"Musician, are you?" he asked expectantly, and Will nodded, smiling in return.
"An honest jongleur, my friend, making his way through the bitter cold of your beautiful countryside." It was the kind of easy, joking reply that Berrigan had coached him in over the two weeks they had traveled together, stopping along the way at more than a dozen inns and taverns like this one. Some of the other drinkers moved a little closer.
"So let's have a tune then," the wagoner suggested. There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the room.
Will considered the request, then cocked his head to one side for a moment. Then he raised his hands to his lips and blew on them. Smiling, he replied, "It's a bitter night out there, my friend. My hands are close to frozen."
"You could warm them round this," another voice told him. He glanced up and saw that the tavern keeper had moved from behind the bar to place a steaming tankard of hot, spiced cider on the table in front of him. Will wrapped his hands around the warm container and nodded appreciatively as he sniffed the aromatic steam rising from the tankard.
"Yes. This would certainly seem to do the trick," he replied. The tavern keeper winked at him.
"On the house, of course," he said. Will nodded. It was no more than his due. The presence of a jongleur would ensure that the inn did excellent business that night. The drinkers would stay longer and drink more. Will took a deep sip of the cider, smacked his lips appreciatively, then began to unbuckle the straps fastening the mandola case. The wood on the instrument was cold to his touch as he drew it from its shaped resting place and he spent a few minutes retuning. The sudden change from the icy cold outside to the warmth of the tavern had thrown the strings hopelessly out of tune.
Satisfied, he strummed a chord, made another minor adjustment and looked around the room, meeting the expectant gazes of its occupants with a grin.
"Perhaps a few songs before my supper," he said to no one in particular, then added, "I assume there is supper?"
"Yes indeed, my friend," the tavern keeper replied quickly. "A fine lamb casserole that my wife made, with fresh bread and boiled peppered potatoes."
Will nodded. An agreement had been reached. "So it's a few songs, then my supper-then more songs. How does that sound," he asked. There was a chorus of approval from the room. Before it had died away, he launched into the jaunty introduction to Sunshine Lady.
"Sunshine lady, color of sunshine in your hair. Happiness is the gown you wear. I would follow you anywhere, my sunshine lady."
He looked up, nodding encouragement to the small crowd in the taproom as they joined in on the chorus of the popular country love song, tapping their wine mugs on the tables and singing in rough voices:
"Spread a little light around, sunshine lady. Isn't it true? I love you, la da da daa. Spread a little love around, sunshine lady. You are the one who lights up the sun."
Then, as he reached the second verse, they fell silent, leaving the singing to him until the chorus again, when their voices joined with his once more. It was a jaunty, bouncing little song-an ideal beginner, as Berrigan described it.
"It won't be the best song in your repertoire," he had said, "but it's bright and lively and well-known, and it's a good one to break the ice with an audience. Remember, you never throw your best song away first. Leave yourself somewhere to go."
Now, as Will reached the final chorus and the room joined with him yet again, he felt a warm flush of pleasure. It grew inside him as he sounded the final chord and the inn patrons broke into a clamor of applause. He had to remind himself, and not for the first time that this was a role he was playing-that he wasn't really a jongleur and his purpose in life was not really the applause that rang out so freely. Although sometimes, at moments like this, it was difficult to remember.
He did another four songs for them. Harvest Sunday, Jessie on the Mountain, Remember the Time and The Runaway Mare, a hard-driving song with a galloping rhythm that had fists pounding and feet tapping throughout the room. As he finished the last, he glanced down at the dog, lying with her eyes glued to him, and mouthed the word "Dragon" at her.
Instantly, the dog came to her haunches, threw back her head and barked long and loud-just as he'd taught her to do in the weeks they had been on the road. Dragon was their alarm word, the signal for her to bark until he told her to stop. He did so now.
