There was a lot more about the eccentric whims of dragons in choosing unsuitable Masters, which made Tor suspect that the author had at some time been rejected by a dragon in favour of someone else, and was still smarting from it. He went on to say that you could increase your chances of bonding by hatching a dragon from the egg, but even this did not always work, and could (reading between the lines) be heart breaking. Imagine hand-rearing a dragon from the moment it hatched till it was full grown, then have it choose your enemy instead of you – or even worse, your best friend. Apparently, you could work with dragons who had not found their Dragon Masters, but you had to persuade them and negotiate at every turn, which was described as “a toilsome, weary enterprise”.
Tor had not realized that when she met Xantilor, he had instantly chosen her to be his Dragon Master. He had not said it in so many words. She felt touched, and grateful, and very, very lucky.
As he did on the last day of every month, Corfe went to the goldsmith’s opposite the Palace in Tarragon to deposit his wages. He had his own safe there, with nothing inside but neatly stacked gold coins. Corfe opened it with his own key, and added more ducats to his hoard.
The hovering goldsmith said what he usually said in one way or another. “If you’d let me invest that for you, you’d make quite a nice lot of interest on it.” His expression was pained. “The money you could have made in the twelve, thirteen years you’ve been coming here…” It was a waste, in his opinion; and Corfe never spent any of it, either – look at his clothes! Not a man who got much joy out of life, though he seemed to derive some cheerless satisfaction from watching his gold accrue. Corfe gave a slight shake of his head.
“Well, it’s your money,” the goldsmith said, pocketing the two crowns he charged Corfe for safeguarding his funds.
As he walked away, Corfe’s mind went back thirteen years. He had been employed as a copy clerk in the Palace, working in a room with two dozen other clerks. Tedious, repetitive work, which his fellow clerks enlivened by backchat and banter that did not include Corfe. Then one day, eating his solitary lunch in a niche behind a statue in the hallway, he overheard a conversation that would change his life; give him power, make people regard him with fear instead of contempt.
Two envoys had just left the King’s presence, having reached agreement about a non-interventionist treaty between Calambria and neighbouring Kimber. In exultant but hushed tones they were discussing a loophole Skardroft had missed, and the importance of getting the document signed with all speed. Corfe trailed them to their offices, and waited until a messenger left ten minutes later, then followed him. He would be unacceptably late back from his brief lunch break, but his instincts told him this was an opportunity not to be missed.
The stables were the first place without onlookers. Corfe picked up a doorstop and felled the messenger from behind. Back then, he reflected, his methods were crude. He took the letter from the man’s bag, and went to see the King. Getting access to him took some persistence, but he could still recall Skardroft’s deepening interest as he read the letter, which had been frank, and his expression as he looked up.
“You seem to be wasting your talents working as a clerk. Anything else like this, bring it to me. They’ll let you straight in next time. You will find me grateful.” The King opened a drawer, got out a small bag, and handed it to Corfe.
Outside, Corfe counted the coins. More than he earned in half a year as a clerk. More, he knew, than he would spend.
In those days, Corfe had felt the need for women. It was one of the few things he spent his meagre wages on. Over the years he had grown out of this; their idle curiosity about him was tiresome, and he found he could manage without them. He did not seek or welcome intimacy. But that night, with new possibilities opening before him, and gold in his pocket, Corfe visited a better class of establishment than the one he regularly frequented. The whore he chose was pretty and young; too young to conceal her repugnance for him. This did not spoil his pleasure.
The next day, he’d consciously started to watch anyone who seemed a profitable subject, and later the King had given him one or two things to investigate. Gradually his work for Skardroft had become regular and salaried. He had discovered in himself a skill for interrogation, an instinctive knack for applying pressure to the right places. Thorough knowledge of his victims, a correct assessment and ruthless exploitation of their vulnerability, made him formidable.
Corfe had found his metier, the one thing he enjoyed: bending others’ wills to his. The piles of gold were the measure of his success.
