A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  Patterson snatched it away. Eyeing Per, Patterson loosed the small buckle that fastened the pouch. Per smiled. From the pouch, Patterson took a length of twine and three hazelnuts, still in their shells.

  “Kan yi har dey noo?” Per asked.

  Patterson pocketed the twine and pulled the narrow belt free of the pouch. It could be used to strangle someone just as well as the string. He made a flourish of generously returning the nuts, dropping them back into the pouch, and handing it to Per.

  For a moment, young Sterkarm was nonplussed. His clothes had no pockets, and now his pouch had no belt. Then he stuffed the pouch down the front of his shirt.

  “We’ll go up top and talk to your friends,” Patterson said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” He gestured toward the gatehouse stairs behind Per. “After you.”

  Gareth translated, and Per turned and climbed the narrow stairs. Patterson and Gareth followed. They came out on the gatehouse roof, where the chill breeze had blown away much of the burning stink. Two guards waited up there, looking jumpy despite the fact that they held rifles and the Sterkarms were outside. Per’s arrival seemed to alarm them even more.

  Patterson caught Per by the arm, jerking him to a halt. Pointing a thick finger at Per’s face, he said, “You keep your mouth shut, unless I tell you to speak. Gareth!”

  “Yi ken vah thu seeya,” Per said, when Gareth had translated.

  “He understands.”

  “Good.” Patterson pulled Per to a castellation, allowing the Sterkarms below to see him. “Gareth! Translate. Here he is, safe and sound. All pals together, eh?”

  Some Sterkarms had seated themselves on saddles but others, including Sweet Milk, stood by the gate, cricking their necks to stare upward. When they saw Per, all of them came and stood below the gatehouse, looking up, their faces expressionless.

  “Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. Now, I’ve shown my good faith by not killing Sunny Jim here. Your turn. I want you to do something for me, to show your good faith.”

  Gareth translated as the Sterkarms stared. Near their feet lay a severed head and a shopping bag holding another. When the translation ended, one shouted, “Hva vill thu?”

  “I want you to find my patrol. I sent out a patrol a couple of days ago. They haven’t come back. Find out what happened to them. Bring ’em back alive if you can.”

  As Gareth translated, Patterson watched young Sterkarm, who seemed suspiciously unconcerned.

  “When you come back with my men—or news of them—I’ll think about letting you inside.” Gareth translated, but still they stood there. “Off you go,” Patterson said. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll put him in a safe place until you get back.”

  They didn’t move.

  Per stepped to the parapet, leaned over, and said, “Olla air rikti. Yer som—”

  Patterson dragged him back. Down below, several Sterkarms moved forward, as if there was something they could do. The big dog, though held by one of the men, howled.

  “It’s okay,” Gareth said. “He told them it’s all right. He said, ‘Do—.’ I think he was going to tell them to do as you said.”

  Patterson let Per go and nodded. Per went forward and shouted down to his men. “He told them,” Gareth said, “that everything’s all right, and they’re to do as you say. What’s he going to say with you right there?”

  Patterson simply nodded. The Sterkarms still didn’t move. They all looked to the big bugger, Sweet Milk, who shouted something.

  Gareth said, “He asked if that was truly what Per wanted.”

  Per leaned from the parapet and shouted. Gareth said, “He’s ordered them to do as you say. He says, ‘Little Daddy, I am glad.’”

  “Eh?”

  Gareth asked Per, “Vah sar thu?” What did you say?

  Per, smiling, slowly repeated his words.

  Gareth shrugged. “‘Little Daddy, I am glad.’ I think he means Sweet Milk—his foster father.”

  “What’s he got to be glad about?”

  “You’ve let him back in, I suppose,” Gareth said.

  Patterson, looking from the wall, saw that the Sterkarms were, at last, leading their horses away down the track. The big dog still howled and struggled. Two men had to drag it along.

  They took the shopping bags with them, Patterson noted, but left the heads. A big black bird hopped over to one.

  Patterson looked at Per. “See those heads? If your mates don’t come back with my men, there’s going to be three down there.”

