Lottres nudged Brastigan and whispered, “There he is!”
“I told you,” Brastigan muttered back.
With evening the tinker appeared again, though they hadn't seen him all day. As a test of Lottres's theory, Brastigan had told Pikarus to choose the most expensive inn. Though puzzled, the squad leader had complied. Now they sat with a much finer meal before them, pretending they weren't staring at the stranger two tables off and one down. Brastigan had no doubt that it was Wulfram. He could only speculate whether the man had shaved his beard as a disguise or for some other reason.
“He's right over there,” Lottres said as he passed a plate of steaming roast mutton across the table. “What should we do?”
Brastigan took it and speared a couple of tender slices. “I see him. Don't look around! He'll know we're watching.”
“Sorry,” Lottres muttered as he reached for the bowl of mashed parsnips.
“Now, listen,” Brastigan began, but Pikarus interrupted.
“Is it the tinker you're not looking at?”
The squad leader was seated next to Lottres. He helped himself to the platter of meat, although Brastigan wasn't offering it.
Brastigan merely nodded, but Lottres leapt on the words. “You've seen him, too?” he triumphantly demanded.
“Shhh,” Brastigan warned.
Pikarus nodded and ladled gravy over his platter before passing the gravy boat on to Brastigan. He kept his voice low. “I didn't want to alarm you, your highness, but Javes and I have been keeping an eye on him for a few days now.”
“You should've mentioned it sooner,” Brastigan answered, annoyed.
“I could have said something the day after Rockaine.” Lottres seemed far too happy about the confirmation of his suspicions.
“Never mind,” Brastigan snapped. “I think I know who he is, and I have a plan to deal with him.”
“What plan is that?” Pikarus asked.
Brastigan had filled his mouth with food and had to chew before he spoke. He used this time to glance along the table, where he saw every man of Pikarus's squad who was in hearing distance was listening quietly. Good—there would be less explaining later.
“Finish your supper,” he told them, “and don't get excited. Just do what you'd normally do. I'll pick the moment to have a friendly talk with him.” He smiled ironically at this description.
“By yourself?” Lottres asked anxiously.
Pikarus asked, “Will you at least tell me his name?”
Brastigan nearly refused, but then thought better of it. “Wulfram. From Carthell, or so he says. Ever heard of him?”
“No,” the man-at-arms replied after a moment's thought.
That was a good sign. If Wulfram had been arrested for a violent crime, Pikarus should know his name.
“Are you sure it's safe?” Lottres pressed.
His worrying was an unpleasant reminder of the assassination attempt, which Brastigan had nearly managed to forget. He grunted, “Pup, I'm not sure of anything, but I'll hear what he has to say before I jump to conclusions.”
Lottres looked unhappy, and Pikarus carefully asked, “Your highness, can we talk about this?”
“What's to talk about?” Brastigan retorted, irritated by their caution. “Do you think he'd start trouble in a place like this? There are too many witnesses.” He gestured to their busy surroundings and speared a piece of onion with his fork.
“Agreed. However,” Pikarus said, “it might not be wise to let him know we've seen him. It could push him into something. Can we discuss our strategy beforehand?”
“Yes,” Lottres said. “I have some ideas, too. You can always talk to him later, if we all agree.”
Brastigan looked his brother over while he chewed his food. It wasn't like Lottres to be so assertive. He wasn't sure he liked it. Still, he could see the conversation was about to get heated. That alone might draw Wulfram's attention. He shrugged, taking another bite of mutton to conceal his annoyance.
“If it makes you old women feel better,” Brastigan said, “when you see me go upstairs, wait a few minutes and then join me. You two only.” He turned his dark eyes to Lottres and Pikarus. “The rest of you, keep your distance and act natural.”
There were nods of assent along the table, though Lottres frowned at being called an old woman.
With a hint of relief, Pikarus said, “Very good, your highness.”
Brastigan turned back to his meal. The mutton was rare and juicy, the vegetables tender, and he didn't let them get cold on his plate. Afterward, the ale warmed him nicely. Pikarus and his squad separated, some joining a dice game at a neighboring table and others strolling toward the fire, where a fiddle was starting to whine. Brastigan had to practically shove Lottres after them.