CHAPTER 4
Another black dagger
It was the evening of the dinner in Gwenderith’s honour; Tor washed her hair and put on her best clothes for the occasion. Xantilor inspected her on her way out and said she was a credit to the Dragon Battalion. She walked into the banqueting hall, the heels of her new boots ringing on the stone floor, feeling interested and slightly nervous. She had never been to any sort of formal dinner before.
The room was long and the vaulted timber ceiling high; like the rest of the Castle it was both splendid and dilapidated, the massive stones of the walls showing through crumbling plaster. The smell of old wood and stone was mixed with the scents of honeysuckle and beeswax. Raziella, who ran the officers’ catering with her own brand of hands-on efficiency, was putting finishing touches to the flowers that went down the middle of the table, and lighting candles. There seemed to Tor to be something more of a flounce in her movements than usual.
“This looks very nice, Raziella.”
Raziella tossed her auburn curls and sniffed. “Yes, it makes you wonder what I could do if I wasn’t two kitchen maids short. You shouldn’t be in here yet, they’re all having drinks next door.”
Tor went and found the other officers, who were standing around chatting. Barlanik and Gwenderith were together on the far side of the room, side by side but not talking to each other. The Princess looked decorative in cream silk with gold lace. Tor couldn’t see Kerris, and was tempted to sidle out again and come back later, but Barlanik had seen her and beckoned her over.
“Gwenderith, you know Torbrek. I’ve put him next to you at dinner since he was responsible for freeing you.”
Gwenderith smiled politely at her. Tor said, “It must be strange to be back here, but with so many people.”
“It is, a little,” said Gwenderith. There was a pause.
“I rather liked it when it was empty,” said Tor, “but then of course I wasn’t a prisoner here.”
“Indeed, the views are wonderful, particularly without anyone there. But it is certainly an interesting contrast to see the Castle so busy.”
Tor wondered if she was going to have to talk like this all night. Now she knew she was next to Gwenderith, she hoped she would be lucky with the person on her other side. Kerris materialized at her elbow and regarded her sternly.
“I’m sitting next to you tonight,” he said, “and I’m warning you right now that I am limiting the amount of time you’re allowed to talk about dragon training methods and that darned book. For five minutes I shall be hanging politely on your every word, every inch the well-behaved dinner guest; after that, I shall be unreceptive to talk remotely connected with anything scaly.” He turned to Gwenderith. “Take my tip, and don’t you stand for it either. Tor’s obsessed with that dragon. You have to take a firm line with him.”
Tor’s spirits rose. The evening seemed more promising. “Be like that, then. See if I care. You don’t know what you’ll be missing; Xantilor had a particularly fascinating breakthrough in his training today.”
“See? He’s at it already. Talk about a one-track mind…Princess Gwenderith, you are looking extremely stunning tonight, but then you always do. Where’s young Muffin? Couldn’t he make it? Prior engagement?”
A bell rang, and they moved with everyone else towards the banqueting hall, Kerris still chatting to Gwenderith. Tor walked beside a silent Barlanik. She glanced at him, not liking to ta
lk about Xantilor after what Kerris had said, though that was indeed the topic that currently engrossed her. With a jolt she saw he was wearing a dagger like hers in his belt.
She exclaimed, “You have a black dagger!”
Barlanik raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Are you one of the Hundred Knights?” she said quietly, not sure whether he would want other people to hear.
“Yes.”
Tor turned and moved the edge of her jacket so he could see her dagger hilt. She always wore it, and at night kept it under her pillow. “Did you know I am one too?”
His eyes went to her dagger, then back to her face, his expression inscrutable. “No.”
“Are there many of us in the army?” she asked.
“Just you and me.”
Tor had several questions about the Knights Barlanik might know the answers to, but his manner was so unforthcoming that she hesitated to ask him, and besides they had reached the dining table in the banqueting hall. He took his seat on the other side of Gwenderith.
