“Can either of you play chess?”
The good-looking blond one said, “I can, but worse than you’d believe possible.”
“Then we’re well matched – come in.”
He followed her into the room, looking about him. Tor noticed how blue his eyes were, the light golden stubble on his jaw, and how the corners of his well-shaped mouth turned up, even when he was not smiling. He wore the crimson and black uniform of a Palace Guard with panache.
“No expense spared, I see; it’s a bit different from the barracks.”
“I’d prefer to be back in my barracks, actually. I’m Tor – what are you called?”
“Jervaid.”
“Pull up a chair, Jervaid. Would you like a drink?”
“Against regulations, I’m afraid.” Jervaid looked at the flagon in Tor’s hand. “But since you insist…”
She handed him a cup of wine. They played a game of chess, and Jervaid proved to have been accurate about his ability. Tor beat him fairly easily, but neither of them had been concentrating much on the game. Tor was enjoying having someone young and amusing to chat to. Jervaid told her he was the son of a feudal lord, with an estate outside the city, doing his contracted stint as a captain of the guard in Skardroft’s army.
“A lot of it’s pretty boring, like standing for hours outside your door – if you’re ever tempted to break out, please feel free, you’d be doing us a favour, we could do with something to relieve the monotony.” Jervaid had his feet up on the table by now, and was tuning the lute. “That’s about it…what would you like me to play?”
“You choose.”
He began a pretty, haunting little tune, and then started singing to it. He sang simply, in a rather throwaway manner, and Tor was enchanted. “You’re really good,” she said when he had finished.
He flashed her a smile. “Years of my music master beating it into me. I’ll teach you if you like.”
“I hope I’m not going to be here long enough for that,” she said with feeling.
Tor invited Jervaid in the next afternoon, and the one after that. She began to look forward to his visits, and think about him when he was not there; his habit of raking his hand through his blond hair, or his absorbed face while playing the lute; the way he made her laugh with his mocking comments. He told her that he was a younger son.
“I’m the black sheep of the family, the one who’s always getting into trouble; my older brother was the reliable one, sober and industrious, everything my parents could wish for. They knew the family estate would pass into safe hands when he inherited. I was okay with that, it took the pressure off me, they didn’t care too much what I got up to. But then my brother died in a fall from a horse. Suddenly what I did mattered.”
“So did you reform?”
Jervaid threw back his head and laughed. His teeth were white and even. “Not so’s you’d notice, no. My parents hope I’ll settle down as I get older. Marry a nice girl. But there are so many nice girls, it would be a shame to stick to one.”
Sometimes Skardroft could not stand the prospect of his customary obsequious dinner guests. Particularly since they treated Torbrek like a barely-tame leopard he’d got on a whim as a pet, whose head they were obliged to pat to please him. He preferred anyway to keep him to himself. This evening he was going to have his dinner with Torbrek in his rooms, as was increasingly his habit. He looked forward to his company after a long day of the kingdom’s business.
The night before, for a change he’d engaged a jester to amuse his grandson after dinner. The man had turned out to be dreadfully unfunny with a dire routine of ancient gags. Initially Skardroft was indignant at being fobbed off with a fourth-rate entertainer. He’d come highly recommended (the King eyed Gambon darkly) but if he thought he’d be getting a fee for this performance he was much mistaken. Skardroft shifted irritably in his seat. The wretched man saw his frown and drumming fingers; his patter became ever faster, one terrible joke remorselessly following another, not waiting for laughs, his anxious eyes slewing sideways to the King.
Skardroft glanced at his grandson and saw that Torbrek was convulsed, his hands half-hiding his face, his shoulders shaking, while around him courtiers dutifully applauded. It became suddenly hilarious; his spineless entourage, the useless comic, Torbrek trying not to hurt the man’s feelings. A great roar of laughter exploded from Skardroft. The jester stopped, stricken, all his jokes forgotten, and stood there quivering as the King guffawed, thumping the arm of his chair and pointing wordlessly at him.
