“So stupid in all other ways!” a third mocked. “Look at the way he sleeps on the ground, like a poor little animal.”
“Look at the trail he left, so that anyone, anything could track him.”
“Look at the way he sleeps like a babe, without a care in the world.”
“A human child.”
“A careless child!”
The elf man who’d first spoken laughed softy. “A foolish child that anyone can trick!”
So alien a light glinted in the slanted eyes that Kevin’s breath caught in his throat. Everyone knew elvish whims were unpredictable; it was one of the reasons there could never be total ease between elf and human. If these folk decided to loose their magic on him, he wouldn’t have a chance of defending himself. “My lords,” he began, very, very carefully, “if I have somehow offended you, pray forgive me.”
“Offended!” the elf echoed coldly. “As if anything a child such as you could do would be strong enough to offend us!”
That stung. “My lord, I—I know I may not look like much to someone like you.” To his intense mortification, his empty stomach chose that moment to complain with a loud gurgle. Kevin bit his tip, sure that those keen, pointed elf ears had picked up the sound. AH he could do was continue as best he could, “But—but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me.”
“0h, how brave it is!” The elf man rested one foot lightly on a rock and leaned forward, fierce green gaze flicking over Kevin head to foot “Bah, look at yourself! Sleeping on bare ground when there are soft pine boughs to make you a bed. Aching with hunger when the forest holds more than enough to feed one scrawny human. Leaving a trail anyone could follow and carrying no useful weapon at all. How could we not insult such ignorance?”
The elf straightened, murmuring a short phrase in the elvish tongue to the others. They laughed and faded soundlessly into the night, but not before one of them had tossed a small sack at Kevin’s feet.
“Our gift, human,” the elf man said. “Inside is food enough to keep you alive. And no, it is not bespelled. We would not waste magic on you.”
With that, the elf turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder at the bardling. With inhuman bluntness, he said, “I hope, child, for your sake that you are simply naive and not stupid. In time, either flaw will get you killed, but at least the first can be corrected.”
The alien eyes blazed into Kevin’s own for a moment longer. Then the elf was gone, and the bardling was left alone in the night, more frightened than he would ever have admitted.
He’s wrong! Kevin told himself defiantly once his heart had stopped pounding. Just because I'm a bardling, not a Q woodsman who’s never known anything but the forest doesn’t make me naive or stupid!
Deciding that didn’t stop him from rummaging in the little sack. The elvish idea of food that would keep him alive seemed to be nothing more exciting than flat wafers of bread. But when he managed to choke one of the dry things down, it calmed his complaining stomach so nicely that the bardling sighed with relief and actually slipped back into sleep.
Kevin stood with head craned back, sunlight warm on his face, feeling the last of last night’s fears melting away. How could he possibly hold onto fear when it was bright, dear morning and all around him the air was filled with bird song?
Maybe the whole thing had been only a dream?
No. The sack of wafers was quite real. Kevin gnawed thoughtfully on one, then gave another to his mule, which lipped it up with apparent delight. He saddled and bridled the animal, then climbed aboard, still trying to figure out what the purpose of that midnight meeting had been.
A. last he shook his head in dismissal. All the stories said the elf folk, being the nonhuman race they were, had truly bizarre senses of humor, sometimes outright cruel by human standards. What had happened last night must surely have been just another nasty Elvis idea of a joke.
“Come on, mule. Let’s get going.” At least he wasn’t hungry.
The road sloped up, first gently then more steeply, much to the mule’s distaste. When it grew too steep, Kevin dismounted now and again to give the animal a rest, climbing beside it.
But at last, after a quiet day of riding and walking, they reached the crest. Kevin stared out in awe at a wild mountain range of tall gray crags, some of them high enough to be snowcapped even in spring. They towered over rolling green fields neatly sectioned into farms. On the nearest crag, surrounded by open space stood:
“Count Volmar’s castle!” Kevin cried triumphantly. “It has to be!”
The castle hadn’t been built for beauty. Heavy and squat, it seemed to crouch possessively on its crag like some ancient grey beast of war staring down at the count’s lands. But Kevin didn’t care. It was the first castle he had ever seen, and he thought it was wonderful, a true war castle dating from the days when heroes held back the forces of Darkness. Bright banners flew from the many towers, softening some of the harshness, and the bardling could see from here that the castle’s gates were open. By squinting he could make out the devices on those banners: the count’s black boar on an azure field.
“We’ve done it,” he told the mule. “That is definitely the castle of Count Volmar.”
He forgot about elves and hunger, loneliness and mocking minstrels. Excitement shivering through him, the bardling kicked his mule forward. Soon, soon, the real adventure was going to begin!
