Crowley was slapping his hand on his knee, keeping time, nodding his head and grinning.
"The boy's good!" he said to Halt, and Will continued, emboldened by the praise. He played the intricate pattern of sixteenth notes that made up the interlude, then sang the next verse.
"Old Joe Smoke be lost a bet. He lost his winter coat. When winter comes Old Joe stays warm by sleeping 'mongst the goats. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."
He was well into the song now and he played the interlude again, this time trying a more ambitious pattern than before. He fumbled it once on the third bar but covered the mistake artfully, he thought, and launched into the third verse.
"Graybeard Halt he lives with the goats, that's what I've heard tell. He hasn't changed his socks for years, but the goats don't mind the smell. Fare thee well, Graybeard Halt, fare thee well I…"
And stopped, suddenly, realizing what he had sung.
From sheer force of habit, distracted by his own astonishing skill on the mandola, he had reverted to the parody version. Crowley cocked his head to one side, frowning in mock interest.
"Fascinating lyrics," he said. "Not sure that I've heard that version before."
He covered his mouth with his hand and his shoulders began to shake.
"Very funny, Crowley," Halt said in an exasperated tone of voice as the Ranger Commandant made strange choking sounds behind his hand, his face lowered and his shoulders shaking even harder Will looked at Halt in horror.
"Halt… I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"
Crowley finally gave up the struggle and burst into peals of uncontrolled laughter. Will made a helpless gesture at Halt. The older Ranger shrugged resignedly, then glared at Crowley. He leaned sideways and dug the Ranger Commandant painfully in the ribs with his elbow.
"It's not that funny!" he snarled. Crowley held his bruised rib and pointed at Halt.
"It is! It is! You should have seen your face!" he gasped. Then, to Will, he said: "Go on! Are there more verses?"
Will hesitated. Halt was glaring at Crowley, and Will-even though he was a fully fledged Ranger, a wearer of the Silver Oakleaf and, technically, Halt's equal in rank-knew it would be unwise to continue. Very unwise.
"I think we've heard enough to judge," Halt said. He turned to the three small tents that they had pitched, now just at the edge of the fire's glow, and called in a louder voice, "What do you say, Berrigan?"
There was a rustle of movement behind the tents as a tall figure stood slowly and limped into the firelight. Even before he noticed the six-string gitarra that the man was holding in one hand, Will recognized the limping gait. He had seen Berrigan several times before, usually at the Rangers' annual Gathering, when he entertained the assembled Corps. A former wearer of the Oakleaf himself Berrigan had been forced to resign from active service when he lost his left leg in a pitched battle with raiding Skandians. Since then, he had earned his living as a jongleur, showing a high degree of skill as a musician and singer. Will also suspected that he had from time to time been used to gather intelligence for the Corps.
He realized now that the former Ranger had been listening in for the purpose of judging him. Berrigan smiled at Will as he eased himself down beside the fire, the peg leg he wore making the movement a little difficult as it stuck stiffly out before him.
"Evening, Will," he said. He nodded at the mandola, now laid across the younger man's lap. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
He had a lean face, with high cheekbones and a large, hawk-like nose. But the outstanding features were the bright blue eyes and the wide, friendly smile. He wore his brown hair long, as befitted his calling, and his clothes were those of a typical jongleur-marked in haphazard patterns of bright colors that seemed to shimmer as he moved. Each jongleur, Will knew, had his own distinctive set of colors and patterns. He noticed now that the pattern on Berrigan's cloak was markedly similar to that of the cloaks that all Rangers wore-although more brightly colored than the drab browns, grays and greens of the standard Ranger cloak.
"Berrigan. Good to see you," he said. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned to Crowley. "Crowley, wouldn't it make more sense if Berrigan took this mission? After all, he is a professional jongleur and we all know he still works for the Corps from time to time."
The other three exchanged glances. "Oh, we all know that, do we?" Crowley asked.
Will shrugged diffidently. "Well, we don't know it exactly. But he does, doesn't he?"