  32

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Mistress Crosar and Joan Grannam • Davy Grannam • Per May and Andrea

  Swart snarled. Per struggled to hold him by the collar while Davy Grannam’s blue eyes stared murder and only Swart held him back. Per couldn’t read his own name, but he read the Grannam man’s thoughts as easily as a clerk read a book.

  There were, the Grannam thought, Sterkarm riders behind that hound. At any blink, those riders would crest the hill to find two Sterkarm men dead and their young Sterkarm master disarmed.

  When they saw their blood enemies, the Grannams, standing there, swords drawn, they wouldn’t waste time asking how their friends died.

  As Per and Davy stared at each other over the snarling hound, there came the sound of hooves on turf. Davy straightened, looking around, his mouth opening to shout.

  “Hold!” Per said. “I’ll gan. I’ll speak to them.”

  “Tha’ll no!” Davy said. While Per May was his prisoner, he had a hostage. A shout from Aidan made him look around. Horsemen had appeared on the hilltop. For an eye blink, they were visible, then they turned their horses and vanished.

  Mistress Crosar stepped to Davy’s side, shaking out her skirts and brushing them down. “We shall gan, Master Sterkarm and I.”

  “Lady,” Davy said, “no.” He looked sick, knowing he would not change her mind.

  “Who better, Davy? One of their own and an old lady, too feeble to hurt any body. Come along, Master Sterkarm.”

  “Lady—” But she passed him by. He would have done anything for her, would and had fought for her, but she ignored him, walking past him on Per Sterkarm’s arm.

  16th-Side A:

  The Grannam Tower

  The Elves: Patterson, Gareth, and the Mercenaries • Changeling Per

  From the gatehouse roof, Patterson could see his domain. One desirable period property, some wear and work necessary, comes with any amount of charcoal and corpses.

  And his latest acquisition, one hostage, now posing nonchalantly against the parapet framed by the wild beauty of the sky and hills. Like some fucking magazine shoot.

  What the fuck was he going to do with the Sterkarm kid?

  It was the old tiger-by-the-tail scenario. The Sterkarm band played the tiger while the kid featured as the tail. Grasp the tiger by the tail and you control it—a bit. But you daren’t let go, use up loads of energy, and is the tiger any fucking use to you anyway?

  And this tiger had a fucking sharp and devious tail that couldn’t be trusted farther than you could spit it. Patterson wasn’t fooled by the innocent, girly face, the blue eyes, and the big smile.

  There was a good argument for cutting the kid’s throat and pitching him over the parapet. Then shooting his men if and when they turned up again.

  Except that, with luck, the Sterkarms would come trotting back obediently, dragging his patrol behind them. They’d certainly demand to see Per alive before they let his men go. It might be difficult to get all his men safely inside the tower before firing on the Sterkarms.

  There was also just the tiniest sliver of a thread of the minutest possibility that the kid was dealing straight with him. He was about 80 percent convinced the kid was dealing straight. …

  He gave it up. He couldn’t foresee the future, so
there was no point fretting for hours over what might happen. The best skipper could only deal with things, best as he could, as they turned up. Throats could always be slit, and men shot, later.

  But he wasn’t having the kid running around loose.

  He could be locked up somewhere. Some buildings had been untouched by the blaze. Patterson doubted they would hold young Sterkarm for long. Yes, the lower stories were stone, without doors or windows, but break through the wooden floorboards into the upper story, and the walls were mud and the roof, thatch. The kid would be out faster than a weevil through a biscuit.

  A man would have to be set to guard him. It would have to be one of Patterson’s best, brightest, and most trustworthy men, too, because Patterson knew a little of the Sterkarms, and of Per Sterkarm. Even disarmed and wearing nothing more protective than wool and linen, he was still more than most of the clowns he led could cope with. Unable to best them in a fight, Per would lie through his teeth, smile, joke, flirt—and then, when they didn’t know if it was April or Monday, show them what the Sterkarm badge meant.

