by Lian Tanner
Pummel looked as if he was about to faint, but he managed to croak, ‘I try to be, Y-your Grace.’
‘And your friend?’ The Margravine lifted a hand towards Duckling. ‘Is she honest and loyal?’
‘She is, Your Grace,’ said Pummel. ‘And clever with it!’
‘A good answer.’ The Margravine turned to Grandpa. ‘I will take the boy.’
Duckling let out the breath she’d been holding. It was nearly over. Just a few quick thank yous, another bow and another curtsey, then she and Grandpa could leave. By nightfall they’d be on their way out of Neu—
‘I will take the girl too,’ said the Margravine, in a voice that didn’t allow for argument. ‘Have them both clothed more suitably and sent to morning training.’
What? Duckling felt as if the floor had crumbled under her feet, and she was falling …
‘Grandpa,’ she whispered. ‘Help!’
But Lord Rump was at a loss for words, which made Duckling feel even worse. Grandpa was never at a loss. He never stood like this, with one hand half-raised and his mouth open.
This wasn’t part of the Scheme, thought Duckling. And that frightened her more than anything.
There was no time to run. One of the Margravine’s soldiers strode forward. ‘I am Arms-mistress Krieg,’ she snapped. Her hair was shorn close to her head, and her armour was boiled leather. ‘Come with me.’
And with that, Duckling and Pummel were turned around and marched out of the Great Chamber.
CAN YOU SWING A SWORD?
Meeting the Margravine was one of the most astonishing things that had ever happened to Pummel.
And she’d approved of him! A good answer, she’d said. I’ll take the boy.
A wave of happiness washed through him – followed by a wave of concern. He was pretty sure that Duckling wasn’t happy about the way things had turned out. He shouldn’t have added that bit about her being clever.
Though it was true.
He pulled on his new undershirt and drawers, thinking hard.
‘Now the hose,’ said the clothier, who was an old man with enormous eyebrows and several fingers missing. He handed over something green and woollen that turned out to be a cross between stockings and trousers. ‘And tunic … belt … purse.’
Pummel dressed carefully. The woollen hose itched, the tunic was too tight under his arms, and the purse fell off his belt several times before he worked out how to tie it. But he loved all of it.
‘What about boots?’ he asked.
‘You keep your own. There. You are done.’
‘What happens,’ began Pummel, as the clothier picked up his scissors and turned to go, ‘if the Margravine makes a mistake? Can you – can someone just ask to see her? To explain?’
The thought of it made his throat close up. But he would do it for Duckling.
‘The Margravine does not make mistakes,’ growled the clothier. He glared at Pummel from under his eyebrows, snipped the blades of his scissors in a threatening manner, and left through a heavy curtain.
Pummel pulled his boots back on and tucked the leather pouch in beside his ankle where he wouldn’t have to think about it. Then he picked up one of the candles and went looking for Duckling.
This part of the Keep was dark and smelly, and Pummel could feel the chill of the stone seeping through his boots. But he was used to the cold, and had never minded smells or darkness. The only thing that dimmed his happiness was the thought of how Duckling must be feeling.
To his relief, when he found her, she was chatting cheerfully to the clothier’s apprentice.
‘Oh, hello, Pummel,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we fine in our new rig-out?’ And she turned in a circle so he could admire her hose and tunic, which fitted a lot better than his.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Pummel. ‘You’re not upset about—’
‘Me? Upset?’ Duckling smiled. ‘No. Gave me a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m sure!’
Pummel smiled back, relieved that he wouldn’t have to face up to the Margravine. Duckling really doesn’t mind.
Duckling did mind. She was still numb with shock and dismay. But one of Grandpa’s most important rules was that you never let other people know what you were thinking.
And so, as Arms-mistress Krieg marched them out of the Keep and around the corner to a wooden yard, Duckling managed to look honest, loyal and a bit nervous, like Pummel.
