guests. The trolls whispered sadly. What a shame it was that neither Sisqi nor Binabik had been present to translate their many questions about the odd ritual. A chance for a greater appreciation of Utku customs had been lost, at least for the time being.
Outside Leavetaking Hall, Binabik and his betrothed stood ankle-deep in the snow that blanketed the crumbling tiles of the Fire Garden. The cold bothered them not at all—late spring in Yiqanuc could be far worse, and they had not been alone together in a long time.
The hooded pair stood close, face to face, warming each other’s cheeks with their breath. Binabik reached up a gentle hand and brushed a melting particle of sleet from Sisqi’s cheek.
“You are even more beautiful,” he said. “I had thought that my loneliness was playing tricks on me, but you are more lovely even than I remembered.”
Sisqi laughed and pulled him close. “Flattery, Singing Man, flattery. Have you been practicing on these huge lowland women? Be careful, one of them might take offense and smash you flat.”
Binabik made a mock-frown. “I see no one else but you, Sisqinanamook, nor have I since the first time your eyes opened before mine.”
She wrapped her arms about his chest and squeezed as tightly as she could. When she let him go, she turned and began walking once more. Binabik fell into step beside her.
“Your news was welcome,” he said. “I have worried for our people since the day I left Blue Mud Lake.”
Sisqi shrugged. “We will get on. Sedda’s children always do. Still, it was like taking a stone from the foot of an angry ram to convince my parents to let me bring even this small mustering of our folk.”
“The Herder and Huntress may be reconciled to the truth of what Ookequk wrote,” said Binabik, “but just because an unpleasant thing is known to be true does not make it more palatable. Still, Josua and the others are truly grateful—every arm, every eye, will help. The Herder and Huntress have done a good thing, however unwillingly.” He paused. “And you have done a good thing also. I thank you for your kindness to Simon.”
Sisqi looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Asking him to join the Qanuc troop. That meant much to him.”
She smiled. “It was no favor, beloved. It is a deserved honor, and our choice—and not just mine, Binabik, but that of the folk who came with me.”
Binabik stared at her, surprised. “But they do not know him!”
“Some do. A few of those who survived our march down Sikkihoq are among this hundred. You saw Snenneq, surely? And those who were at Sikkihoq brought back stories to the rest. Your young friend has made a strong impression on our folk, beloved.”
“Young Simon.” Binabik thought about this for a moment. “It is strange to think it, but I know you speak the truth.”
“He has grown much, your friend, even since we parted at the lake. Surely you have seen that?”
“I know you do not mean in size—he has always been large, even for one of his folk.”
Sisqi laughed and squeezed him again. “No, of course not. I mean that since he came down from our mountains, he looks like one who has taken the Walk of Manhood.”
“The lowlanders do not do as we do, my love—but I think that the whole of the last year has been, in a way, his manhood-walk. And I do not think it is over yet.” Binabik shook his head, then folded her hand in his. “But still, I have done Simon a disservice by guessing you had given this as a kindness. He is young and he is changing quickly. I am so close to him, perhaps I do not see the changes as clearly as you do.”
“You see more clearly than any of us, Binbiniqegabenik. That is why I love you—and that is also why no harm must come to you. I gave my parents no rest until I could be at your side with a troop of your own folk.”
“Ah, Sisqi,” he said wistfully, “a thousand, thousand of the stoutest trolls could not keep us safe in these terrible times—but better than a million spears is having you close to me aga
in.”
“Flattery again,” she laughed. “But so wonderfully spoken.”
Arm in arm, they walked through the snow.
Provisions were scarce, but wood was not: inside Leavetaking House, the fire had been banked high with logs so that the smoke blackened the ceiling. Normally, Simon would have been upset by such a smirching of the Sithi’s sacred place, but tonight he saw it as no more than what was needed—a brave and happy gesture in a time scant of hope. He looked toward the circle of people that had formed around the blaze once supper was finished.