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Berrigan broke the tension around the campfire, saying with a lazy grin, "You're right, Will. I still do some work for the Corps when asked. But for this job, I'm a bit short. About a foot or so."
"But you're way taller than me…" Will began and then realized at Berrigan was looking meaningfully at the peg leg that stood straight out in front of him. He stopped in embarrassment. "On you mean your…" He couldn't say the word. It seemed so crass somehow. But Berrigan's smile widened even further.
"My peg leg, Will. It's perfectly all right. I'm used to the fact by now. No need to pretend it's not there. From what Crowley has told me about this job, it needs someone who's fast on his feet, and I'm afraid that isn't me anymore."
Crowley cleared his throat, glad the awkward moment had passed. "What Berrigan can do is tell us if you'll pass muster as a jongleur. What do you say, Berrigan?"
Berrigan cocked his head to one side, thought for a moment, then replied. "He's good enough. It's a pleasant voice and he plays well. Certainly well enough for the sort of remote places and country inns he'll be performing in. I don't know if he's ready for the court at Castle Araluen yet." He smiled at Will to take any sting out of the words. Will grinned in return. He was pleased with the assessment. Then Berrigan went on.
"But the giveaway is his unpreparedness. It always shows up a non-professional."
Crowley frowned. "How do you mean? You say he's good enough singing and playing. What other preparation does he need?"
Berrigan didn't answer directly but turned to Will.
"Let's hear another tune, Will. Any one you like. Quickly now," he said. Will picked up the mandola and…
And again his mind went blank.
"There you have it," Berrigan said. "The amateur always dries up when he's asked to perform." He turned back to Will. "Do you know Lowland Jenny? Spinner's Reel? Cobbington Mill or By the Southland Streams?"
He shot the song titles out in rapid succession and Will nodded glumly to each of them. Berrigan smiled and shrugged.
"Any one of them would have done then," he said. "The trick is not just to know them. It's to remember you know them. But we can work on that."
Will looked at Halt. His former teacher inclined his head to the jongleur.
"Berrigan will travel part of the way with you to coach you," he said. Will smiled at the tall jongleur. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the idea-and a little less as if he were being thrown into deep water and told to learn to swim.
"And you might as well start now," Crowley said, refilling his coffee mug and leaning back comfortably against a log. "Let's hear a tune from the two of you."
Berrigan glanced a question at Will.
"The Woods of Far Away," Will said without hesitation.
Berrigan nodded and smiled. "He learns quickly," he said to Halt, who acknowledged the statement with the barest dip of his head. Then, as the two of them began the introduction to the lovely old song of homecoming, Berrigan stopped and frowned at Will's mandola.
"Your A string is just a little flat," he told him.
"I knew that," Halt said in a superior tone to Crowley.
13
The following morning, Will underwent a transformation from Ranger to jongleur. His mottled brown, gray and green cloak was exchanged for one that was more fitting to his identity as an entertainer. He was glad that Halt and Crowley hadn't opted for anything too outlandish in the way
of colors, but had chosen a simple black and white motif for him. He swung the cloak, with its deep cowled hood, around his shoulders. There was something vaguely familiar about it, he thought. Then it came to him. The irregular black-and-white pattern woven into the material served the same purpose as the mottling on his Ranger cloak. It broke up the shape of the wearer, making the outline indistinct and disguising the hard edges that would help an observer see him. Halt noticed his interested scrutiny and nodded confirmation.
"Yes, it's a camouflage cloak," he said. "Perhaps not the same as a Ranger cloak, but where you're going, those colors will be more useful."
Realization dawned on Will. Norgate Fief in winter would be covered in thick snow, the colors leached out of the landscape. A closer inspection showed him that the black sections of the cloak weren't true black at all, but a dark shade of gray. It would take little effort for a person skilled in the art of unseen movement to blend with the winter countryside. Indoors, of course, the cloak would appear to be nothing more nor less than the sort of random theatrical patterning and dramatic colors that would be expected of a jongleur.