At last Skardroft mopped his eyes. “That’ll do. Come here.” The jester approached, ducking his head and touching his brow, sweating. “You can tell everyone you made your sovereign laugh,” Skardroft said, giving him the bag of silver.
Thinking about this as he climbed the tower stairs to Torbrek’s door, he reflected with pleasure how well they got on together. He had laughed more since Torbrek’s arrival than he had in the whole of the past year. Not only did they share a similar sense of humour, but they were never short of things to talk about. When Skardroft was that age he had been powerfully built and dark, whereas Torbrek was shorter, slender and fair; but all the same, he sometimes thought he saw in him something of the essence of what he had been like forty years ago. The guards unbolted the door and he walked through, greeting him with a smile.
“Torbrek, how is my favourite grandson today?”
“Fine, thanks. For a prisoner. And you – have you had a busy day tyranting?”
“Oh, just the usual routine oppression and general intimidation, you know…” Skardroft broke off what he was saying. His attention had been caught by the chessboard, which was disarranged still from the game Tor had played earlier with Jervaid. “Who have you been playing chess with?”
“One of the guards.”
Skardroft’s face darkened. “You had one of the guards in here playing chess with you?”
“Yes – does it matter?”
“Which guard?”
“Why?” Tor looked at him, frowning.
Skardroft went to the door, and said curtly to the guards outside, “Fetch the men who were on duty here today, now.” He shut the door and turned to Tor. “If you won’t tell me, they will.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
“He will be punished for gross dereliction of his duty.” Skardroft’s former amiability had vanished from his face as though it had never been. Suddenly he looked entirely capable of ordering the torching of a village.
“That’s not fair,” said Tor, her voice rising. “It was my idea, I asked him to come in.”
“That was unwise of you, but it does not make his offence any lighter. Meanwhile, I suggest you stay out of matters that do not concern you.”
“This does concern me! You’re going to have him flogged, aren’t you?” Skardroft did not reply. “I knew it! You don’t care, do you? It’s like when you burnt Cramble. You’re a despot, it’s what you do, trampling over other people, murdering them, flogging them if they displease you. You’re going to half kill a man whose only crime was trying to make me a bit less bored than I’ve been ever since you shut me up here. And what was the harm? I’m still here, aren’t I? And I can tell you I wish I wasn’t!”
“You forget who you are talking to,” Skardroft said, his voice low and menacing. He bristled and swelled, a pack leader challenged by a lower-ranking wolf, about to bare his teeth and snarl. “Nobody talks to me like that. You’d be advised to think very carefully about what you say next.”
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes, then Tor spun on her heel and went quickly to where her sword belt was lying.
“Don’t walk away from me!” Skardroft’s voice had got louder. She ignored him and he bellowed, “I’m talking to you, come back here at once.” Tor started to fasten on her sword belt, her mouth set in a straight line. He watched as she deftly slid the leather through the buckles. A sliver of doubt pierced his fury. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve had enough. I’m sick of being your grandson, sick of being locked up and told what to do. I’m leaving. I’ll fight every guard who tries to stop me. It’ll be interesting to see how far I get.” Her sword belt was on now. She had not bothered with her armour. She drew her sword and headed for the door, which was unlocked while the King was inside.
“That’s insane. You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.” Tor’s voice was savage.
“They’ll kill you.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
Skardroft’s anger died. Alarm replaced it. “Stop, Torbrek, I beg you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her hand on the door handle, her expression furious. He had seen friendlier eyes in battle, in the face of an enemy warrior trying to kill him. “No.”
Panic gripped Skardroft. He had to stop Torbrek. He spoke quickly. “I’ll let the man off with a warning.”
There was a knock on the door. Tor paused, wary, weighing it up. “Word of honour?”
“The word of a grandfather.”
“No changing your mind, going behind my back?”
“You have my word.”
