Finally, Halt shifted his seat on the hard ground and said in an exasperated tone, "Oh, all right, Crowley! Let's get on with it, for God's sake!"
The Corps Commandant smiled delightedly at his friend. "I thought we were testing Will's patience here, not yours," he said. Halt made an annoyed gesture.
"Well, consider his patience tested."
Crowley's smile slowly faded as he gathered his thoughts. Will leaned forward, to hear his new assignment. He'd spent the past few days doing his best to suppress his curiosity and now that the moment was here, he felt he couldn't wait another second. He'd been racking his brain wondering what the assignment might involve and had come up with several possibilities, most of them based on his experiences in Skandia. Crowley's first words, however, instantly dispelled all of them.
"We appear to have a problem with sorcery in the north," he said.
Will sat back in surprise. "Sorcery?" he asked, his voice pitched a. little higher than he had meant it to be. Crowley nodded.
"Apparently," he said, laying stress on the word. Will looked from him to Halt. His former teacher's face gave nothing away.
"Do we believe in sorcery?" he asked Halt. The older man gave a small shrug.
"Ninety-five percent of cases that I've seen have been nothing but mumbo jumbo and trickery," he said. "Nothing that couldn't be solved by a well-placed arrow. Then there's perhaps another three percent that involve mind domination and manipulation of a weaker mind by a stronger-the sort of control that Morgarath exercised over his Wargals."
Will nodded slowly. Morgarath, a former baron who had rebelled against the King, had led an army of bestial warriors who were totally bound to his will.
"A further one percent comprises the sort of mass hallucinations that some people are capable of creating," Crowley put in. "It's a similar case of mind control, but one that causes people to 'see' or 'hear' things that aren't really there."
There was a moment's pause. Again, Will looked from one to the other. Finally, he said, "That leaves one percent." The two older men nodded.
"I see your capacity for addition has improved," Halt replied, but then went on before Will could comment. "Yes, as you say. It leaves one percent of cases."
"And you're saying they're examples of sorcery?" Will asked, but Halt shook his head doggedly.
"I'm saying we can't find a logical explanation for them," he said Will shifted in his seat impatiently, looking to pin his former teacher down one way or another.
"Halt," he said, holding the bearded Ranger's gaze steadily with his own, "do you believe in sorcery?"
Halt hesitated before replying. He was a man who had dealt in facts all his life. His life's work was dedicated to gathering facts and information. Uncertainty was anathema to him. Yet, in this case…
"I don't believe in it," he said, choosing his words carefully, "but I don't disbelieve in it either. In those cases where there seems to be no cause or logical explanation, I am prepared to keep an open mind on the subject."
"And I think that's probably the best position we can take," Crowley interrupted. "I mean, there is obviously an evil force that influences our world. We've all seen too many examples of criminal behavior to doubt it. Who's to say that there isn't the occasional person with the ability to summon that force or channel it to his own use?"
"However," Halt said, "remember that we're talking about one case in a hundred-and even then, we're saying it may or may not be the real thing. If the real thing even exists."
Will shook his head slowly, then took a deep sip of his coffee. "I'm getting confused here," he said at length. Halt nodded.
"Just keep one thing in mind. There's a better than ninety percent chance that the case we're dealing with here isn't sorcery-it just appears to be. Hold on to that thought, and keep an open mind for the rest. All right?"
Will nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Fine," he said. "So what are the details of this case? What do you want me to do?"
Crowley gestured for Halt to go ahead with the briefing. The bond between master and pupil was still strong, he knew, and would facilitate a concise briefing with less chance of misunderstanding or confusion. These two knew each other's minds.
"Very well," Halt began, "in the first place, we're talking about Norgate Fief-"
"Norgate?" Will interrupted, surprise evident in his voice. "Don't we have a Ranger assigned to that fief?"
"Yes, we do," Halt agreed. "But he's known in the area. He's recognized. People are scared and confused and the last person they'll talk to at this stage is a Ranger. Half of them think we're sorcerers ourselves," he added grimly. Will nodded. He knew that to be true.
"But won't they distrust me if I turn up there?" he asked. "After all, they may not know me, but I am a Ranger."
"You're not going as a Ranger," Halt told him.