“You've listened to the minstrels every night so far,” he growled. “If you don't do it this time —.”
“I know, I know.” Lottres sulked off.
The common room was much like those of the other places where they stayed: noisy, crowded, and dark. Even a blazing fire couldn't completely light the cavernous spaces. This inn was newer than some, with fewer drafts and more comfortable chairs. As a result, the room grew warm rather quickly. Brastigan sipped his ale and waited for the atmosphere to get good and hazy before he moved.
While he waited, he considered the few details he had. Wulfram was what they called a “man of work,” which could mean anything, except that the work wasn't likely to be legal. There were less savory characters at the Dead Donkey, to be sure. Brastigan was reasonably certain Wulfram didn't cheat when he gambled. On the other hand, Brastigan had been trying to think if Wulfram had been at the Dead Donkey the day the knife was thrown. He couldn't remember.
Brastigan watched the tinker a while longer. Nothing raised his suspicions. Still, he didn't like the feeling it gave him. Hadn't he been thinking, earlier, that he didn't want to cross swords with Wulfram?
The dark prince drained his tankard and sauntered toward the stairs. The room he and Lottres shared was large and comfortable. There were two beds, a pair of dressers nearly buried in baggage, and a small table with chairs. A fireplace provided both light and heat. Brastigan added more wood to the fire and dragged three of the chairs over to the hearth. Then he checked his luggage to assure nothing had been pilfered in their absence.
The room was quiet, save for an occasional sputter behind the fireplace grate. Brastigan dug out oil and a honing stone. He sat down to give Victory a good cleaning while he waited for his comrades.
It wasn't long before Lottres arrived, scuttling in as if he were the one who had something to hide. His face was full of anxiety as he took the chair nearest his brother. The dark prince merely nodded and returned to his work. The honing stone hissed softly along the length of the blade.
“I'm glad you didn't talk to him,” Lottres began.
“I'm not,” was Brastigan's curt reply. “A man should have the chance to speak for himself.”
An exasperated breath wafted the whiskers on his brother's chin as he slumped back in his seat. Brastigan almost expected Lottres to start staring at the fire again, but he folded his arms and fixed a determined gaze on Brastigan. Who, in turn, determinedly continued cleaning his weapon.
Some minutes passed in this stubbornness before a gentle knock sounded at the door. Pikarus entered swiftly, closed it behind him, and took the remaining chair.
“I don't like the look of that tinker,” Lottres burst out, as if Pikarus's presence gave him courage to speak his mind. “He's dangerous. I can tell.”
“It could have nothing to do with us,” Brastigan reasoned. He gave Victory a final swipe and returned her to her sheath.
“You don't believe that,” Lottres accused. “You just don't want to admit it.”
“Don't put words in my mouth,” Brastigan warned.
Pikarus cleared his throat. “There was no secret to our going,” he said. “Anyone could know where we are bound.”
“No, not with the falcon shou
ting it out,” Brastigan snorted. He raised a hand to still Lottres's angry protest. Then he tightened the cap on the oil jar and turned to toss it and the stone lightly toward his bed. “I'm not saying I don't agree with you, Pup. I like Wulf, but I don't trust him. I could never be sure of him unless I paid him myself.”
“Is there anything about him that you can be sure of?” Pikarus asked.
“He's mostly a messenger, so I've heard.” Brastigan wiped his hands thoroughly on the rag. “It could be he's carrying a message now. It could be the message has to do with us, or it could be it doesn't. Carrying a message isn't the same thing as intending to harm us.”
“I suppose such men make a great deal of those fine distinctions.” Pikarus's mouth twisted with disgust. Brastigan shrugged.
“What does this have to do with our situation?” Lottres asked irritably.
“It's like you've been saying all along, Pup,” Brastigan answered. “There's no reason for him to be here, instead of at the brothel down the street. He should be keeping clear of you, too.” Brastigan glanced at Pikarus. “You could have him clapped in irons.”