Morning training turned out to be a crowd of children beating at each other with wooden swords and shields. There were boys and girls of all ages, kicking up dust and fighting for all they were worth.
Several of them had blood running down their cheeks or arms. Every now and again, one of them would scream, ‘Long life to the Margravine!’ or ‘Victory to the Bear!’
When they saw Krieg at the gate of the yard, the children ran towards her, howling like puppies.
Krieg raised her hand. ‘Good fighting, my young warriors?’
‘Yes!’ shrieked the children. ‘Victory to the Bear!’
The arms-mistress nodded approval. ‘Young Ser?’
The Heir of Neuhalt was about nine or ten years old. He had fair hair, cut below his ears, and a scarred cheek, and his face was as proud and hard as the Margravine’s. Like the rest of the children, he wore tunic and hose, but the cloth was richer and his belt had three silver buckles.
His eyes swept over Duckling and Pummel as if they were no more important than the fleas in the Great Chamber.
‘These are your new companions,’ said Krieg. ‘Pummel and Duckling. Let them join in training if they wish, then take their oaths.’
And she turned on her heel and strode away.
The Strong-hold children closed around Duckling and Pummel, whispering to each other and shooting hostile glances at the newcomers.
Pummel smiled. So did Duckling, but the shock was beginning to wear off, and her mind was racing.
How am I going to get out of here?
She was pretty sure that Grandpa would be on his way home by now. He wouldn’t have gone against the Margravine, not openly. Once he’d got past that first awful surprise, he’d have pretended that everything was wonderful, and that he was honoured to have his granddaughter chosen as the Heir’s companion.
Then he’d go home and trust Duckling to get herself out of the Strong-hold.
She scanned the first bailey, taking in the archery butts, the wells, the storehouses – and the chopping block. She wanted to make a run for it. But there were too many people around, and they were too interested in the newcomers.
What’s the use of a witchy breeze now? she thought. I need to be able to turn invisible!
One of the older girls at the back of the crowd pushed forward. ‘Can they fight?’
‘I do not know, Cousin,’ said the Heir. He bared his teeth at Duckling. ‘Can you use a sword, Outsider?’
‘Me?’ squeaked Duckling. ‘No!’
‘Can you?’ The Heir turned to Pummel.
‘I’ve never touched a sword,’ said Pummel. ‘I could fight with a staff, maybe.’
The children sneered. The same girl cried, ‘Who fights with a staff?’
‘Peasants!’ shouted the boy next to her.
‘Serfs!’
‘Clodhoppers!’
Pummel smiled again, as if he didn’t realise he’d been insulted. ‘I guess that makes me a clodhopper then.’
‘We will test you,’ said the Heir, strutting up and down. ‘Adelheide, fetch a staff. I will begin with the girl.’
‘What?’ said Duckling. ‘But I told you, I can’t fight.’
‘In the Strong-hold you must fight.’
The Young Margrave snatched a wooden sword and a shield from one of the smaller children and tossed them to Duckling. The sword was heavier than she’d expected. You mightn’t be able to kill someone with it, but you could hurt them very badly.
The rest of the children formed a cir
cle. Someone howled. Someone else shouted, ‘Long life to the Margravine! Victory to the Bear!’
The Heir settled his shield on his left arm and raised his sword. ‘Prepare for battle, Outsider.’
And he rushed at Duckling.
A FAINT WHISPERING
Ever since Pummel had followed Arms-mistress Krieg and Duckling out of the Keep, he’d been able to hear a faint whispering.
Sometimes it was one voice, sometimes it was many, snipping at the air around him like tangled wire.
Pummel smiled at the Strong-hold children and answered their questions – while the whispering went on and on.
He thought it was coming from somewhere above him, but when he looked up he could see nothing but turrets, flags and gargoyles.
I’m imagining it, he told himself. There’s no one there.
He turned his attention back to the Young Margrave – just in time to see the boy run at Duckling with his sword raised.
But she can’t fight! She told him!