That piece of information succeeded in stopping the barrage of questions Will was about to unleash. To tell the truth, he was a little taken aback by the news.
People were nervous of Rangers, it was true. But there was undeniable prestige that attached to members of the Corps as well Doors opened for Rangers. Their opinions were sought and respected by the knights and barons of the realm-even, on occasion, by the King himself. Their skill with their chosen weapons was legendary. He wasn't sure if he wanted to put all that aside. He wasn't sure that without the aura of being a Ranger to bolster his confidence, he could actually handle a difficult and dangerous mission-and already, this mission sounded as if it were going to be both of those.
"We're getting ahead of ourselves," Crowley said. "Let's get the big picture out of the way before we start going into details."
"Good idea," Halt said. He gave Will a meaningful look and the younger man nodded. He knew that now was the time to listen without interruption.
"All right. Norgate Fief is rather unique in the kingdom, insofar as, in addition to Castle Norgate, the center of the fief, there is an additional castle in a shire right at the north."
As Halt was speaking, Crowley unfolded a map of the area on the ground between them and Will came onto one knee to study it. He touched the map, where a castle was indicated, virtually on the kingdom's northern border.
"Castle Macindaw," he muttered, and Halt nodded.
"It's more a fortress than a castle," he said. "It's a little low on luxuries and high on strategic position. As you can see…" He took one of his black arrows from the quiver beside him and used it to point to the rugged mountains that divided Araluen from its northern neighbor, Picta. "It's placed so that it dominates and controls the Macindaw pass through the mountains."
He paused, watching the younger man as he took in the situation, his eyes intent on the map. Finally, Will nodded and Halt continued.
"Without Castle Macindaw, we'd have constant forays from the Scotti-the wild tribe who control the southern provinces of Picta. They're raiders, thieves and fighters. In fact, without Macindaw, we'd be hard-pressed to keep them out of Norgate Fief entirely. It's a long way north and it's not easy traveling for an army in winter-particularly when the bulk of our troops are from the southern fiefs and not used to the extremes of weather that you find up there."
Nodding to himself, Will sat back from the chart. The picture was imprinted on his memory now. He shifted his gaze back to Halt as the older man continued.
"So you can understand why we get a tad anxious when anything seems to upset the natural balance of things in Norgate Fief," he said.
Will nodded.
"When Lord Syron, the commander at Macindaw, was struck down by a mysterious illness, we were understandably concerned. That concern grew when we started to hear wild rumors of sorcery. Apparently, one of Syron's ancestors, some hundred years back, had a falling-out with a local sorcerer." Halt sensed the question on Will's lips and held up a hand to stop it from being asked.
"We don't know. Could have been mind control. Could have been a charlatan. Or maybe he was the real thing. It all happened over a h
undred years ago, as I say, so there's very little hard evidence and a lot of anecdotal hysteria involved. As far as all the accounts of the matter go, he was a genuine dyed-in-the-wool sorcerer who had been feuding with Syron's family over a period of hundreds of years The most recent appearance was the end of a long line of clashes Bear in mind, we're dealing with myth and legend here, so don't expect too much sense."
"What happened to the sorcerer?" Will asked, and Halt shrugged.
"Nobody knows. Seems he struck Syron's ancestor down with all manner of mysterious ailments. Naturally, the healers couldn't identify or treat any of them. They never can when they think sorcery's involved," he said with a disparaging note to his voice. "But then a young knight from the household took it upon himself to rid the province of the sorcerer. In accordance with all the conventions of such myths, he was pure of heart and his nobility of character let him overcome the sorcerer and drive him out."
"He didn't kill him?" Will put in, and Halt shook his head.
"No. Unfortunately, they never do. It leaves legends like this room to rise up again over the years, as this has done. The current situation is that Syron, some six weeks ago, was out riding when he was suddenly struck down from his horse. When his men reached him, he was blue in the face, frothing at the mouth and screaming in agony.
"His men got him home and the healers were completely baffled by the condition. All they could do was sedate him to relieve the pain. He hasn't improved since and he's hovering on the brink of death. If they wake him to feed him or give him water, the pain hits him again and he begins screaming and frothing all over. Yet if they leave him sedated, he grows weaker and weaker as time passes."