The Princess turned to her. “You must tell me about training Xantilor. I would be very interested to hear what it entails.”
“As long as you say when you’ve had enough. Kerris is probably right, I do go on about him a bit.”
“Truly, I would like it. I have an interest in Xantilor as he guarded me for so long.”
Tor found Gwenderith easier going than she had feared, and thought Xantilor’s dismissal of her as “dull” unfair. True, she was rather shy, far too polite, and her conversation seemed staid for her years. It was as though she was sticking to rules that forbade interruptions, exaggeration, contradictions, controversy, flights of fancy, exclamations, sarcasm and teasing; all the things, in fact, which made talking to Kerris amusing. When manners allowed Tor to turn to her right and chat to him, they had too much to say for her to satisfy her curiosity as to how Gwenderith was getting on with Barlanik; but she got the impression she was not missing much.
The next evening, Tor sat cross-legged on her bed in the tower room, sewing. She had not done any needlework since her brief efforts at Cramble after Attalor died, and found her skills not improved. She was attempting to stitch a buckle strap back on to her old quilted leather jerkin; though it was shabby and much mended, she was fond of it. While she worked, she thought about the dinner the night before.
It was strange, but the moment she remembered most clearly was when Barlanik’s dark eyes had looked unreadably into hers after she had shown him her dagger. Barlanik was enigmatic. Odd that Kerris was his second in command and in his confidence, while humourless Drewitt, on the face of it more like him, was much less so… Kerris, convivial, friendly and always cracking jokes, and Barlanik, cool and reserved, worked surprisingly well together.
The needle jabbed her thumb and she swore. The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs made her look up, and there was Kerris standing in the open door.
“I thought I’d come and see where you live.” He walked into the room, gazing around. “Hmm, basic amenities but panoramic views. What are you doing?”
“Mending this.”
Kerris took it from her and examined the uneven stitches, shaking his head. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Too right, but what’s the alternative?”
“Come and have a drink with me.”
“That won’t sew the buckle back on.”
“That’s all you know.” Kerris tucked the jerkin under his arm. “We’ll drop it off at Linet’s on the way.”
Tor got up. “Will she do it?”
“She always does my mending. Of course, that could be on account of my irresistible charm, but maybe you can charm her too. Let’s go and see.”
In the days that followed, Tor spent more and more of her spare time with Kerris. Promotion and moving out of the barracks had inevitably put a distance between her and her acquaintances in the cavalry. She felt sorry about this, but could not regret the change as her fellow officer was such good company.
One idyllic evening after supper, Tor sat with Kerris as their drinks were brought to them outside the tavern beside the river. They could hear in the distance the splash and creak of a mill wheel. High above them, swifts flew after insects, their shrill cries seeming to Tor the essence of summer. She felt a happy sense of well-being and belonging; she would not want anything different in her life, except to have her grandfather back, still living in the tiny cottage at Cramble.
“To a toast on the battlements of Tarragon,” Kerris said as he raised his wine cup. This was his habitual toast, an expression of confidence that one day he and Barlanik would be celebrating on Tarragon’s ramparts. Tor was flattered that now she was included.
“Tarragon…” said Tor, drinking. “And to taking more of Skardroft’s treasuries.”
This recent coup had put the ranks in jubilant mood, knowing their pay was assured for some time. Kerris had told her Barlanik was relieved too. Not that he showed any sign of it that Tor could discern.
“I’ll drink to that. Not long now.”
“So you’re certain we’re going to win?”
Kerris smiled. “Oh yes. Sooner or later. Barlanik’s one of the most determined men I’ve ever met. If he wants it to happen, it’ll happen.”
Tor thought about this. “I know he’s good. The army’s fantastically well disciplined. And no one’s got a bad word to say for him – well, okay, maybe after that night manoeuvre in the storm, when we’d just got back and were sent straight out again…but even though they were grumbling, the men knew worse happens in battle, you have to prepare for it.” Tor sat back and put her feet up on the low riverside wall. “How did Barlanik get from being a Knight to running Urquin’s army?”
