Pocket brushed his hand away. “No. I am looking for the billier’s shop in Cauldron Town and I got confused. I have a message to deliver there and--”
He stopped himself. He was on an errand for Sir Corc and thusly, the Order of the Valiant Spur and should not be sharing that with anyone, much less a corpulent goblin who was obviously moon-brained. He tried to think of some way to excuse himself, but found he was standing by himself. Muckle had already moved off down the riverwalk, his long, ludicrously pointed shoes flapping on the stones.
“Well I’m off,” he called over his shoulder. “Have to see the bell-founder in Cauldron Town! Having myself cast in an enormous brass bell, you see! Thing of beauty! The crown will be fashioned after my own head and the clapper will be my…Anyway, pleasant meeting!”
This goblin may have been some kind of fool, but Pocket did not consider himself one. He saw his chance. “Wait!”
He caught up to Muckle and fell in beside him. The goblin said nothing, but began to whistle jauntily and with some skill, leading them away from the riverwalk and towards a flight of steep stone stairs. He was quite nimble despite his weight, but Pocket had to fight back the giggles as the goblin let out a short, sharp fart with every step upwards. Muckle stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, causing Pocket to bump into him.
“Pardons.”
“Why?” Muckle replied and then leaned down to whisper. “Did you fart?”
Pocket allowed himself to laugh then and continued to do so for most of their trek through the city. Muckle knew every street and turn and made a point of greeting everyone they passed by name, which drew a great many confused expressions and more than one angry glare. There was a tense moment that Pocket thought might come to blows after Muckle hailed a passing Middangeard raider as Lord Sweetmeat, but following a brief exchange and several bawdy jests the man parted smiling, clapping the goblin heartily on the back. Pocket learned several shameful poems and more than a few ribald songs during their walk and ate a good many treats from street vendors that Muckle managed to acquire. Pocket never actually saw him at any thievery, nor did he ever see him pay, it was simply that the normally suspicious shopkeepers were filled with a good-natured generosity when the fat goblin spoke with them and soon pies, tarts, fruits and other morsels were offered up as earnest gifts.
Muckle was downing the last swallows from a yard of ale when they entered Cauldron Town and pronounced their arrival with a grand sweep of the club that Pocket had learned the goblin referred to as his “pompous knob.” His words were lost, however, in the deafening sound of countless hammers falling upon stubborn metal. The lively din of the streets was nothing compared to the furious scream of industry. The pallor cast by thousands of turf fires within the rest of the city was a thin veil next to the ocean of forge smoke that churned within this one district. Men, goblins and dwarves trudged between the foundries, red-eyed and soot-stained, most clad in heavy leather aprons. Muckle leaned down in Pocket’s ear.
“Come. You’ve an axe to grind and I’ve a beautiful bell of brazen brass to be boldly bestowed with the bulbously brave body bequeathed by birth to this both beloved and blessedly boastful braggart.”
They dodged through the workers, shying away from showers of sparks and unpleasant spews of suffocating heat. The bell foundry was a massive structure of plastered stone with large openings at regular intervals along the walls. Within, Pocket spied great scaffolds and huge cauldrons of molten metal around which an army of workers labored. And just across the way was a little storefront, above which hung a wooden sign fashioned in the likeness of an axe, painted black. Pocket turned to thank Muckle only to find him in a heated argument with his fish.
“I know a bell is round! That is no reason why I cannot be riding a rearing horse and playing a harp!” He seemed to feel Pocket’s eyes on him and broke off his debate momentarily. “Can you find your way back?”
“Yes,” the lie came easily. He liked Muckle, but the thought of what Sir Corc would say if he returned in such company was too much to risk. “Thank you for your help.”
“Pfshh!” Muckle waved him off. “I didn’t do much. Except save you from jumping in the river and that’s…well, yes, pretty damn impressive, but small on the long list of greatness I perform daily. Luck to you.” And with a wave he turned away, passing the bell founder’s up completely. Pocket could hear him even above the clangor. “I can so play the harp, but now you’ve gone and spoiled it. No! I don’t want to be a bell anymore. Don’t you try and apologize to me you wall-eyed bastard, I’ll have you know…”
Pocket delivered his message to the dwarf that ran the bilker’s shop and waited amongst the racks of various axes while a reply was drafted. He tucked the missive into his jerkin and promptly asked the billier for directions.
He found Bantam Flyn at practice when he returned. The squire had taken to drilling with his quarterstaff in the little walled courtyard at the front of their quarters, his frustration taken out on stuffed sacking nailed to several posts. The results of this day’s exercises were spread over the yard in pitiful heaps of split hemp and scattered straw. The dull smacking of wood continued as Flyn worked the now unprotected poles, his staff a whirlwind of stroke and counterstroke.
“Hello, carrier pigeon,” Flyn said as Pocket entered the yard, not taking his eyes off his target nor halting his strikes. “Come back with another love letter?”
It was said lightly, jestingly, but Pocket noticed that the squire’s staff struck harder with each word, the iron tips sending splinters flying.
“A message, yes,” Pocket told him, trying not to be awed by the speed of the quarterstaff. “I best get it to Sir.”
“Best wait,” Flyn grunted between swings. “Sir is occupied with guests…again.”
Pocket nodded. Sir Corc had hosted a steady stream of guests since their arrival, often spending hours at a time shut away in the small receiving room at the back of their quarters. Pocket’s curiosity could not overpower his sense of place and he never asked what was happening in those meetings. Bantam Flyn had no such qualms. On their second morning in the city after a pair of undine had departed, the squire flat out asked what Sir Corc was doing behind closed doors.
“Listening,” was all the knight had said.