Chapter III
The closer Kevin got to Count Volmar’s castle, the more impressive it seemed, looming up over him till he had to crane his head back to see the tops of the towers. The North Road ran right past the base of the crag, but the count’s own road led its winding way up and up to the castle gates. Just when the bardling had almost reached the top (riding all the way this time, in case someone in the castle was watching him), the mule stopped short, long ears shooting up. In the next moment, two knights in gleaming mail, faces hidden by their helms, came plunging skillfully down the steep road on their powerful destriers, trailed by two younger, more cautious, riders—squires, Kevin guessed—on smaller horses.
“Get out of the way, boy!” they shouted.
Kevin hastily kneed his mule aside. With a shout of “Peasant fool!” the riders were past him, showering him with dirt and pebbles, and gone.
“Peasant fool, is it?” Kevin muttered, brushing himself off. “At least I know better than to force a horse down a steep hill at full speed!”
The bardling glanced down at himself. He had saved his best tunic and breeches for now; the neat red tunic and brown breeches and cloak might not be of the most noble quality, but they were, he thought, quite suitable. Definitely not what a peasant would wear. Not even a rich one who owned his farm; the doth might in such a case be finer, but there was such a thing as style and taste.
Feeling better about the whole thing, Kevin prodded his mule up the last few feet to the open gates, huge, heavy brass-sheathed things—
Which were slowly shut in his face.
“Hey!” he yelled indignantly.
“Servants use the postern gate,” an officious voice called down from one of the narrow tower windows.
“But I’m not—”
“Use the postern gate,” the voice repeated.
Kevin sighed. He was hardly about to shout out his business here for everyone to hear. This is just someone’s mistake he told himself. They’ll correct it once I’m inside.
He rode around the massive base of the castle to the humble little servants’ entrance, which was sealed by a heavy, brass-bound oaken door. Standing in the stirrups, Kevin gave it a solid rap with his fist, then, when that got no results, managed a more satisfying thump with a foot
“Hey! Anybody in there?”
A tiny window creaked open high in the door. “State your business,” a voice demanded. This one, Kevin thought, sounded more bored than officious,
“My business,” he said firmly, “is with Count Volmar. I have a message here from my Master.”
The bardling drew out the sealed parchment the old Bard had given him and held it up so whoever was behind the door could see it There was a long moment of silence. Then Kevin heard the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn. The door creaked open.
“Enter.”
“At last!” the bardling muttered, and kicked his mule through the doorway.
As he’d expected, he was faced by a long stone tunnel; the outer walls of a war castle could hardly be anything but thick!
FU never get the nude in there.
But the animal, after a brief hesitation about entering this narrow, shadowy cave, sniffed the air and moved eagerly forward, so eagerly Kevin suspected it must have smelled oats.
As they came out from the tunnel, the bardling Found himself in what looked almost like a small town, tucked into the outer ward, the space between the ring of the outer walls and the inner walls of the count’s keep. To one side was the castle stables, and the mule did its best to get Kevin to let it head off that way. But the bardling kept a tight hold on the reins, trying to see everything without making it look like he was gawking.
So many people!
He’d never seen so many crowded into so small a space, not even on market day. Here was the blacksmith’s forge, the smith hard at work shoeing a restless gray destrier, calmly avoiding the war horse’s attempts to bite; there, the carpenter’s workshop echoed with hammering; and next to that, the armorer sat in the sunlight before his shop, mending the links in a mail shirt. A tangled crowd of castle folk chattered away as they did their tasks, while their children ran squealing and laughing all around the ward. Maybe the whole place did smell a hit too strongly of horse and dung and humanity, but it was still such a lively place that it took Kevin’s breath away. He drank it all in, only to come back to himself with a shock when someone asked shortly:
“Name and business?”
Kevin glanced down to see a guard watching him warily. Mail glinted under a surcoat embroidered with the count’s crest, and the weather-worn face held not a trace of warmth.
“Uh, yes. My—my name is Kevin, I’m a bardling, and my Master has sent me here with a message for Count Volmar.”
He showed the guard the sealed parchment. To his dismay, the man snatched it from his hand. “Hey!”
“Leave your mule with the stable hands. Your bags will be brought to you—Am!”
A small boy, a page clad in the count’s blue livery, came running. “Sir?”
“Take this bardling to the squires’ quarters.”
“But my message!” Kevin protested—
“It will be given to Count Volmar.” The guard’s contemptuous stare said without words, Did you really think a mere bardling would be allowed to bother a count? “Go get your mule stabled.”
With that, the man turned and disappeared into the keep. Kevin hesitated, toying with the idea of hurrying after the guard and insisting he be admitted to the oowxt at once!
Oh no. Not only would something like that destroy what little was left of his dignity, it would probably get him thrown out of the castle!
Kevin’s shoulders sagged. So much for being able to rub elbows with nobility!
“I’m supposed to wait here.”
“That’s what I was told,” little Am answered. “In the squires’ quarters.”