"What's that, Harley?" he asked her. Harley was another codeword. It told her that she had done well and now she could stop her barking. Instantly, she fell silent, her tail thumping the boards of the floor twice in recognition that she had played the game properly Will looked up at the expectant crowd and spread his hands in apology, grinning at them.
"Sorry, my friends. My manager here says it's time for me to eat. We've had a long day in the cold and she gets a tenth of my earnings-and my dinner."
A gust of laughter rang around the room. They were country folk and they knew a well-trained dog when they saw one. They also appreciated Will's gentle way of reminding the tavern keeper that he was owed a dinner.
It wasn't long in coming. One of the serving girls hurried a steaming plate of the lamb casserole to his table. Without his mentioning it further, she also set down a bowl of meat scraps, bones and gravy on the floor. Will smiled his thanks to her and nodded to the man behind the bar. The tavern keeper, busy refilling tankards for people whose throats were dry from singing, smiled widely at him.
"Does your horse need tending, young man?" he called, and Will replied, through a mouthful of stew.
"I took the liberty of putting my horses in your barn, tavern keeper. It's too bitter a night for them to be left outside." The tavern keeper nodded his agreement and Will dug in once more. The lamb casserole was delicious.
The wagoner who had seemed so ill-tempered when he first arrived now made his way to the table where Will sat eating. Will noted with interest that he didn't presume to sit down and intrude on his personal space. He'd already learned that in taverns like this, people afforded jongleurs a certain respect. The big wagoner dropped a silver coin in front of Will.
"Good music, lad," he said. "That's for you there."
Will, his mouth full again, nodded his thanks. Several of the other customers now moved closer, each one dropping a few coins into the open mandola case on the table. He noticed that there were quite a few silver coins among the coppers and felt a flush of satisfaction once more.
"You've a deft hand on that lute of yours, young feller," one of them said.
"It's a mandola," Will replied automatically. "It has eight strings, while a lute…" He stopped himself. "Thank you," he said, and they smiled at him.
When he had finished eating, he surreptitiously signaled the dog again, setting her barking.
"Harley? What's that you say?" he said, and the dog instantly fell silent once more. "It's time for me to entertain these folk?" He glanced up at the smiling faces around him, shrugged and grinned at them. "She's a hard taskmaster," he declared, reaching for the mandola.
He played for another hour. Love songs, lively songs. Silly songs. And one in particular that had always been his favorite, The Green Eyes of Love. It was a haunting, sad ballad and he sang it well, although to his annoyance, he stumbled slightly on the instrumental line in the middle eight bars. As he finished it, he noticed one or two people wiping their eyes and again felt the pleasure known only to performers when they reach into the hearts of their audience. As he had played, the coins had continued to find their way into the mandola case. With some surprise, he realized that he would not need to delve into the traveling money that Crowley had advanced him. He was more than paying his own way.
The tavern keeper, who had left the bar to one of his serving girls and come to sit close by Will, glanced at the water clock that dripped slowly on a mantle.
"Perhaps one more," he said, and Will nodded easily. Inside, he felt a tightening of his chest. This was the moment he had built to over the night-a chance to get the locals talking about the strange even
ts in Norgate Fief. It was one of the advantages of taking the guise of a jongleur. As Berrigan had told him: "Country people are suspicious of strangers. But sing to them for an hour or so and they'll think they've known you all their lives."
Now he strummed a minor chord sequence and began singing a well-known nonsense song:
"By a muddy ditch a drunken witch in a voice that was coarser and coarserer sang like a crow so that people would know of her love for the cross-eyed sorcerer."
He sensed the change in the room the moment he began singing. People exchanged fearful glances. Eyes were cast down and several actually moved away from him. He began the chorus:
"Oh, the cross-eyed sorcerer was called Wollygelly, he had breath like a goat and a big fat belly and a nose that…"
He let the song tail away, as if noticing the discomfort among his listeners for the first time.
"I'm sorry," he said, smiling at the room. "Is something wrong?"