She hesitated, then came slowly back, sheathing her sword. Before either of them could say anything more, the door opened and Jervaid and the other guard came in. They had run all the way from the barracks. “Now” meant “now” when spoken by Skardroft. Jervaid was in his shirtsleeves. He kept his eyes straight ahead, away from Tor, his jaw set and beads of sweat showing on his face. Skardroft looked the two men up and down, then addressed Jervaid. “Was it you who played chess here today?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“That was a foolish thing to do.” Skardroft waited, letting him sweat a little longer. At length he said, “The consequences would be heavy for you, but for the intercession of my grandson. Your guard duties will be moved elsewhere forthwith. You may go.”
There was a small incredulous pause, and then Jervaid said, “Thank you, Your Majesty. My apologies.”
He saluted and left. The door closed behind him and the other guard. Skardroft sank heavily into a chair, gazing curiously at Torbrek. He’d have done it, he thought, he meant it. It wasn’t a bluff. How many guards and soldiers are there between here and the main gate? Dozens, no, hundreds. However good he is, if I hadn’t stopped him, he’d have been cut to pieces. At that moment I cared more for his life than he did, which was why I was the one to back down.
It had seemed a clever idea to let Torbrek keep his weapons; a quixotic demonstration of trust between them, a token of good faith; and safe enough, with armed men at his command everywhere. Too late to take them away now, he’d never stand for it.
He recognized that fierce recklessness – Torbrek’s mother had had it, running away from the palace at night with no money and only the clothes she had on; and Skardroft’s sons, impetuous and unruly, one dead in a brawl, the other in battle. It did not occur to him that he had brought defiance out in them; that they were reacting against his domineering rule.
“I would like a drink,” he said.
Tor went and filled two goblets and handed him one. They drank, then looked at each other. It was a long time since Skardroft had cared what anyone thought of him. Now, when Torbrek’s clear grey eyes were on him, he found himself wondering what he saw. He broke the silence. “I can see it must get tedious here on your own. Perhaps you’d like to come out hawking with me tomorrow?”
“Yes. All right,” Tor said.
CHAPTER 12
Watch until tame
It was delightful to Tor to be outside after more than a week indoors. An unfamiliar guard (she noted a clean sweep had been made of all the ones she was used to, not just Jervaid) escorted her to the Palace Mews. Skardroft was there on a glossy black horse, with twenty attendant guards, and several falconers who held large birds hooded on their gloves. The bells on the hawks’ jesses rang gently as they moved their feet. A fine dapple-grey mare waited for Tor, beautifully accoutred, and she went and stroked her velvety muzzle, admiring her bright dark eyes and silky mane.
“D’you like her? She’s yours, Torbrek, I’ve a lot of missed birthdays to make up for.”
“Thank you, but…”
“Don’t say any more, I know what you’re thinking. We won’t argue today.”
Tor swung herself into the saddle, and they set off towards the forest. The horse, which was called Whisper, was as good to ride as she was to look at. Tor gave herself up to enjoyment of the day. She had learnt about hawks as a child. Attalor had kept a goshawk which had supplied them with hares, rabbits and pheasants. It felt good to have a hawk’s curved talons grasping her wrist once more, to see its arrogant fierce yellow gaze, to know that it would fly free but always return to her glove.
Skardroft’s favourite bird was a huge grey gyrfalcon. Tor had never seen one at close quarters, and marvelled at the beauty of its barred and zigzagged feathers. He let her take a turn flying it. For her, there was a female peregrine falcon. All the birds were in superb condition, keen and beautifully turned out. Skardroft seemed to be making a special effort to be pleasant, perhaps hoping to obliterate the memory of the day before.
After an absorbing morning’s falconry, they sat companionably together leaning against a tree at the edge of a glade, eating cold roast chicken legs, bread and fruit. Their retinue was also having lunch, their crimson and black in view but out of earshot. The birds, hooded, were settled in line on a bow perch.
