Sir Basil’s cynical look faded, replaced by one of calculation. “How do you know this?”
I explained while the outlaw listened carefully. “I know not whether he will ride a coach or come on horseback,” I concluded, “but he will probably have an armed company of men with him. Yet such an expert in ambuscade as Sir Basil of the Heugh need not fear such a troop.”
“No, I need not fear them.” Sir Basil’s tone was not defiant, but thoughtful. Abruptly he lunged to his feet, overcoat swirling. “You will be given pen and paper, and you may write to your friend. Whether the letter is sent or not depends on whether your information proves sound.”
He broadly gestured me to the stair, then looked balefully over the crowd, to his remaining captives, all servants. “Come, then,” he said. “All of you.”
I saw Gribbins still lying at the foot of the stair, and rather than step over the corpse, chose to leap down from the keep to the court below. I slowed as I passed the white-faced body, the eyes blank yet still somehow conveying the bewilderment that so often filled them in life, and knew that Gribbins’s vainglorious journey to the capital had finally reached its end.
* * *
A pot of ink was presented by one of the bandits, along with a piece of paper and a board on which to write. I penned my brief letter to Kevin, and included as well the information that Gribbins had been killed for trying to barter over his ransom. I also suggested that another embassy be sent to the Queen, as it might be some time before Lord Utterback and I were released to deliver their message in person.
While I wrote, the party’s loot was disposed of. The money in the wooden bowl was counted, then returned to the bowl along with the gold chains and any jewelry with valuable gemstones. The bowl was carried away, presumably to be added to the bandits’ hoard and divided up later. The rest—the clothing, luggage, weapons, and the less valuable jewelry—was given away to the robbers by a method they all seemed to judge fair. The bandits sat on the ground, facing away from Sir Basil, as he held up one item after another and said, “Who wants this?” Whoever shouted first, or raised a hand, received the article. Afterward, there was a great deal of merriment as the bandits tried to trade away unsuitable items.
My letter was taken to Sir Basil for his approval. Apparently, the outlaw had no objection to my message, and so put the letter in a pocket. Sir Basil by this time had finished interviewing the servants, and announced that one of the footmen along with Gribbins’s bodyservant had decided to join the band of robbers. The other bandits roared their approval, and hooted at the others as they returned to captivity.
There followed a formal initiation ceremony, in which Sir Basil had each of the new recruits swear a horrible, godless, bloody oath on the dirk that had just killed Alderman Gribbins. I thought the business of the oath ridiculous, but the bandits themselves took it very seriously indeed, and so while the oath was pronounced, I kept my face composed in an attitude of awed respect.
By the time this was all over, the sun was burning red through the western trees, and the shadows were long.
“To supper!” Sir Basil proclaimed. “And let’s drink to our new companions!”
The company filed out through one of the gaps in the curtain wall, and I saw that the fort had been built to guard a corrie surrounded by a great semicircle of cliffs. The hidden green valley had a dimple in the center filled with a small lake, a limpid blue eye which emptied into the small fresh stream along which I had marched on the last stage of my journey.
By the lake was a corral with the troops’ horses, which now included my traitor chestnut, Toast. I also saw milk cows, goats, and a great many dogs.
In the corrie the outlaws had built their camp, a clutch of buildings clumped against one of the cliffs. I saw that the bandits’ huts had been built of old, worn dressed stone, and I concluded that the robbers had built their settlement atop the ruins of a much older town, and made use of what materials they’d found.
One of the bandits had killed a roe deer that morning, and this had formed the basis of a stew with parsnips and carrots, wild onions, mushrooms, thyme, rosemary, and other herbs found in the area. There were also flat oatcakes with butter and homemade cheese, which argued for a very well-organized commissary. The bandits and their new recruits pledged each other in wine, but I and the other captives were given sour ale.
After returning my wooden bowl and spoon to the ramshackle kitchen, I went to the lake to wash the cuts on my knees and face. I was wincing through this procedure when a man approached, a man of middle years. His beard was long and untrimmed, and his clothing soiled and worn.