  Patterson gestured to Per. “Gan tur. Rikti? Walk in front. Downstairs.” As Per obeyed, Patterson beckoned Gareth to follow. Ducking into the stairwell behind Per, Patterson yelled to his men below: “Prepare!”

  Most of the alleyways were still choked with charred debris. They walked along the central one, which Patterson had ordered cleared. The upper stories had burned away. Even the lower stone walls were cracked. Their feet crunched over charred wood and ash, which was still warm. The stink of burning was choking.

  The low, narrow door of the tower admitted only one at a time. Patterson stopped Per and sent Chiswick, with his rifle, to duck inside first. When they followed, the tower stank of earth and dung. Chiswick tramped up the narrow staircase with Per and Patterson behind him and Gareth making the donkey’s tail. They passed the hall and climbed up to the penthouse suite. Patterson still didn’t know what to do with the kid.

  The top floor was packed with furniture. Two beds were crammed in, one in the corner by the window and the other against the wall. A long, polished table took up the center of the room, and the hearth had a big, square chair with arms and a settle.

  Per crowed and darted past Chiswick to the table, his feet kicking a black rubber ball aside. Snatching up something from the table, Per held it aloft: the long, furry body of a hare. Patterson’s men had found it at a croft they’d burned. “God mart!”

  “Good meat,” Gareth translated.

  Patterson studied the room for its imprisoning potential, which wasn’t high. One bed had doors, but no locks. A short passage led to a bog, but it was a stone seat with a hole. There was no door. No chance of old ladies, or anybody, being locked in there.

  Per, still holding the bunny, made a little speech.

  “What’s he chuntering on about?” Patterson asked.

  “He’ll cook the hare for us,” Gareth translated. “Make us a feast.”

  “Him? Cook?”

  “I cook!” Per said. “We fend for oursen when we ride. To make amends for our differences, Master Patterson—to give you thanks for taking us back among you.”

  Gareth’s translation made the hairs rise on Patterson’s neck. Grabbing the carcass from Per, he threw it on the table with a thump. “Think I’d eat anything you cooked?” He scanned the room again. Tie him to the table leg? Maybe he was being a bit over the top. The kid buggered off because he thought he knew it all, like all kids. Now he’d come creeping back because it turned out he knew bugger all. You’re worrying over nothing, Thomas, old mate.

  Per had wandered over to the far corner, to the room’s other bed. Its curtains were drawn back. Patterson supposed it was a four-poster, though it was an odd thing, unlike any four-poster he’d seen in hotels. Awkwardly high to climb into and too short for anybody but a midget to lie on at full length.

  Per hopped up onto it and reclined against the pillows. Half-sitting, he put his hands behind his head and cocked the heel of one dirty boot on the toe of the other. He grinned at Patterson.

  Patterson came to a decision. “Make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be there awhile.” He watched the kid scrub his boots on the covers. A bed belonging to a Grannam laird, he supposed, was especially appealing to a Sterkarm if he could wipe his dirty boots on the best bed linen.

  Patterson turned to Chiswick, his mouth opening on an order. Instead, he gave a hopeless wheeze. Chiswick, for God’s sake. In ten minutes, young Sterkarm would have him fetching sticks. “Up to the roof. Relieve Ammo,” he said. As Chiswick made for the stairs, Patterson turned to Gareth. “You’re an intelligent bloke.”

  Gareth was wary. Nothing good came of conversations starting like that.

  “You’re bright, you’re a translator.” And good for fuck all else, Patterson thought. “See him?” Patterson pointed at Per. “He is to stay on that bed. Tell him.”

  Per opened his eyes to listen to Gareth’s translation, but not with much interest. “I don’t want him on the roof. I don’t want him downstairs. He’s to stay on that bed. Clear?”

  “What if he … feels a call of nature?”

  Patterson gazed at Gareth in disbelief, sighed, and looked around. On one end of the table was a bowl of bits. A sweet flowery smell rose from it as he picked it up and emptied it on the floor. He held the bowl out to Gareth.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Patterson banged the bowl down again. “He is not to leave that bed.” He made for the stairs, but turned at the door. “What is he not to do?”

  “Leave the bed.”