"Very clever," he said, grinning at Halt and Crowley. The two older Rangers nodded agreement. Next, Crowley handed him a sleeveless jerkin made from glove-thin gray leather.
"You can't wear your double scabbard," he said, nodding to the distinctive arrangement that held Will's two knives. "It's too much of a giveaway, seeing how only Rangers use them."
"Oh," said Will uncertainly. He wasn't comfortable at the thought of not having his big saxe knife and the smaller throwing knife close to hand. Crowley quickly reassured him.
"You can keep the saxe," he said. "Plenty of folk carry knives like that. And this jerkin has a scabbard sewn into it for your throwing knife."
He indicated a concealed leather sheath inside the jerkin, below the collar. Will drew his throwing knife and slid it experimentally into the sheath. It tit perfectly. Yet Halt's next words brought his spirits down once more.
"But I'm afraid the longbow will have to stay behind. A jongleur simply wouldn't carry one," he said. He took the massive bow from Will and placed it to one side. In its place, he handed him a small, low-powered hunting bow and a quiver of arrows. Will studied the unimpressive weapon critically, flexing it easily. He doubted that the draw weight could be more than twenty or thirty pounds.
"I might as well not have this," he said. "It would hardly shoot arrow out of my shadow at midday. Besides," he added, looking more closely at the arrows, "these arrows are far too heavy for the bow." He was definitely uncomfortable with this turn of events The bow had been his principal weapon since he was apprenticed to Halt so many years ago. He would feel naked and vulnerable without one.
Halt and Crowley exchanged a small smile. "The bow's not for shooting," Crowley said. "It's simply an excuse to carry the arrows. Come this way," he said, beckoning Will to follow.
In the clearing where the horses grazed, he indicated a packsaddle to Will.
"Your new packsaddle," he said, an expectant tone in his voice. Will frowned.
"There's nothing wrong with my old one," he said, unsure where this was heading. He studied the packsaddle. It seemed perfectly normal, apart from an unusual pommel arrangement. Where Will's packsaddle had two protruding wooden crosspieces in a V shape that could be used as a purchase point to tie items onto the saddle, this one had two curved pieces of flat metal serving the same purpose. They curved inward, then flared away from each other. It was rather ornate, he thought, but no more practical than the simple wooden V.
"We're very proud of this," Crowley said. He reached down and took hold of one of the flat pieces, then pulled it clear of the saddle. Will now saw that it had been held in place in a tight-fitting sheath that was part of the saddle. The metal piece, now that he could see it, was a little more than half a meter long and formed in a shallow S, with the lower curve twice the length of the upper. At the lower end, a slot was cut into the metal. Like the cloak, there was something familiar about it. Crowley grinned at him, then reached for the carrying handle at the rear of the saddle. He twisted it backward and it came clear of the saddle as well. It appeared to be plain, leather-wrapped wood, but there were two milled knobs, one at either end.
As Will watched, fascinated, Crowley slipped the slotted end of the metal arm into a narrow slit in the handpiece. Then he rapidly tightened one of the milled knobs, which Will now saw was the head of a large, threaded bolt, to hold the arm tightly in place.
"My God," said Will quietly, as he understood. He realized now why the flat metal piece had seemed familiar. When he first joined Halt, he had been too small to handle a full-sized longbow, so the older Ranger had given him a recurve bow, where each limb was formed in that shallow S shape. The double curve gave the bow increased power and arrow speed for a lower draw weight. As Crowley quickly bolted the second metal limb in place, Will realized that he was looking at such a recurve bow-one that could be disassembled into its three component parts.
"The armorers made it for us," Halt said quietly. "We've had them working on this for some time now. The steel limbs are amazing. You'll have a draw weight of almost sixty pounds-not as much as a longbow, but quite respectable nevertheless."
Crowley handed the weapon to Will, who turned it over in his hands, feeling the heft and the balance of it. The steelmakers who crafted the Ranger Corps' saxe knives were legendary craftsmen-many a sword had been blunted and notched on a Ranger saxe blade, without leaving a mark in return. Now, obviously, that metalworking skill had been turned to create this spring steel bow. Crowley passed Will a thick, woven cord and gestured for him to string the bow.