The man was, in fact, another captive, a man named Higgs. He had been held for five months, a merchant captured on the road with two wagons of goods. Higgs had applied to his brother for his ransom, but the money had not arrived, and now he was beginning to suspect that his brother had betrayed him.
There was another merchant here, Higgs reported, who had been abandoned by his partner, and who had been captive even longer, since before the band had moved to the Toppings from their former range to the north. The two captives were used by the bandits as slaves.
“I begin to think I may have to join them,” Higgs said. “I begin to think it may be the only way to survive.”
I, shaking the cold water from my hair, had little comfort to offer. “Join them, then. Gain their trust. Then run away when you can.”
“That is not as easy as you might think,” said the captive.
Higgs showed me over the camp, pointed out the Oak House, a small building in a field, with barred windows and an entrance through the roof. There Lord Utterback had been locked away, a privileged prisoner but with a guard who prevented him from speaking to anyone.
Utterback, I thought, would have plenty of leisure to contemplate Necessity, and to cultivate the proper attitude of resignation.
Higgs took me past the armory, which was locked and in a very public place, and the dairy, which along with the kitchen were under the command of an Aekoi woman named Dorinda. In contrast to her species’ usual gracile form, she was broad and powerful, her golden complexion darkened by exposure to the elements. She stood before the kitchen and glared at everyone with strange, fierce eyes, irises small and dark and surrounded by white, each like a black pearl in the middle of an oyster shell.
“Is she Sir Basil’s lady?” I asked, for her fierceness seem to sort well with that of the outlaw knight.
“She’s her own,” said Higgs. “And you do not ever want to be her kitchen slave.”
“I shall try to avoid her,” I said, though I knew that, as long as I remained here, that choice would not be mine.
“And that,” Higgs said, pointing out a building, “is the treasury. Your money lies there, and my goods, those that haven’t been sold.”
“It looks like a temple,” I said. It was a sturdy, square building, with a portico and four pillars. What had probably been a tile roof had been replaced by the same crude thatching used in the rest of the camp.
A roughhewn wooden fence surrounded the building, with gaps between the pickets, so that no one could hide there. A large padlock secured the timber door. I saw something slither along behind the pickets, and I felt a cold hand touch my spine.
They undulated across the ground like thick-bodied snakes, their scales lawn green and midnight black, but when one of the beasts seized a picket the best to view me, I saw that it had small, clawed hands. Malevolence and hatred glittered from its eyes. I could not bear its stare, and turned my own eyes away.
“Ay,” said Higgs. “Wyverns. Sir Basil raised them from their eggs, which he found up in the Peaks. Stay clear from them, for they breathe fire.” He pointed out another structure. “Their master lives in the next building.”
There was the clop of hooves on the turf, and the master himself came trotting up on a dapple gray courser. “You, Quillifer!” said Sir Basil of the Heugh. “Come up to the keep! Your master’s body needs burying!”
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Dogs had to be chased away from Gribbins’s body. I and the other servants of the Embassy Royal carried the body in a blanket to a sward below the old fort, where four graves already lay in a row. It was full night by the time we began to dig, and the only light was that of the stars and the slow-matches of their two guards, who each carried a sword as well as a blunderbuss so kindly provided by their captives.
Afterward, sweating and dirty, we were taken to confinement, locked in the echoing dungeon of the fort, surrounded by massive great stones at the base of the keep. There we were shown our places by the light of a horn lantern, pointed at the slop tub in the corner, and then left alone in darkness while the sound of the slamming door echoed in their ears.
I rolled up my cheviot coat for a pillow, and wrapped myself in the coarse blanket I’d been given. I was asleep at once, and I dreamed of Ethlebight, strong and intact, the brilliant window glass of Scarcroft Square shining in the sun. I walked the streets of my city, admiring the beautiful brickwork, the ornate gables, the detailed carving on the wooden frames.