“But here?” the bardling repeated. “There’s nobody —Am! Wait!”
The boy had already scurried away. Kevin, feeling helpless, stood looking uneasily about. The squires’ quarters was nothing more than this long, dark, chilly hall broken up by a row of cots and clothes chests. The high roof was supported by thick columns, and the only light came from narrow windows set high in the walls. The silence was heavier than anything back in the forest.
The bardling sat down on (he edge of one of the cots to wait. And wait. And wait.
Kevin had just about decided he’d been abandoned, and was wondering what would happen if he went hunting for Count Volmar himself when he heard a sudden rush of cheerful voices and sprang to his feet. A crowd of boys in their late teens came ambling into the hall, all of them in blue livery.
These must surely be the missing squires. Kevin watched them in sudden uneasiness, painfully aware that his secluded musician’s life hadn’t given him many chances to spend time with anyone his own age.
A stocky blond boy stopped short, staring at Kevin with bright blue eyes. “Holla! Who’s this?”
“My name is Kevin,” the bardling began, “and I—”
“You’ve got a lute. You a minstrel?”
“No!”
“You seem kinda young to be a Bard.”
The boy’s voice was brusque, but a hint of respect shone in his eyes. For a moment Kevin toyed with the idea of claiming that yes, he was a Bard. But he could picture his Master’s disapproval only too well. A Bard, after all, was always supposed to be truthful. With a sigh. Kevin admitted:
“I’m not. Not yet. I’m apprenticed to a Bard, but—”
“A bardling,” someone said in a scornful voice. “He’s nobody.”
The squires turned away. Blatantly ignoring him, they set about changing their clothes or cleaning their boots, chattering and joking as though he wasn’t even there.
“Did you see me in the tilting yard?”
“Sure did. Saw you fall off, too!”
“The saddle slipped!”
“S-u-r-e it did! Like this!”
He pounced on the other boy and they wrestled, laughing. Watching them, totally excluded, Kevin ached with a loneliness more painful even than what he’d felt in the forest. As the horseplay broke off, he heard the squires argue over which of them was most skilled with sword or lance, or who would be the first to be knighted. A great surge of resentment swelled up within him. Listen to them boast! I bet there isn’t one of them who knows anything but weaponry and fighting, the empty-headed idiots.
But as the squires began to boast instead about the exploits of the knights they served, of Sir Alamar who’d taken on an entire bandit band and bested them, or Sir Theomard, who might be aging but who had still managed to slay three enemy knights in battle, one right after the other, Kevin’s heart sank. These boys who were his own age had already done more than he’d even imagined. As squires to their knights, they had almost certainly shared in those mighty deeds. They would probably soon be heroes themselves.
Kevin bit his lip as resentment turned to envy. No wonder the squires scorned him! Here he was, a bardling, a mere music apprentice, someone who hadn’t done anything. He must seem like a weakling to them, a coward, no better than a peasant.
A small hand shook his sleeve and he started. “Bardling?” It was little Arn. “Follow me, if you would. Master D’Krikas, Count Volmar’s seneschal, wishes to speak with you.”
D’Krikas? What an odd name!
Who cares how odd it is! At least I haven’t been forgotten.
The bardling followed Am through a maze of corridors, across the rush-strewn stretch of the Great Hall, and up a winding stairway, stopping before a closed door. “Here we are,” Am said, and scurried away once more. Kevin took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Enter!” a scratchy voice commanded.
Within was a cozy room, hung with thick hangings of deep red velvet and furnished with a scroll-filled bookcase and a massive desk, behind which sat a truly bizarre figure. Although it sat upright and had the right number of arms and head, it most definitely was not human. Kevin stared at the shiny, chitinous green skin, set off by a glittering golden gorget, and the large, segmented eyes and gasped out:
“You’re an Arachnia!”
“The boy is a marvel of cleverness,” the insectoid being chittered. “If he has satisfied his curiosity?”
“Oh, uh, of course—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Why not? You have plainly never seen one of my kind before. Why should you not stare?”
“I...”
Kevin blinked. The Arachnia had snat
ched what looked like a handful of sugar cubes from a small bowl on the desk and popped them into its beaked mouth. The crunching sound reminded him uncomfortably of praying mantises devouring beetles. In fact, now that he thought of it, the being did look a good deal like a giant mantis ....
“Now you wonder anew.” The dry chitter might have been a laugh. “Have you never heard that my kind are always hungry? For logic as well as food. Boy, time is a precious thing, and we have already wasted enough of it. I am, as I am sure you have already realized, D’Krikas, seneschal, major-domo if you wish, to Count Volmar.”
“My lord.” Belatedly, Kevin bowed, but D’Krikas, writing busily in a huge open ledger, hardly seemed to notice.
Castle of Deception bt-1 Page 3