Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  A short way down the sloping ramp, Lottres drew up beside Brastigan. “My valiant band? What's all that about?” he called above the clatter of hooves over cobbles.

  “He started it.” Brastigan sheathed his sword and grinned at his brother.

  Lottres seemed to slump in the saddle. “Does everything have to be a fight with you?”

  He sat up straighter. “It wasn't my idea, good brother.”

  But Pikarus was of like mind, for he brought his bay up on Brastigan's other side. Over the bobbing ears he asked, “Is it wise to antagonize Prince Oskar?”

  “Hah!” Brastigan gave a bark of laughter. “What a pair of old women! He'll have plenty of time to forget about it before we see each other again. Anyway, Pup...” Brastigan reached over to give Lottres a playful shove. “Relax! We haven't even left the shadow of the castle walls.”

  Lottres winced from his roughness, and restlessly picked at his helmet's chin strap.

  “You got your wish,” Brastigan reminded him jauntily. “We're off on an adventure. What's the point, if you don't enjoy it?”

  Instead of cheering Lottres, the suggestion seemed to make him thoughtful again. Pikarus dropped back, and the two of them rounded the first switchback in silence. Slowly, one jolting step at a time, Harburg rose from the morning mist to greet them.

  “Maybe you're right,” Lottres murmured, long after Brastigan had forgotten what he said to be right about. “Maybe I will.”

  “Will what?”

  Lottres shrugged. Brastigan stared at him sidewise until his shoulders hunched defensively. “Cut it out, Bras. I won't know until we get there.”

  “Won't know what?”

  “Nothing.”

  By the time they rode through the Butcher's Gate on Harburg's heavily fortified eastern wall, the sun had turned the mist into butter and was melting it from the morning air. The rolling hills of Daraine were laid bare as an endless tapestry of farm fields stitched together with seams of stone fencing. Here and there were clusters of buildings: farm houses, barns and sheds. Groves of trees grew on any hillside too steep to plow. The patches of darker emerald suggested what wild land this must once have been.

  Southward, toward the mountains of Gerfalkan, a taller hill was adorned with a single great stone. At its base, unseen from the lands below, was a pool of clear water. No other structures marred the smooth sides of the mound. Whatever the season, that spring was ever flowing. Brastigan knew, because he often rode up to see it. The view from the height was so expansive, he could almost conceive of a future outside Harburg.

  The local people spoke of the place with vague suspicion and avoided visiting. The Dragon's Candle, they called it, though none knew why. Brastigan, who was neither sentimental nor superstitious, felt a little sorry there was no time, this trip, to ride up and see it again.

  The falcon unexpectedly swept from the sky and plucked some small, wriggling thing from beneath a dense carpet of turnip leaves. It glided to a roadside fence and stared at them with eyes like tarnished coins. Lottres raised his hand tentatively in greeting, but the falcon didn't speak. It bent its beak to peel off strips of gore and fur, and snapped them down. That was its good morning to them.

  The days quickly settled into a rhythm: riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for luncheon, riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for the night, rubbing down the horses. The king's highway was well made and cared for, with a surface of clay that had gravel beaten into it. It was broad enough for two carts to pass abreast, as they frequently did. Since it was a main thoroughfare, the horsemen frequently passed rows of neatly kept houses, shops and inns. The abundance of taverns made stops far more refreshing.

  For the most part, the falcon circled high above them. Sometimes it vanished for hours at a time, but it always returned. Brastigan thought it must find the horses' land bound pace unbearably slow, but it didn't descend to say so. Where it roosted at night, he had no idea and little desire to know. All in all, he was content to know the falcon hadn't drawn them out of Harburg and left them.

  The weather held fair as a handful of days went by. Brastigan passed some of the time on the road with idle speculations. Such as Therula and Pikarus, for one thing. He couldn't help wondering if that situation was as it seemed. Pikarus was wearing a fancy glove, all of a sudden—one with Therula's initial on it. Brastigan hadn't seen it before, but he would have bet it was Therula's own handiwork. Pikarus wasn't talking about the relationship, and no wonder. It would be a real coup if a lowly man-at-arms could win the hand of a royal princess. That wasn't likely to happen, in Brastigan's opinion. If it did... Queen Alustra as a mother-in-law? What a nightmare!