“We're a little outside my authority,” Pikarus answered moderately. “I'm just a palace watchman.”
“Ha!” Brastigan retorted. “If you were just a palace watchman, you wouldn't be on this trip with us. You and all your men who know to keep mum at the right times.”
“Our squad was chosen because my men are so reliable,” Pikarus said blandly.
Lottres interrupted, “The local commanders would listen to you, wouldn't they?”
“Is that what you want me to do?” Pikarus asked. “Arrest him?”
Brastigan stretched out his long legs to prop his boot heels on the hearth. He linked his fingers behind his head.
“Not yet,” Brastigan decided. “There's no real reason to think he's dangerous. At least, not to us.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Lottres asked.
“This road doesn't go anywhere but Carthell,” Brastigan explained. “He might be part of something going on there.”
“What business could he have in Carthell?” Pikarus asked.
“Maybe he's going home to visit his poor old mother,” Brastigan suggested wryly. “He says he's from Carthell.”
Lottres frowned. In an odd voice, he asked, “Bras, doesn't our brother Albrett live in Carthell?”
“Albrett?” Brastigan asked, confused by the non sequitur.
As in any large family, the full- and half-kindred of Crutham's royal family included an array of factions and cliques based on age and other variables. The sheer number of Unferth's brood made this inevitable, and perhaps even necessary. It helped to organize the unruly company. Brastigan and Lottres had formed such an alliance years ago. Likewise, Albrett had united with Rickard. The two, full siblings, had shared a nasty sense of humor. Albrett, in particular, had always seemed to be involved in some cruel practical joke. Lottres, being small and gawky, had been a favorite target until Brastigan's stout fists convinced the two older boys to leave off.
The matter had been so long settled, Brastigan hadn't bothered to think of them in years—except recently, when Rickard had been killed. Quite naturally, Albrett had been the one to escort his body back to Carthell, where their mother lived. Her brother, Johanz, was the Duke of Carthell.
Yet Albrett hadn't come back to Harburg. Until this moment, Brastigan hadn't questioned it. Now, he felt a niggling itch in his brain. Rickard and Albrett were among the more mature of Unferth's sons. They both had families, held positions at court. Why hadn't Albrett returned? For that matter, he didn't remember seeing their wives around the keep, either. Where were they? In Carthell?
“Do you think Prince Albrett is in danger?” Pikarus's concerned question jarred Brastigan from his thoughts.
Brastigan shook his head. All this guesswork confounded him, and that made him peevish. “This might not have anything to do with Albrett. Wulf could be following us out of curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” Pikarus asked.
“Sure, just in case he saw something he could tell someone about later. For a price, of course.” Brastigan leaned forward, pushing back the sleek, dark strands that slipped over his shoulders. He sighed. “We don't really know that, either.”
“That's not it,” Lottres answered, a flat statement. “I don't like this, Bras.”
“You think I do?” he snapped back. “Look, we'll be staying over at... Where was it? Cobble...”
“Caulteit Keep,” Lottres answered. “That's where we'll be tomorrow night.”
“Do you know the garrison commander?” Brastigan turned to Pikarus. “Can we trust him?”
The soldier rubbed his temples thoughtfully. “That would be Captain Morbern. I don't know much of him personally, but there's no reason to suspect his allegiance.”
“What are you planning?” Lottres demanded.
“I'm planning to send a message to Albrett when we get to Caulteit,” Brastigan said. “This Morbern can send a dispatch ahead and let Duke Johanz prepare his household for whatever might happen.”
“May I suggest we also alert the constable in Carthell?” Pikarus put in. “I'm sure he has informants to keep track of such men.”
“Then they would know Wulfram is coming.” Lottres sounded relieved.
Brastigan nodded firmly. “Good idea. Yes, do it.”
“Very well,” Pikarus agreed.
He should have felt badly about warning the constables of Wulfram's presence. Should have, but didn't. Whatever their past association, it hadn't kept Wulfram from spying on him. Blood was blood, even if it was the blood of a worthless bully like Albrett.