He tried to jump forward and drag her out of danger, but the other children grabbed his arms and held him back.
Duckling waved her sword pitifully. Everyone except Pummel laughed. The Young Margrave shouted, ‘Victory to the Bear!’ and swung at her head.
By a stroke of good luck, it wasn’t there. At the last minute Duckling had tripped over her own feet, and the sword had gone past her.
The children laughed again, and Duckling scrambled up, mumbling an apology.
Pummel knew he should keep his mouth shut. After all, the boy with the sword was the Heir of Neuhalt, whereas he was just a farm boy. A clodhopper.
But Duckling was his friend. ‘Ser!’ he called, hoping that was the right way to talk to someone as important as the Heir. ‘She doesn’t know how to fight. You might hurt her.’
The Young Margrave ignored him and ran at Duckling again.
She did a bit better this time, managing to face in the right direction. But then she dropped her shield.
‘Oops!’ she said, and bent to pick it up just as the Young Margrave’s sword sliced the air above her.
Pummel groaned. She’d been lucky twice, but it couldn’t last. ‘Ser!’ he tried again. ‘Fight me, instead.’
‘Your turn will come, clodhopper,’ said the Young Margrave. ‘Then you will be sorry you asked.’
And he ran at Duckling a third time.
But Duckling just couldn’t seem to stay on her feet. She fell over as soon as she stood up. She tripped, she skidded, she sprawled. And as the Strong-hold children jeered, she became more and more flustered, and more and more clumsy.
In the end, to Pummel’s relief, the Young Margrave gave up. ‘She is a fool,’ he declared, throwing his shield to the ground in disgust. ‘Her name should not be Duckling; it should be Tanglefoot.’
‘Sorry,’ whispered Duckling, and she crept to the side of the yard.
It was Pummel’s turn then.
Adelheide gave him a long, solid staff, and he weighed it in his hand. He’d never fought anyone in his life, but he had played tip-and-run with the old bull many a time.
He hoped that would help him now.
The Young Margrave picked up his shield again and rushed forward without warning. Pummel raised his staff and stepped sideways.
The sword hit the staff and glanced off it. The Young Margrave looked surprised, then annoyed. He ran forward a second time. He was smaller than Pummel, but he was quick and fierce, and he soon knocked the staff out of Pummel’s hand.
The other children laughed with delight. The Heir strutted a little, then said, ‘Again.’
It had always been important, when Pummel was playing with the old bull, to keep a cool head. He tried to do the same now. But as the minutes passed, the children around him forgot their laughter and began to scream and howl. Pummel felt a heat in his belly, and found himself lashing out at the Young Margrave instead of just trying to block the boy’s sword.
He tried to pull back, but the heat was growing. The children howled louder. The Young Margrave’s eyes were slits of fury, and Pummel knew that his own eyes were the same.
It didn’t make sense. He never lost his temper with the old bull. Why—
Above his head, the whispers were growing louder.
One very small part of Pummel’s mind thought it must be the gargoyles, because there was nothing else it could be. But the greater part of him – the part that admired Principal Captain Rabid and knew that such an important man could not be wrong – refused to believe it.
That’d be witchery and there’s no such thing.
With a great effort, he managed to pull back from the heat and the fury. But just as he was about to block another blow, he felt something so strange and frightening that for a moment he forgot what he was doing—
Everything was in place at last. In the small, hidden room, the woman took out the final trio of pins. They were intricately carved on the shaft and the head, and she did not look at them too closely, in case they caught her and she could not get free.
She gazed up at the bird. ‘I am doing this for Neuhalt,’ she said. ‘One day they will thank me for it.’
The bird peered down at her impatiently, as if it did not care why she did it, as long as she did it.
Once again, she pricked her finger with the first and second pins. Then she began to read aloud the most important part of the Mystery.
‘Cannot be stopped by stone or sword,
Cannot be wounded by wood or word,
Iron teeth
And veins of ice—’
She paused and took a deep breath. Then she cried, ‘With my blood I pay the price!’ And she plunged the third pin into her finger.