But I walked the streets alone. The city was empty, and I saw no other person, and heard no sign of life beyond my own echoing footfalls. I was walking a city of the mind, and no one shared my dream.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
woke to the booming of the door and the soft light of dawn. “Up!” cried a sour voice. “Up, eat, and ease your bowels!”
I came up the stair to see the courtyard filled with activity, the bandits cleaning their weapons, seeing to their horses, saddling their mounts, or filling their bags with supplies. Sir Basil rode about on his gray, then saw me being marched to my breakfast and rode up to me. He prodded me on the shoulder with a whip.
“Your intelligence had best prove true!” he said. “My dirk thirsts for the blood of a liar.”
“I wish you the best of luck in your hunting,” I said, and then one of my captors shoved me along and I staggered to keep from falling.
Breakfast was a buckwheat porridge. The latrine was a trench dug in an open field. And then we captives were rounded up and marched back to the dungeon, where we were again shut up in the darkness. Sir Basil was marching with so many of the bandits that few were left to stand guard, and so we were to be locked away till he returned.
I disposed myself on my blanket. “Does anyone know a song?” I asked.
“Shut up, ye puisny, longshanked dew-beater!” snarled one of the footmen.
“He who likes not a song lacks a soul,” I said.
“You’ll lack a soul ere I’m done with you,” said the footman.
At which point, grim silence and darkness prevailed.
* * *
We were allowed up that evening, a few at a time, for more buckwheat gruel and another trip to the latrine, escorted by a pair of bandits armed with blunderbusses. The two monks I had seen earlier, and who apparently had no employment, watched from a distance and joked with each other. Then it was back to the dark hole for another night of captivity.
I had drowsed through the day, and now I drowsed through the night. Bites and itches kept me from sleeping soundly: I was now as alive with vermin as any man in the kingdom. I could no longer feel superior to the great ambassadors and their lousy bedding.
There was more gruel for breakfast, but this time made of oats, and it was eaten in pouring rain. The dry cellar of the keep was a relief after the freezing deluge.
On the afternoon of the third day I heard the thudding of hooves in the courtyard, and then the door was thrown open to brilliant sun. I blinked my way out of the dungeon and saw the bandits returned with a large number of captives, twenty at least, along with their horses, magnificent animals with expensive, jingling equipage. The prisoners were tied, and had baize bags on their heads; but the superiority of their clothing, with finely worked leather and swags of lace and silver spurs, showed the majority of them gentlemen of quality. When the bags were removed, despite a certain amount of disorder, the faces revealed were groomed, with long hair well dressed. Some bore bruises and cuts, but most seemed to have suffered few ill effects from their capture.
Apparently, I thought, one brought barbers and hairdressers when riding off to commit treason.
The Marquess of Stayne was tall and lank, with long graying hair and a trim little beard that framed a small disdainful mouth. Beneath his ornate black leather riding clothes, his silk shirt was a brilliant yellow, and falls of lace dripped from his sleeves and flowed over his boot tops. He looked about in grim silence, his eyes shifting from one bandit to the next as if memorizing every face, in order perhaps to bring retribution later.
The luggage was brought out and opened. Silks and lace spilled on the moss-covered cobbles. Money rang as it fell into the wooden bowl. There was a great deal of armor found among the captives, along with banners and weapons, all clanging uselessly onto the cobbles.
“So many swords and pistols!” cried Sir Basil. “Breastplates of proof! Tassets chased with silver! And yet they offered so little resistance!” The quality of the booty almost had him dancing in delight.
The outlaw floated up the steps to his place on the floor of the broken keep, then swung to face his audience, the skirt of his coat sweeping out behind him. “I am Sir Basil of the Heugh,” he proclaimed. “Perhaps you know of me.” He doffed his hat during the dramatic pause that followed, then produced his knife. I saw that he was wearing Lord Utterback’s slinkskin gloves. “This is my dirk! For two centuries it has been in my family, and was crafted by the dark brotherhood of the Nocturnal Lodge of the Umbrus Equitus!”