The fire had burned down, leaving the chamber nearly dark. Lottres crouched on the hearth to add more wood, which the fire accepted with a greedy crackling. Over his brother's head, Brastigan studied Pikarus in the ruddy shadows. A round face with pug nose, short hair a shade darker than the usual bright blond, no beard. Pikarus wasn't that much older than Brastigan and Lottres. What was he, really? Bodyguard, nursemaid—or a spy himself?
Pikarus looked up. Their eyes met momentarily. Then he blandly looked away. Brastigan opened his mouth to speak, but Lottres abruptly straightened between them.
“Sending a message isn't enough,” he fretfully announced. “I don't think we should stay on this road. Not if this wolf fellow is sniffing after us. We should take precautions.”
Brastigan didn't mind being diverted. Pikarus was a friend, too. He didn't like doubting his loyalty.
“What's your alternative?” he countered. “We can't go back home. We haven't even left the king's highway yet. What kind of adventure is that?”
Lottres returned a sour smile for the baiting, and Pikarus said stolidly, “No, we must go to Hawkwing House.”
“Ah, but we don't have to go through Carthell,” the younger prince declared. He rose and went to the beds, where Brastigan heard him rummaging through his bags. Returning with a stout tube, Lottres explained, “I've been thinking about it all day. If we ride north from Caulteit, instead of east, we could follow the River Ogillant up to Glawern, and from there go straight to Hawkwing House. Look...”
He drew a scroll of parchment from the tube and spread it over the hearth. A hastily drawn map of Daraine and Verelay lay revealed in the renewed firelight. As Brastigan and Pikarus each held down some of the curling edges, Lottres's index finger followed the wavering line of a watercourse between two mountain ranges.
Pikarus was frowning, and Brastigan thought he knew why. The River Ogillant flowed straight out of Sillets. A tower-shaped scribble, presumably their goal, was marked just at the edge of the blankness designating unknown Silletsian territory.
“It could be dangerous,” the man-at-arms observed. He ran a blunt finger over the mountains around the village of Glawern. “Some of this is wild country. We'd be far from any help if danger came upon us, or if we ran short of supplies.”
“It's flat land most of the way,”
Lottres said. His brown eyes roved over the surface, planning. “We can resupply at Rowbeck or Glawern.”
“Not so many comfortable inns on that road,” Brastigan teased.
In truth, his gut reaction was to stay on the highway, where they could draw upon their prestige as royalty. Also, Pikarus was correct that help might be hard to find if they got too far from settled land.
“It would save us time,” Lottres argued with some enthusiasm. “If we went all the way to Carthell, we'd have to back-track through the mountains, here, at Carthell Cleft.”
“I don't know,” Brastigan said, seriously now. “I thought maybe we should talk to Albrett while we're there. You know, find out how he's doing.” Or, perhaps more importantly, what he was doing.
Lottres regarded him suspiciously. “You don't really want to see Albrett again, do you?”
“You were the one who was so worried about him,” Brastigan retorted.
“Prince Lottres,” Pikarus inserted, “you have been asking the minstrels for news of the road. Have you heard any reports of this region?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Lottres said. He tugged on his map until the other men released it, and began to roll it back up. “The crops are growing well and people I never heard of are getting married. Oh, and there was a huge migration of crows, all heading north. The farmers are a little worried they'll eat the whole crop if they're still there at harvest time.”
“Crows?” Pikarus repeated, puzzled.
“I didn't think crows migrated,” Brastigan remarked.
“I have no idea. Maybe that's why they're all talking about it. Still, if crows are the worst of our problems...” Lottres shrugged as he sealed the map into its oiled tube.
Brastigan leaned back in his chair again. “Falcons and crows,” he snorted. “What's next? Storks?”
Pikarus murmured something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like griffins, and he wasn't laughing.
Lottres smiled, but pressed his point. “I really think we should do this, Bras. We know this fellow is following us. What if there's someone else we haven't noticed yet?”
“You're just not having enough fun, are you?” Brastigan scoffed. “You're determined to make it more of an adventure.”
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