Almost immediately, the air in the little room grew colder. Ice formed on the pins. The hawk in the rafters spread its wings, launched itself at the nearest wall – and passed right through it.
The woman slid all three pins into the cloth directly above her heart.
It was done.
Soon, the Heir of Neuhalt would die.
ONE CHANCE
When Pummel fell to the ground, bleeding from ear to chin, Duckling went up on her toes. Now! I’ll run now, while they’re distracted!
But the Young Margrave was beckoning her. ‘You, Tanglefoot. Help him up. We will take him to Physician Berl.’
Pummel was a bit dizzy, but he could walk, with one hand pressed to his cheek and the other resting on Duckling’s shoulder.
The Heir led the way into the Keep, then along a stone passage, up a staircase, along another passage and up another staircase, naming the rooms they passed.
‘Store … chapel … treasury …’
Duckling tried to remember everything, so she could find her way back without getting lost. But there were too many staircases, with too many twists and turns. There were tapestries that covered hidden doors, and things that looked like doors but went nowhere. There were stinking privies, a bewildering assortment of windows (some with glass and some without) – and an even more bewildering assortment of grafs, grafines, dogs, serving women, serving men, children and stray chickens.
The servants and children stared openly. The chickens squawked and scattered. The grafs and grafines bowed to the Heir, and pretended that they weren’t the least bit interested in his companions.
Duckling wondered which of them would try to stop her if she dropped Pummel and ran.
Wait, she told herself. You might only get one chance. Wait till you’re sure of getting out.
They were halfway up yet another stone staircase when Pummel whispered in her ear, ‘Did you feel something? Back there? When I was fighting?’
‘What sort of something?’
‘I don’t know. Cold.’
‘Pummel, it’s mid-winter. And this place is freezing, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘I know, but … Never mind.’
The next flight of stairs emerged into a passage. ‘Physician Berl’s rooms are down there,’ said th
e Heir, pointing over his shoulder.
‘Hang on,’ said Duckling. ‘Isn’t that where we’re taking him? To the physician?’
‘I have changed my mind,’ said the boy, shoving his way through the middle of a small knot of grafs. ‘We will take him to Otte instead.’
The grafs bowed, stroked their bristling moustaches and began to discuss their horses in loud hearty voices.
‘Who’s Otte?’ asked Duckling.
The Heir didn’t answer. They went up another staircase. And another and another, until Duckling lost count.
At last they came to a doorway guarded by two hard-faced men. The men’s hands rested on their swords, and they glared suspiciously at Duckling and Pummel.
The Young Margrave strode past them, saying, ‘These are the Outsiders. Clodhopper and Tanglefoot.’
Duckling beamed at the men, and hurried Pummel through the doorway into a large, cold, empty room with another door on the far side.
‘Otte!’ shouted the Heir. ‘Someone is hurt. Where are you?’
There was no answer. With a shrug, the Heir led them along several more passages to a long room with a table, and glass in the windows. The tapestries on the walls showed scenes of battle and other bloodthirsty occasions, and there was a blazing fire in the fireplace.
At the table sat a boy of about the same age as the Young Margrave. His face was friendly, in a wary sort of way, and his fingers were stained with ink instead of blood. There was ink on the tip of his nose too, and in his fair hair.
In front of him was a row of bowls, a pile of linen strips, dozens of scrolls, a pot of ink and a quill pen.
‘That is Otte,’ said the Heir.
The boy smiled shyly.
Duckling got in quickly, before she could be introduced as Tanglefoot. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Duckling. This is Pummel. He needs mending.’
The Heir pointed to the stool next to Otte, and Pummel sat down with a thump. Duckling wondered if she’d be able to persuade those two hard men on the door to let her out.
Wait, she told herself again. Wait till you’re sure.
Otte touched Pummel’s cheekbone gently. ‘Does it hurt?’