  As a military convoy, they took lodging at whatever fortress they came across. That occurred every two or three days. There was always room, for Crutham was at peace. Other nights, they chose among whatever inns presented themselves. Brastigan let Pikarus choose, so they had modest accommodations and simple meals.

  That was as well. The kind of inn Brastigan favored wasn't to be found along the king's highway. Nor would he bring Lottres into the back alleys. Moreover, Brastigan wasn't interested in carousing. He only sought rough company when he was bored. In Harburg, that had been a daily occurrence. Now it wasn't.

  Even on the royal road, the innkeepers seldom saw real royalty. Brastigan and Lottres had seldom been the center of so much attention. They had too many older brothers. The fawning had its charm, but Brastigan found it soon began to pall on him. As did the flirtation of the alewives. These women were of a better class than his accustomed lot but Brastigan enjoyed them only with his eyes. He wanted no brats brought to his door, as had befallen his father and a number of his brothers. Most nights, he retreated to the sanctuary of a room he shared with Lottres.

  Curiously, it was the younger prince of Crutham who stayed up late drinking as they traveled on. Perhaps Lottres took advantage of the maidservants, though his stammering when Brastigan ribbed him suggested otherwise. Most days he seemed to ride in a stupor, contemplating his horse's pale mane. The reversal was amusing, when Brastigan thought about it.

  It wasn't so funny when he woke by himself one night. Through the floor he could hear muffled sounds as the last patrons were ushered from the common room below. The alewives bade the innkeeper good-evening and the bar fell to shut out the night. After a few brief words to someone else, the proprietor shuffled upstairs. Brastigan heard the door across from his own open, then close softly.

  He rolled over but couldn't get comfortable, so he got up to use the chamber pot. As he turned back, the wan moonlight showed him Lottres's empty bed. The sheets lay smooth, the blanket still folded at the foot of the bed. Brastigan frowned, scratched his head, tried to marshal a sleep-heavy brain. The last he saw, Lottres had been in a deep consultation with some scruffy minstrel. Hearing more tall tales, no doubt. He sure was fond of them.

  Brastigan sighed as he turned from the warm, waiting blankets on his own bed. It took a bit of shuffling in the dark to locate Crusher. He stubbed his toe in the process and, thus painfully awakened, padded down the stairs.

  The common room was dark and silent, of course. The scent of the fireplace hung in the air faintly, bitterly. A single tallow candle had been left burning. This revealed the welcome sight of Lottres sitting near the fire. The slim young man had pulled a bench practically onto the hearth, where embers glowed dully under the blackened log rack. He was leaning forward so far he seemed about to fall into it.

  Fire-gazing again. This was becoming an unsettling habit.

  Brastigan hadn't realized how worried he was until he saw his brother safe. Then he released an exasperated breath and stepped forward purposefully. As he walked, he kicked a spoon under a bench and sent it singing into the darkness.

  Lottres straightened at the sound. At least he had some awareness of what was going on around him, Brastigan thought. Hands on hips, he stood over his brother.

  Lottres blinked up at him. “What are you doing d
own here?”

  “Getting you up to bed,” Brastigan answered gruffly. “You're going to fall from the saddle one day if you don't start getting more sleep.”

  His brother smiled wryly. “Yes, Nursie.”

  “I'll nurse you!” Brastigan knocked his curly head lightly with Crusher. “Come on.”

  Lottres rose stiffly, as if he had been sitting in that strange position for some time. As his brother followed him toward the stairway, Brastigan muttered, “What are you doing in here? That's what I'd like to know.”

  “I was listening to the fire,” came the desultory explanation. Lottres sounded as if he was already half asleep.

  Brastigan's snort echoed up the stairs. “The bards, you mean. Why do you waste your time with them and their wild stories?”

  “I'm looking for news.” Around a yawn, Lottres repeated his familiar argument. “I'd like to know what lies ahead of us. Wouldn't you?”