Most of the settlers had wandered back to their tents and sleeping caves, tired after a long day and an unexpected celebration. Some of the trolls had also gone off, a few to look in on the rams—for what, they had asked themselves, did lowlanders truly know about sheep?—and others to bed down in the caverns the prince’s folk had prepared for them. Binabik and Sisqi were now sitting at the high table with the prince, talking quietly, their faces far more serious than those of the rest of the revelers, who were passing a few precious wineskins around the fire-circle. Simon debated for a moment, then headed toward the group gathered near the fire.
Lady Vorzheva had left the prince’s table and was moving toward the door—Duchess Gutrun was walking beside her, delicately holding the Thrithings-woman’s elbow like a mother ready to restrain an impulsive child—but when Vorzheva saw Simon, she paused. “There you are,” she said, and beckoned. The child growing in her was beginning to show, a bulge at her middle.
“My lady. Duchess.” He wondered if he should bow to them, then remembered that they had both seen him thumping Jeremias earlier. He blushed and bent hastily to hide his face.
Vorzheva sounded as though she was smiling. “Prince Josua says that these trolls are your sworn allies, Simon—or should I call you Sir Seoman?”
It was getting worse and worse. His cheeks felt woefully hot. “Please, my lady, just Simon.” He sneaked a look, then slowly straightened.
Duchess Gutrun chuckled. “Heaven help you, lad, don’t get so worried. Let him go and join the others, Vorzheva—he’s a young man and wants to stay up late, drinking and bragging.”
Vorzheva looked at her sharply for a moment, then her expression softened. “I wanted only to tell him …” She turned to Simon. “I wanted only to tell you that I wish I knew more about you. I had thought our lives since going from Naglimund were strange, but when Josua tells me things you have seen …” She laughed again, a little sadly, and spread her long fingers on her stomach. “But it is good of you to bring help to us. I have never seen anything like these trolls!”
“You have known … mmmmhh … Binabik for a long time,” Gutrun said, yawning behind her hand.
“Yes, but seeing one small person is different than seeing many, so many.” Vorzheva turned to Simon as if for help. “Do you understand?”
“I do, Lady Vorzheva.” He grinned, remembering. “The first time I saw the city where Binabik’s people live—hundreds of caves in the mountainside, and swinging rope bridges, and more trolls than you can imagine, young and old—yes, it was far different than knowing only Binabik.”
“Just so.” Vorzheva nodded. “Well, again I thank you. Perhaps one day you will come to tell me more of your travels. I am sick now some days, and Josua worries so much for me when I go out and walk around—” she smiled again, but there was a touch of bitterness in it, “—so it is good to have company.”
“Of course, Lady. I would be honored.”
Gutrun tugged at Vorzheva’s sleeve. “Come along now, Vorzheva. Let the young man go and talk to his friends.”
“Yes. Well, good night to you, Simon.”
“Ladies.” He bowed again as they left, a little more gracefully this time. Apparently it was something that improved with practice.
Sangfugol glanced up as Simon reached the fire. The harper looked tired. Old Towser was seated beside him, carrying on one half of a rambling argument—an argument that Sangfugol seemed to have abandoned a while earlier.
“There you are,” said the harper. “Sit down. Have some wine.” He offered a skin.
Simon took a swallow just to be friendly. “I liked that song you did tonight—the one about the bear.”
“The Osgal tune? It is a good one. I remembered you saying that they have bears up in the trollish country, so I thought they would like it.”
Simon did not have the heart to reveal that only one of their hundred new guests spoke even a single word of Westerling—that the harper could have sung about swamp fowl for all they would have noticed. However, although the subject matter had been a complete mystery, the Qanuc had enjoyed the song’s energetic choruses and Sangfugol’s goggling facial expressions. “They certainly clapped for it,” Simon said. “I thought the roof would come down.”
“Smacked on their boots—did you see?” Thinking back on such a triumph, Sangfugol visibly lifted himself straighter. He might be the only harper ever to be applauded by troll feet—such a thing was not said even of the legendary Eoin-ec-Cluias.
“Boots?” Towser leaned forward and clutched at Sangfugol’s knee. “And who taught ’em to wear boots at all, that’s what I’d like to know. Mountain savages don’t wear boots.”