There followed much the same scene that had been enacted three days before, and in much the same language. Lord Stayne was brought up for his interview, and then taken away to share the Oak House with Lord Utterback. The other captives were brought up in their turn, and pens and ink distributed so each could write his ransom note.
Only one servant had been captured, probably because the bandits had devoted themselves to rounding up their masters. He was brought up last of all—he looked about fifteen, with a wheat-colored shock of hair, and his arms were still bound behind him.
“Where are the new recruits?” Sir Basil called. “Where are Anthony and Little Dickon?”
The two fledgling bandits were brought forward, and stood awkwardly by the captive. Anthony was a burly footman with curly hair; and the other, small and sharp-faced, had been Gribbins’s varlet. Sir Basil clapped them on the shoulders, and looked deliberately at the boy captive. “This boy stands where you stood just days ago, does he not?” he asked.
“Ay,” said Little Dickon, and his companion nodded.
“But since that time some days ago, you have sworn to be of our company!”
“Ay.”
“You are sworn to be true brothers to those of our emprise, to be bloodthirsty and resolute in action, and to obey without question the orders of your captain?”
The two men nodded. Sir Basil pointed at the captive boy, and said, “Take then your knives, and kill me that fellow.”
The two were so surprised they only stared, while the captive gave a cry and tried to shift away from the others. Sir Basil caught him by the collar and dragged him back. He looked at his two recruits.
“Do you defy me, then?” he demanded.
“No, sir, no,” said Anthony, and he drew his little dagger. Little Dickon fumbled at his scabbard, and drew out his own knife.
“No, sir, no!” echoed the captive. “I have done nothing! Nothing to deserve this!”
Sickness rose in my heart, and I looked down at the mossy cobbles of the courtyard, thinking furiously of what might buy mercy from the outlaw chief.
“Why do you delay?!” Sir Basil demanded of the new recruits. His rolling northern voice echoed in the amphitheater. “What is this hesitation? I say, death to the villain who hesitates! My dirk will drink deep of his heart’s blood!”
“Sir.” Little Dickon seemed barely able to express the words. �
�Sir, what has the prisoner done to deserve—”
Sir Basil snatched his dirk from the scabbard and brandished it over his head. His voice was full of scorn. “I am not here to be questioned! Have you not sworn obedience? Have you not been bound by the most desperate oaths a man can utter?” He laughed. “By all the discredited and useless gods, what good are you if you cannot even kill a bound captive?”
The boy began to weep and beg for his life. I felt my limbs go cold. I stepped forward and raised my voice.
“How much to spare the lad?” I called. “How much for his life, Sir Basil?”
There was a collective inhalation from the bandits as they turned to stare at me, and from the expressions on their faces, they clearly expected there would be more than one murder in the next few minutes.
“Thank you, sir!” called the captive. His face was streaked with tears. “Bless you, sir!”
Sir Basil paused for a long moment, his head cocked as he worked out how to respond, and then he stepped forward and pointed his dirk at me.
“Do you propose to ransom the boy yourself, then, Goodman?” he asked.
I strove to control the quaver I felt hovering about the margins of my voice. “You know, Sir Basil, how much money I possess.” I surveyed the latest captives in their fine clothes and well-dressed hair. “But there are others among us better provided than I.”
“Congratulations, Goodman!” Sir Basil affected delight. “You follow my example—in being generous with the bounty of others!”
That raised a laugh from his followers, and I felt the tension ebb, and thought perhaps I would not get a knife between my ribs. Sir Basil capered to the front of his stage, and made a wide sweep with his dirk at the captive gentlemen assembled before him.
“Fifty royals, then!” he said. “Who will save the boy’s life for this token sum?”
I felt my spirits sink as low as my boot soles. Fifty royals was a rich man’s ransom.
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