  “You're going to start rumors about yourself.”

  “Instead of rumors about you? That would be a change,” Lottres teased. “What, are you jealous?”

  “Ha!” Brastigan swung open the door to their chamber. As he did so, he saw Pikarus opening the door to his own room, just down the hall. Speaking of nursemaids... Brastigan nodded to the squad leader before following his brother into their room.

  “Get to bed, Pup,” Brastigan yawned, “so I can get to bed.”

  More shuffling in the dark commenced, as Brastigan returned to bed and Lottres got ready for his. Finally, the room was quiet. But only for a short time.

  “Bras?” Lottres's voice came from the darkness. “I meant to tell you, I think we're being followed.”

  “What?” Rushes crackled as Brastigan rolled over.

  “There's a tinker. Maybe you've seen him.” Lottres paused to yawn again, while Brastigan waited impatiently. “He's been at every inn where we've stayed for the past five days.”

  “I couldn't see past the boot-lickers and flunkies,” Brastigan answered. “Anyway, we were at Rockaine Keep last night.”

  “I know. The only nights I haven't seen him were then and when we stayed at Belegoth Keep the third night out. You'd think, if he were a wanderer looking for work, that he'd be stopping along the way.”

  Brastigan said nothing, so Lottres continued, “I walked by his table two days ago, and again tonight during supper. His tool pack doesn't even look like it's been opened.”

  Brastigan rolled onto his back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared into the darkness where the ceiling was supposed to be. He searched his memory for any suspicious travelers.

  “You're right,” he said after a moment. “I think I've seen him a couple of times.”

  Brastigan poked at the image in his mind: a shabby fellow with a long nose, drooping moustache, matt of brownish blond hair beneath a battered felt hat. Always hunched over his food as if someone might steal the plate from him. Or as if he wished to hide his face? To all appearances, he was the vagabond blacksmith, but Brastigan was sure he'd seen that hat before.

  Lottres said, “Tinkers never have any money, either, and there are less expensive places he could be sleeping tonight. He always sits near us at meals. I can't say what it means, but I thought I'd better tell you.”

  “Does Pikarus know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmm,” Brastigan said slowly. “I think I might know him.”

  “The tinker?” Lottres demanded. “From where?”

  “The Dead Donkey.” Brastigan grinned to himself as his brother groaned ominously.

  Yes, he was sure of it. Wolf...no, Wulfram. They had a passing acquaintance, played dice upon occasion. Once, they had clenched hands. Brastigan lost the match.

  When he had been quiet for too long, Lottres asked, “What should we do?”

  Brastigan shrugged, causing the mattress beneath him to crackle again. “Will he be in the common room for breakfast?”

  “He should be.”

  “Then I'll look for him in the morning.” He was getting too tired to think any more.

  “All right.” Lottres sounded faintly disappointed.

  “What do you want me to do, start knocking on every door in the inn?” Brastigan demanded irritably.

  “No, no. But...”

  “If he is following us, we won't have to look hard to find him,” Brastigan yawned. “He won't go away, and if he wants trouble we'll deal with him in daylight. Get some sleep, Pup.”

  Lottres said nothing more, and his breathing soon deepened into sleep. Yet if Brastigan's body was weary, his mind was wide awake and running in fevered circles. The stranger looked a little like Wulfram, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered the man having a beard. It might be someone else.

  In a way, Brastigan hoped it was. He'd seen Wulfram in a brawl. He was fairly sure he could beat the man, but he would rather not try.

  PRECAUTIONS

  Lottres woke with a flutter of excitement and vindication in his chest. He was right about the tinker! He had sensed something amiss the moment he laid eyes on the fellow. Now, even Brastigan agreed the tinker was suspicious. Maybe what Eben had said was true, after all. Maybe Lottres could be a wizard.

  His self-satisfaction was shattered by a brisk tap on the door. Lottres sat up, rubbing his eyes. Daylight brightened the room's curtains and showed him Brastigan stretched out face down on the bed. Black hair obscured his features. As Lottres's muddled brain fumbled to think what was wrong with that, the door opened. Pikarus leaned in and murmured, “Your highness, you have overslept. If you would come downstairs, the men are ready to ride.”