Simon started to reply, but Sangfugol shook his head, irritated. “You’re talking nonsense again, Towser. You don’t know the first thing about trolls.”
Abashed, the jester looked around, the lump in his throat bobbing. “I just thought it strange that …” He looked at Simon. “And you know them, son? These little people?”
“I do. Binabik is my friend—you’ve seen him here often, haven’t you?”
“So I have, so I have.” Towser nodded, but his watery eyes were vague; Simon was not sure that he truly did remember.
“Well, after we left Naglimund and went to the dragon-mountain,” Simon said carefully, “—the mountain that you helped us find, Towser, with your memories about the sword Thorn—after we were on the mountain, we went to the place where Binabik’s people live and met their king and queen. And now they have sent these folks to be our allies.”
“Ah, very kind. That’s very kind.” Towser squinted suspiciously across the fire at the nearest group of trolls, half a dozen men who were laughing and throwing dice in the damp sawdust. The aged jester looked up, brightening. “And they’re here because of what I said!”
Simon hesitated, then said: “In a way, yes. That’s true.”
“Hah!” Towser grinned, exposing the stumps of his few remaining teeth. He looked truly happy. “I told Joshua and all those others about the sword, didn’t I? About both swords.” He looked at the trolls again. “What are they doing?”
“Throwing dice.”
“Since I brought ’em here, I should show ’em how a real game is played. I should teach ’em Bull’s Horn.” Towser rose and stumbled a few paces to where the trolls were gambling, then flopped himself down cross-legged in their midst and began to try to explain the playing of Bull’s Horn. The trolls chortled at his obvious drunkenness, but also seemed to be enjoying his visit. Soon the jester and the newcomers were engaged in a hilarious dumb show as Towser, already befuddled by drink and the excitement of the evening, tried to explain the more delicate nuances of the dice game to a group of tiny mountain men who could not understand his words.
Laughing, Simon turned back to Sangfugol. “That will probably keep him occupied for a few hours, at least.”
Sangfugol made a sour face. “I wish I’d thought of that myself. I would have sent him over to pester them a long time ago.”
“You don’t have to be Towser’s keeper. I’m sure that if you told Josua how much you dislike the task, he’d ask someone else to do it.”
The harper shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Tell me.” From close up, Simon could see dark grit in the shallow creases around Sangfugol’s eyes, a smudge on his forehead beneath his curly brown hair. The harper seemed to have lost more than a little of his fast
idiousness, but Simon was not sure that this was a good thing: an unkempt Sanfugol seemed a blow against nature, like a slovenly Rachel or a clumsy Jiriki.
“Towser was a good man, Simon.” The harper’s words came out slowly, grudgingly. “No, that is not fair. He is a good man still, I suppose, but these days he is mostly old and foolish—and drunk whenever he can be. He is not wicked, he is just tiresome. But when I first began my craft, he took the time to help me although he owed me nothing. It was all from kindness. He taught me songs and tunings I did not know, helped me learn to use my voice properly so that it would not fail me in time of need.” Sangfugol shrugged. “How can I turn away from him just because he wearies me?”
The voices of the trolls nearby had risen, but what seemed for a moment the beginning of an argument was instead the swelling of a song, a guttural and jerky chant; the melody was strange as could be, but the humor so evident even in an unfamiliar tongue that Towser, in the midst of the singers, giggled and clapped his hands.
“Look at him,” Sangfugol said with a touch of bemusement. “He is like a child—and so may we all be, someday. How can I hate him, any more than I would hate an infant that did not know what it did?”
“But he seems to drive you mad!”
The harper snorted. “And do children not sometimes drive parents mad? But someday, the parents become as children themselves and are revenged on their sons and daughters, for then it is the old parents who cry and spit and burn themselves at the cookfire, and it is their children who must suffer.” There was little mirth in his laugh. “I thought myself well away from my own mother when I went off to make my fortune. Now, see what I have inherited for my unfaithfulness.” He gestured at Towser, who, with head thrown back, was singing along with the trolls, baying wordlessly and tunelessly as a dog beneath a harvest moon.