Again, glances were exchanged and the people who just a few moments ago were laughing and applauding him were now unwilling to meet his gaze. The big wagoner, obviously troubled, said in an apologetic tone, "It's not the place or time to be making fun of sorcerers, lad."
"You weren't to know, of course," the tavern keeper put in, and there was a chorus of assent. Will allowed the smile to widen, keeping his expression as artless as possible.
"I wasn't to know what?" he said. There was a pause, then the wagoner took the plunge.
"There's strange things happening in this fief these days, is all."
"And these nights," added a woman, and again a chorus of agreement sounded. Behind his innocent, inquiring expression, Will marveled at Berrigan's insight.
"You mean… something to do with sorcerers?" he asked in a hushed voice. The room went silent for a moment, people looking fearfully over their shoulders and toward the door, as if expecting to see a sorcerer burst in at any moment. Then the tavern keeper answered.
"It's not for us to say what it is. But there are strange goings-on Strange sights."
"Particularly in Grimsdell Wood," said a tall farmer and, once more, others agreed. "Strange sights, and sounds-unearthly sounds they are. They'd chill your blood. I've heard them once and that's enough for me."
It seemed that once their initial reluctance was overcome, people wanted to discuss the subject, as if it held a fascination for them that they wanted to share.
"What sort of things do you see?" Will asked.
"Lights, mainly-little balls of colored light that move through the trees. And dark shapes. Shapes that move just outside your vision's range."
A log fell in the fire and Will felt the hairs on his neck prickle. This talk of sounds and shapes was beginning to affect him, he thought. Two hundred kilometers to the south, he could joke about it with Halt and Crowley. But here, on a dark night in the cold, snow-driven land of the north, with these people, it seemed very real and very believable.
"And the Night Warrior," said the wagoner. This time, silence fell over the room. Several people made the sign to ward off evil-The wagoner regarded them all, his face flushed.
"Oh, believe me, I've seen him all right. Only for a second, mind-But he was there."
"What exactly is he?" Will asked.
"Exactly? Nobody knows. But I've seen him. He's huge. A warrior in armor, as tall as two houses. And you can see through him. He's there and then he's gone before you're sure you've actually seen him. But I know. I saw him, all right." His gaze swept the room again, challenging the others to tell him he was wrong.
"That's enough of that talk now, Barney," said the tavern keeper. "People have a way to go to reach their homes this night and it's best not to talk about such matters."
From the mumble of agreement, Will sensed that there would be no further discussion this night. He struck a chord on the mandola.
"Well, I agree, this is no time to sing about sorcerers. Perhaps we should finish with one about a drunken king and a staggering dragon?"
Right on cue, the dog barked again and the dark mood in the room receded instantly.
"What's that, Harley? You agree? Well then, we'd better get to it." And he launched into it straightaway:
"Oh, the drunken king of Angledart could blow out candles with a fart. But the world never knew of the courage in his heart till he slayed the Staggering Dragon… Oh, the Staggering Dragon had four knock-knees and he staggered around and knocked down trees and he burned his behind every time he sneezed with the flames of his dragon breath!"
Laughter swelled up in the room and the black mood was dispelled as Will laid out the tale of the knock-kneed staggering dragon and the king with serious digestive problems. He was accompanied by the dog's enthusiastic barking every time he sang the word "dragon," and that added to the laughter.
It would never do at Castle Araluen, he thought, but it certainly did the trick here in the Cracked Flagon.
15
The wind died away sometime before dawn as if, having done its appointed job of clearing the clouds from the sky, it knew it was time to move on. The following day dawned cold and bright, and when Will stirred from the small room the innkeeper had assigned to him, the morning sun glared brightly off the surrounding snowscape and streamed through the windows of the taproom.
Will greeted the tavern keeper over a mug of coffee. The kitchen maid had served him breakfast of toasted bread and slices of cold ham but, as ever, it was the coffee he craved. Apparently the tavern keeper was a kindred spirit. He poured himself a mug and sat opposite Will, taking a sip and sighing appreciatively.