  “What?” Lottres gasped. Before Pikarus had to repeat himself, Lottres said, “No, I heard you. I'm sorry. Of course, we'll be right down.”

  Pikarus nodded, a sympathetic gleam in his eye for Lottres's confusion. He closed the door.

  “Wake up, Bras,” Lottres called.

  “I am awake,” Brastigan replied, though he didn't much sound like it.

  “Hurry, get dressed,” Lottres urged. He frantically grabbed for his own clothing. Slept late? How could they, when they were supposed to confront the tinker at breakfast? “We'll miss him. Brastigan, get up!”

  His brother responded by indulging in a long stretch. “That's what you get for staying up so late,” Brastigan said, but he did roll out of bed.

  A few minutes later, Lottres rushed down the stairs to the common room. Brastigan followed at a deliberately slower pace. The soldiers made no comment on their tardiness, but Lottres could feel their eyes pricking at him. The two princes tied down their baggage while Pikarus settled their account with the innkeeper.

  They had missed breakfast, but that wasn't the worst of it. All the other guests had already departed. There was no sign of the tinker on the road outside, either. They went on their way with slices of bread and cheese for the morning meal. Lottres chewed listlessly. His eyelids felt sticky and stiff. Brastigan's words of the night before, “if he is following us, we won't have to look for him,” gave scant comfort. They couldn't even try to hurry, or the tinker might realize they were aware of him.

  Well, Lottres wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. As they rode, he tried to follow Eben's instructions. Lottres let his eyes slip shut and relaxed so that his body would adjust itself to his horse's strides.

  “Listen,” Eben had told him. “Be as one with the air. Listen, and breathe.”

  Eben called this the first form. Lottres had practiced it every day of the journey. So far, he had learned that a man could hear and smell many more things with his eyes shut than open. He knew the scent of a muddy road, the sharpness of green fields, even the slight difference in pungency between horse and chicken manure. Lottres knew all the men in Pikarus's squad by their voices alone. He had learned how frightening it could be when your horse suddenly jumped underneath you. He was also learning, slowly, to sense the horse's tension just before it jumped.

  Perhaps Lottres was trying too hard, for he had never felt anything o
ut of the ordinary. Most days, he heard only the singing of blood in his ears. He definitely couldn't hear past the drumming of horses' s hooves to the slither of wind in the turnip leaves—not the way Eben said he should.

  Of course, Brastigan's teasing didn't help. Last night, when Brastigan came to fetch him, Lottres had been trying to use the second form, using fire to focus his senses. He had even been tired enough to let slip that he was listening for sounds in the fire. Fortunately, Brastigan had mistaken his meaning.

  Lottres sighed and opened his eyes. Any idea that he and Brastigan would renew their boyhood closeness on this journey was turning out to be hollow. Brastigan never missed a chance to mock the falcon and their quest. Of course, Brastigan didn't know he was also mocking Lottres's fondest dreams. Even if he had known, Lottres couldn't guess whether Brastigan would have stopped baiting him or done it even more.

  Lottres wasn't sure what his brother would say when he learned that Eben thought Lottres could be a wizard. Brastigan had made his feelings about magic quite clear. Even less did he like events that weren't his own idea. The sullen way he had been acting ever since Unferth announced the expedition gave witness to that. Look how he had corrected Lottres last night, speaking so scornfully, as if Lottres didn't know what he himself was doing.

  It wasn't just that, however. Lottres had to admit that he liked having a secret. He wanted to keep this to himself for a while longer. After all, he might not be able to master even the first form. No one could ridicule his failure if they didn't know what he was trying to achieve.

  Even with this doubtful safeguard for his pride, Lottres's confidence was flagging. Five days of effort, and nothing to show for it. Nothing but the jingle of harness and mumbling of the men. Except...

  Except, Lottres reminded himself, he had been right about the tinker. It was little enough, but this minor achievement was sufficient to make him keep trying.

  * * *