“I was nine when I had my first hawk,” Skardroft said. “I climbed up to the nest to get it, trained it myself. It was just a kestrel, but I was so proud of it, it might as well have been an eagle…in the end, a hawk stays with you, works with you, because it chooses to. It’s a question of mutual respect. You don’t get that with a dog or a horse. I almost lived in the woods in those days. Kept me out of the way of my father, which was all to the good.”
“My great-grandfather. Did you not get on with him? What was he like?”
“He was a soldier, until he got a broken leg that didn’t set right. It soured his temper; he took to drink. My mother died when I was six or seven, leaving me alone with his drunken rages.” He sounded almost resentful, as though dying was her fault. “My father and I were mostly at odds. I despised him. I knew I could do better than he had – could hardly do worse, in fact, and I’d had enough of him knocking me about, of being poor and living in a hovel, being cold, dirty, hungry a lot of the time. I left home as soon as I could, not long after I got the kestrel.”
“And you were only nine…”
“Nine or ten. An opportunity came my way.”
“You must have had a hard time, to make you take it.” Tor and Attalor had been poor too, but they had been happy together. Nothing would have made her leave him. She felt sorry for the boy her grandfather had been. It explained a lot. Skardroft saw her look of concern, and smiled at her.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve more than made up for it since.” Perhaps he believes that… “It was a long time ago.”
“What happened to your father after you left?”
“I don’t know. I never went back.”
“What was the kestrel called?”
Skardroft laughed. “Stealth the Assassin. I had him for years.”
“Stealth’s a good name – maybe Assassin is over-egging the pudding…who taught you falconry?”
“No one. I worked it out for myself from what I’d heard and seen. Trial and error. Have you ever watched a hawk to tame it?”
Tor shook her head.
“It’s an experience like no other. I stayed up with him for three days and nights till he was tired enough to accept me. Three nights without sleep and you go slightly mad. You forget everything except the bird. You talk to it, sing to it, make up poetry for it…I loved that hawk. Two of the worst days in my life were when Stealth got free. I was bereft, I didn’t rest until I’d got him back. All the weeks I’d put into him…I had to climb up a tree at nigh
t to catch him; I nearly killed myself getting down. There’s no hawk like your first hawk. These falcons here today, fine creatures, but they’ve been made by my falconers, I don’t have the same bond with them.”
“I’ve never had a hawk. I’d like one.”
“Keep the peregrine.”
“No, I mean one I’d trained myself.”
“I’ll tell the austringer to show you some chicks. You can pick one for your own.”
“I won’t be here long enough. I’m not staying.”
As if continuing the same topic, Skardroft said, “I’d make you my heir, you know…when I’m dead you could change things, make them more to your liking. I know you’d do things differently. I daresay we could both learn from each other. Join me, you can change the regime from the inside.”
Tor looked at him, not knowing where to begin, or how to tell him. At last she said, “You’ve got to let me go. You can’t keep me here like a hawk, watching me till I’m tame. How can I make a free choice when I’m your prisoner?”
“But you’d leave, and I want you to stay. You haven’t given it a proper chance. Perhaps that’s been my fault, keeping you indoors too much. All I ask is six months. Then you can choose.”
“Six months as a prisoner is not an attractive offer.”
“I’d remove the guards. I know I can trust your word.”
“It’s too long a time…” The war would be over by then. Either her friends in Barlanik’s army would be defeated, perhaps dead, or they’d be arriving victorious in Tarragon, asking her why she had switched sides. “I can’t while the war’s on.”
“It won’t go on forever.” Skardroft gave her a sharp glance. “And the rebels won’t win, if that’s what you’re thinking. Yes, they’ve made some gains, captured a few towns; but they’ve got about as far as they ever will, they’re stalled now, they won’t take Tarragon. It’s too well fortified, and we’ve got them hugely outnumbered. Tell me honestly, Torbrek, can you see it happening?”
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 9