"Let me guess," Will said, as Halt paused. "These symptoms were identical to the ones his ancestor suffered in the legend?"
Halt pointed a finger at the younger man. "Got it in one," he said "Which of course gave rise to the rumors that Malkallam was back."
"Malkallam?" Will asked.
"The original sorcerer," Crowley put in. "Nobody knows where the rumors started, but there have been other… manifestations as well. Lights in the forest that disappear when anyone approaches, strange figures seen on the road at night, voices heard in the castle and so on. The sort of things calculated to scare the living daylights out of country people. The local Ranger, Meralon, has been trying to get hold of more information, but people have clammed up. He did hear some rumor about a sorcerer living deep in the forest, and the name Malkallam was used. But exactly where he was living he couldn't find out."
"Who's commanding the castle while Syron is out of action?" Will asked. Halt nodded, appreciating Will's ability to get to the heart of the problem.
"Syron's son, Orman, is nominally in charge, but he's not really a soldier. According to Meralon's report, he's something of a scholar-and more interested in studying history than guarding the kingdom's borders. Fortunately, Syron's nephew Keren is also there and he's taken practical command of the garrison. He's more down to earth. He was raised as a warrior and apparently he's a popular leader."
"He can handle things for the time being," Crowley said, "but if Syron should die, then we have the problem of succession, and Orman, a weak, incapable leader, will inherit the position. That could destabilize the whole situation and leave us vulnerable to an attack from the north. That's something we have to avoid at all costs. Macindaw is too important strategically for us to take any risks."
Will tugged thoughtfully at his chin for a few seconds.
"I see," he said finally. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Go up there," Crowley replied. "Get to know the locals. Find out as much as you can. See what you can gather about this Malkallam character. See whether he really exists or whether people are just imagining things. Gain their confidence. Get them talking."
Will frowned. Crowley made it all sound so easy, he thought. "That's easier said than done," he muttered, but Halt replied with just the ghost of a smile.
"It'll be easier for you than for most," he said. "People like to talk to you. You're young. You have a fresh-faced innocent look that disarms them. That's why we chose you. They'll never suspect you're a Ranger."
"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.
"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.
12
"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"
Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.
"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.
Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm not a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."
Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't you forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."
"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.
"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones…"
He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.
"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.
"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."
"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.
"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.
"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.
"A tinker?" Crowley asked.
"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and-"
"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."
"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"
"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"
"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"
"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."
"It's not a…" Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.
"Never mind," he muttered.
He took the instrument from its case and removed the tortoise-shell pick from between the two top strings. He strummed experimentally. As he had expected, the combination of bouncing around on a packsaddle and the effect of the cool night air had affected the tuning. He adjusted the strings, tried another chord and nodded, satisfied. Then he sounded the chord again, decided that the top string was a little sharp and loosened it a fraction. Bette
r, he thought.
"Away you go." Crowley made an encouraging gesture. Will sounded an A chord, then hesitated. He went blank. He couldn't think of a single tune to play. He tried a D chord and then an E minor and a B flat, hoping that the sounds might give him some aspiration.
"Are there words to this tune?" Halt asked, far too politely. Will turned to him.
"I can't think of a song," he said. "My mind's gone blank."
"Could be embarrassing if that happened in a rough tavern" Halt said. Will tried desperately to remember a song. Any song.
"How about Old Joe Smoke?" Crowley suggested cheerfully, and Halt whipped around to glare suspiciously at him.
"Old Joe Smoke?" Will asked. It was, of course, the song that he had turned into a parody about Halt, and he wondered if Crowley knew that. The Ranger's face was innocent of guile, however. He nodded, smiling encouragement, ignoring the glare from his old friend.
"Always been a favorite," Crowley said. "I used to dance a fine jig to Old Joe Smoke when I was a youngster." He made the same go-ahead gesture. Will, unable to think of an alternative, began the introduction on the mandola, his speed and fluency gradually increasing as he became more confident. All he had to do, he told himself, was remember to sing the original words, not the parody version. Throwing caution to the wind, he began to sing:
"Old Joe Smoke's a friend of mine. He lives on Bleaker's Hill. Old Joe Smoke never took a bath and they say he never will. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."
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