He slipped the string over the lower end, seating it in its notch, then stepped his right foot inside the bow and string, bracing the recurve against the ankle of his other foot as he bent the bow and seated the string in the notch. He grunted in surprise at the effort it took. He flexed the bow to test it and nodded contentedly at Halt
"That's a little more like it," he said. Halt handed him one of the arrows from the quiver.
"Try it," he said, indicating a patch of light bark on a tree some forty meters away. Will nocked the arrow to the string, flexed it once or twice experimentally, then, with his eyes glued to the target, he raised the bow, drew and fired in one smooth movement.
The arrow slammed into the tree trunk, almost ten centimeters above the point he had aimed at. For an archer of his standard, it was a disappointing shot. But Halt made a dismissive gesture.
"Don't be too surprised. It'll shoot flatter than your longbow initially, but then it will begin to lose power and drop more quickly after forty or fifty meters. That's why you shot a little high."
Will nodded thoughtfully. The arrow had struck the tree with quite a respectable force.
"Good for about a hundred meters?" he asked, and his former teacher nodded.
"Maybe a little more. It's not your longbow, but you won't be completely without weapons. And you have your strikers, of course."
Will nodded. Strikers were another piece of Ranger equipment. Carefully weighted brass cylinders, they fitted into the palm of a clenched fist, leaving a rounded knob protruding at either end. A blow to the jaw or base of the skull with a striker was almost certain to incapacitate the strongest opponent. In addition, strikers were balanced for throwing. In the hands of an expert knife thrower and that meant any Ranger-a striker could stun a man up to six meters away.
"Very well," Crowley said, rubbing his hands together in a businesslike fashion. "That's all we have for you. One other thing: once you're in place at Castle Macindaw, we'll send in a contact agent for you, in case you have to get any messages back."
Will looked up at that piece of news. "Who will that be?" he asked, and the Ranger Commandant shrugged.
"Not decided yet. But we'll make sure it's someone you'll recognize."
Halt dropped a hand on his former apprentice's shoulder. "If you need help while you're there, you can al
ways call on Meralon, of course. But only in an emergency. It wouldn't do to have the two of you seen together. It's vital that you keep your real identity a secret. In fact, he'll be instructed to give you a wide berth. If he's seen to be in the district, people may well clam up completely."
It was going to be a lonely assignment, Will thought.
14
The drinkers in the taproom of the Cracked Flagon looked up as the door opened and an icy draft swirled into the smoky room, bringing with it a flurry of snow.
"Close the door," snarled a heavily built wagoner by the bar, not even bothering to turn and see who had entered. Other drinkers did, however, and there was a stir of mild interest as they saw that the newcomer was a stranger. Such travelers were few once winter put its icy grip on Norgate Fief. The fields and roads were covered with deep snow as often as not and the temperature, driven down by the chill of the constant wind, often dropped below freezing.
The door shut, cutting off the icy blast from outside, and the candles and fire settled down from the mad dance the wind had set them to. The newcomer threw back the deep cowl of his black-and-white patterned cloak and shook a thick powder of snow from his shoulders. He was a young man with a light growth of stubble on his face. He was a little less than average height and slight of build-A black-and-white border shepherd had slipped softly into the room with him, eyes fixed on his face, waiting for a command. He gestured to an empty table near the front of the room and the dog padded silently to it, sliding her forepaws out in front of her till she lay stretched out on her belly by the table. Her eyes continued to roam the taproom, however, belying her relaxed appearance. The young stranger loosened his cloak and spread it over the back of the chair, to dry in the fire's heat.
There was a further murmur of interest as those present saw that the young man had been carrying under his cloak. He placed a hard leather instrument case on the table. If travelers were rare in winter this far north, so was entertainment, and those present saw the prospect of a more interesting night than they had anticipated. Even the previously surly wagoner's face split with a smile.
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