“He spent years abroad as a mercenary captain. Very successfully – he made a lot of money. Urquin got to hear about him. When they met, he reckoned Barlanik was the one person who could get his kingdom back. Urquin’s never been much of a soldier, even when he was young.”
“King Urquin took thirty years to choose his Commander? He must be fussy.”
“My guess is he did it for Edric. Edric wants to rule Calambria more than he does.”
“Who’s Edric?”
“Oh, sorry, Tor. I forgot you didn’t know all this. Edric is King Urquin’s son, and Gwenderith’s younger brother; he’s mustering troops to come and help us. He’s no more of a soldier than his father, really, except he can’t see that, he’s a bit full of himself. If it was a choice between him and Muffin leading the army, personally I’d go for the dog.” Kerris’s face became serious. “Whereas Barlanik’s exceptional. The men trust him, and they’re right to. If I had to stake my life on someone’s word, I’d choose his. And he’s a good fighter; well, he’s a Knight.”
Tor was slightly irked by this unqualified admiration of the Commander. There was an edge to her voice as she said, “Is there anything Barlanik can’t do? Any flaws at all?”
Kerris laughed. “He’s not too good at small talk. And he does like being right – but then, I have to say, he usually is.”
“How did you get to know him?”
“Oh, we go way back. Seven or eight years ago we met. I was in Ottakesh at the time, because I’d heard they were hiring soldiers for their tribal wars. I was outside the gates after dark, and I was jumped by a band of outlaws. My prospects weren’t looking too good, then suddenly someone was fighting beside me. Barlanik had been passing, realized what was happening and came to help. We saw them off, and then it turned out he was recruiting, so I joined him. Pure chance, really. I’ve been working with him ever since.”
“And what about Linet?”
“Barlanik’s been taking care of her since their parents died. That’s the reason he became a mercenary instead of staying with the Knights. He needed to start earning to keep her at school, and when she was old enough she joined him on his campaigns. She’s seven years younger than he is. She’s a great help to him, is Linet.”
Tor conside
red; she was still not sure whether she liked Barlanik, even if he had saved Kerris’s life. Everything Kerris said about him made him sound rather insufferable. Tiresomely perfect, as well as aloof and unapproachable. She did like Kerris though. She didn’t see how anyone could not like him. As they had become closer friends, indeed best friends, she began to feel guilty about not telling him she was a girl. If he found out, he would probably treat it as a huge joke, but he might also feel hurt she had not told him. Maybe she should.
Tor sipped her drink, watching two big blue dragonflies hunting above the river. On the far bank the Princess’s manservant was taking Muffin for a walk. Gwenderith was still with them. She seemed not to mind the move back to the Castle where she had been incarcerated for so long, and appeared to accept it with her usual tranquillity, settling with her retinue into her old apartments as though she had never left them.
“You know, I don’t understand why the Princess hasn’t gone back to her father’s,” said Tor. “She’d be more comfortable there than in an army camp, and she hasn’t seen him for ages.”
“I think it’s King Urquin – he keeps saying the roads aren’t safe, Skardroft’s troops everywhere, leave it a little longer. But Drewitt makes that journey every week, and he’s never had any problems that wouldn’t brush off.”
“Why doesn’t the King want her back?”
“It’s not that. I think he wants her to marry Barlanik – he looks on him almost as a son – and if they’re here together for a while they’ll get to know each other better.”
“But they don’t see that much of each other, just the odd dinner.”
Tor was now a regular at the mess dinners. At the last one Gwenderith had been sitting next to Barlanik, looking lovely as she always did. They hadn’t seemed to have much to say to each other, though, and Barlanik had left early.
“I’d hate it if I was her, just hanging around with nothing to do except a little light embroidery.” Tor spoke with feeling.
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 4