"A good night last night," he said, an unspoken question behind the words. Will nodded.
"Cullum Gelderris is the name, by the way. We never got round to introductions last night."
Will shook the hand. "Will Barton," he said. The tavern keeper nodded several times, as if the name meant something to him.
"Yes, a good night it was," he repeated. Will sipped his coffee, saying nothing. Finally, Gelderris broached the subject that was on his mind.
"Be an even better one tonight. End of the week we usually get a good crowd. Be even bigger than usual if word gets round there's a jongleur in the village." He looked at Will across the top of his coffee cup. "Planning to stay another night, were you?"
Will was expecting this question. Even though he was eager to get on and reach Castle Macindaw, he knew that he had better stay another night at least. The pickings were good in the village, as he'd seen last night. If Gelderris was correct, and there was no reason to assume he wasn't, they'd be better tonight. It might seem suspicious if he passed up the chance to make good money, he realized. Still, a certain amount of bargaining was expected.
"I hadn't really decided," he said. "I suppose I could move on."
"Where to?" Gelderris asked quickly. Will shrugged as if the matter was of no great importance.
"Eventually, to Castle Macindaw. I've heard Lord Syron gives a warm welcome to entertainers. I suppose there's precious little to keep people occupied once the snows come," he added. But Gelderris was shaking his head.
"You'll get no welcome from Syron," he said. "He hasn't spoken a word these past two months or more."
Will frowned slightly, as if not understanding. "Why not? Has he suddenly got religion and taken a vow of silence?" He grinned to make sure Gelderris knew he was joking. But there was no answering smile from the tavern keeper.
"There's little of religion about it," he said darkly. "Just the opposite, in fact."
"Not the Black Art?" Will asked casually, using the county people's term for sorcery. This time, Gelderris glanced quickly around before answering.
"So they say," he said, his voice lowered. "Struck down, he was. Healthy as you or me one minute. The next, he's lying close to death, barely breathing, eyes wide open but seeing nothing, hearing nothing and saying nothing."
"The healers, what do they say?" Will asked. Gelderris snorted in scorn.
"What do they ever
know? They can't explain his condition. Nor can they do anything to ease it. Occasionally, he rouses himself enough to take a little food, but he's barely conscious even then. And then he's gone again, back into his trance."
Will set his empty coffee mug down, thought about another cup, then reluctantly dismissed the idea. Since he'd been living by himself, he had become a coffee hound and it was time to moderate his behavior.
"Is this anything to do with that business last night?" he asked. "That mysterious warrior person and such?"
Again, Gelderris hesitated before answering. But it seemed easier to discuss these matters in the bright light of morning. "If you ask me, yes," he said. "People say that Malkallam has returned to Grimsdell Wood."
"Malkallam?" Will repeated.
"A Black Artist. A sorcerer. One of the worst kind, apparently. He had a feud with Syron's ancestor, going back a hundred years…"
"A hundred years?" Will repeated, edging his voice with disbelief. "How long does a sorcerer live, anyway?"
Gelderris raised an admonishing finger. "Don't be too quick to disbelieve," he said. "Nobody knows how long sorcerers can live. I'd say it's pretty much up to the sorcerer himself. But these goings-on in Grimsdell don't have any other explanation. Nor does Lord Syron's strange sickness. Stories go that it was exactly the same sickness struck down his ancestor when he fought with Malkallam."
"So if this Malkallam is in Grimsdell Wood, why doesn't someone from Macindaw take a few soldiers in and give him a seeing to?" Will asked. "Somebody must have taken charge if Syron's incapable?"
"You don't just march into Grimsdell Wood, Will Barton. It's a tangle of trees and undergrowth in there, with paths that twist and turn on themselves and branches above you so thick you only see the sun at noon. There's the mere as well. Step in that and you'll sink to the bottom and never be seen again."
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