  “Good.” Patterson stamped off and left Gareth staring at Per Sterkarm, who didn’t move. Gareth went over and sat in the big armed chair on the hearth. The lord’s chair. It wasn’t any compensation.

  Per lounged on the bed, making himself more comfortable, and grinned at Gareth, who looked away.

  Changeling Per

  Per lay as if dozing, but was not at ease. He’d tipped a man’s head from a bag at the tower’s gate and had seen birds picking over corpses. Before the end of the day, he knew, he could also be butchered meat.

  And it was hard, speaking fair to a man he hated, schooling his body to meekness and his face to smiles. He tried hard to look as if he dozed, but his thoughts made his heart beat harder. Hope was always there: a tiny little gleaming coal. Ash and darkness gathered about it.

  Patterson owed him a life, and he intended to take it. He’d try to survive, but knew he had small chance. His own men would cut into pieces small anyone who killed him. Patterson’s men would do the same, he supposed.

  Maybe it would be for the best. The gate leading to home was closed, and his place in this world already taken. If he had to walk the ghost road, so be it. But Patterson must walk it beside him—or he wouldn’t go. God’s arse, no: He would turn back from death’s gate and walk in Patterson’s footsteps until his time came.

  Offering to cook the hare had been a throw of the dice—he’d hoped to please Patterson. Ah, well, he would have to throw again. And smile.

  Opening his eyes, he began, from his comfortable position on the bed, a careful study of the room.

  Fancy curtains hung around the bed. Thick green velvet, with fringing and gold embroidery, matching the covers beneath him.

  In front of him was the wall bed, its wooden side rising above him. He raised his eyes and saw several small boxes perched on top of it. What might Richie Grannam keep in them, in his private room?

  He glanced over to the hearth, where Gareth sat in Richie Grannam’s chair. The fireplace had a carved hood, displaying the red Grannam bull on its green field. Grannam womenfolk obviously did a little ladylike cooking at that fire, because there was a pothook and small pans stacked at the fireside.

  Per considered the little chests on top of the bed again before getting up.

  Gareth s
prang from his chair. “Get back on the bed!”

  Per gave a big smile and spread his hands, palms toward Gareth. “What be trouble?”

  “Tha heard Patterson say—”

  “Ach.” Per turned away. “He no meant it.” Kicking a small stool against the wall bed, he stepped onto it.

  “He did! Tha’rt to stay on bed—tha ken he meant it.”

  There were five small chests of various shapes and sizes. Per tossed them down onto the bed where he should have been lying, then jumped to the floor. With another big smile, he said to Gareth, “Gan tell him if it gladdens thee.”

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Mistress Crosar and Joan Grannam • Davy Grannam • Per May and Andrea

  As Toorkild’s horse picked its way over the rough ground, he watched the land ahead, hoping to see Swart. Instead, he saw two of his men looking for him. Something ahead had worried them. Toorkild kicked up his horse.

  His men pointed to something farther down the slope and, looking, Toorkild saw Per clambering wearily toward him, one hand on Swart’s collar and his other arm linked through a woman’s. Joy made Toorkild a little drunk. He shouted and waved.

  It was a while before he really looked at the woman who hung on Per’s arm. She was not the kind of woman he was used to seeing there. A rather thick-set woman, at least as old as Toorkild, who braced her other arm against her knee to help her up the hillside. Where in Heaven and Hell had Per picked up that grandmother?

  Behind Per and the granny came armed men, unsheathed swords in their hands, helmets on their heads, and jakkes on their backs. Toorkild knew Davy Grannam—Richie Grannam’s captain, and a canny one—at once.

  The granny raised her head, and Toorkild recognized her, too—Mistress Crosar, Richie Grannam’s sister.

  It was all very puzzling, and Toorkild reached for his sword hilt. At that slight movement, the men behind him swung their lances down so they pointed forward, ready to attack.

  Toorkild heard the creaking and scuffing of leather behind him and knew the sound. Alarmed for Per, he held up his hand, halting his men. The horses, sensing the confusion of their riders, snorted, stamped, and shook their long manes.