Pocket sat on the ground, his back to the courtyard wall and felt his feet begin to bark sorely from the day’s long ordeal on the cobblestones. Flyn continued to hammer away, his body in motion, his face restless. Pocket looked over and saw Coalspur leaning a few feet down the wall. The sword was still encased in its old scabbard, but now a belt and harness of new leather was affixed, so that the blade might be worn across the back. It was simple work, but likely the best the squire could afford.
“Had to send Lochlann out for it,” Flyn stopped his practice and strode over.
“It’s quite handsome,” Pocket told him.
“Might as well be hanging on the wall in the Marshall’s Hall for all the use it’s getting.” Flyn leaned his quarterstaff against the wall and sat down next to Pocket.
He had a point. When they left Albain, Pocket had imagined grand adventures in snowy mountains and dark forests, duels on bridges and quests to lonely towers. Running messages through a maze of smelly buildings was certainly not in his musings and he was barely a page, with no hope of ever wearing the spurs. He could not help but feel a little pity for the squire.
“How fares Black Pool?” Flyn asked.
“Big,” Pocket responded. He did not want to say too much. Sir Corc had not allowed Flyn to go out into the city without his presence and the knight had hardly left his rooms since their arrival. Flyn plucked pebbles from the ground and tossed them halfheartedly at nothing. After a while, Old Lochlann shuffled out the doorway, knobby knees poking through his thin hose. He squinted at the pair of them sitting against the wall.
“There’s fish stew above the fire if you’ve a mind,” he told Pocket. Bantam Flyn gave his arm a subtle squeeze in warning.<
br />
“Thank you,” Pocket said with a smile. “I am alright for now.”
The old man gave a quaking nod, his lank white locks swinging and went back inside.
“He is trying to murder us,” Flyn said with feigned concern. “Wants the place back to himself.”
Pocket smiled but did not laugh. He had taken quickly to the steward. When they arrived he had not so much as blinked when he saw Pocket, but simply tucked his cap with mumbled courtesies and shown him to the garret where he was to sleep. He was nothing like Moragh, but nor was he anything like the other humans Pocket had known.
“He cannot smell or taste so good anymore,” Pocket said. “I think that is why his cooking is so bad. I’ll make us something when he is not around.”
“Be careful where you dump that stew,” Flyn said. “If any of the locals’ animals die, they’ll seek recompense.”
“Sir Corc doesn’t seem to mind the food.”
Flyn scoffed. “That one could live on dirt and rainwater. Tough old bird…and a damn fraud.”
“Fraud?”
Flyn did not answer for a long moment, but when he finally spoke his voice was bitter. “You hear a lot about the knights, as a squire. The Knights Sergeant are forever in your face, training you, but it’s the Knights Errant that everyone talks about at meals and after the curfew bell. The long dead legends like Mulrooster, sure…but the living ones, the knights out in the world, those are the ones we aspire to be. You hear such deeds…how Pitch Feather hunted a pack of barghests to their lair and slew the den mother. About the time Blood Yolk singlehandedly boarded a slaver ship, cut every man down and liberated the holds. The Mad Capon drank a giant under the table…”
“Bronze Wattle once rescued Áedán mac Gabráin’s daughter from the gruagach,” Pocket threw in. “And Poorly Well prevented a grove sacred to the woodwose from burning.”
“Yes!” Flyn agreed. “The White Noble outwitted the Slip Noose Gang, Pyle Strummer saved the flocks of the Dal Riata from a vargulf and--”
Pocket waited for him to continue, breath held. He had heard about all of these deeds, but never from one so close to them. Surely Flyn knew more and Pocket could not wait to hear the details of these exploits. But the squire had stopped completely, an angry and sullen expression creeping across his face.
“And?” Pocket urged.
“And,” Flyn locked his attention. “Of all those stories, not one of them relates to our laconic ambassador. No tales are told of Sir Corc the Constant. No songs or poems. But despite that, there was one known fact about our knight that could not be denied and we squires spoke of it with as much reverence as any of the others. Of all the heroes of the Order, Sir Corc stays on errantry longer than any other, often gone for years at a time. I once heard the Old Goose say that he used to not return even on the two-year, sending only written notes as evidence that he still lived.”
Pocket frowned. If that was true, then it must have been ages ago. The Knights Errant had returned to the Roost twice in Pocket’s memory and Sir Corc was there both times.
“That was dedication to the quest that could be boasted by no other. That was a true sense of duty. But…now we know where he goes,” Flyn gestured dismissively at the house. “This is where he goes…what he does. Meetings. Sitting. Nothing. A fraud.”
As if conjured, the door opened and Old Lochlann escorted two men and a goblin through the yard and out the little gate. The trio did not spare a look for Flyn or Pocket. Sir Corc came out directly looking very tired. Pocket stood when he saw him. Flyn stayed where he was, throwing pebbles. Sir Corc held out his hand and Pocket approached, placing the note the billier had given him into the knight’s broad palm.
“Will Sir be wanting any supper?” Lochlann asked as he returned from the gate.
“No,” Sir Corc said as his eyes scanned the note. Then he looked up. “On your feet, Bantam Flyn. Pocket, please fetch my sword.”
Pocket hesitated for a moment, but Lochlann cast him a “get to it” look and he rushed into the house, quickly gathering Sir Corc’s sword belt from the wall peg. When he returned to the yard, Flyn was standing, the hilt of the greatsword towering over his right shoulder. Sir Corc took his own weapon from Pocket and buckled it on.
“We will be back before dark, Lochlann,” Sir Corc told the steward. “Do not admit anyone until my return. You two, with me.” The knight walked purposefully out the gate without waiting to see if they followed.
This time Pocket did not wait for an urging look, but went right on out. Flyn drew even with him, his face unable to contain his excitement. The easy smile was back, the swagger returned to his steps. Pocket smiled when the squire thumped him companionably on the back.
Sir Corc led them competently through the streets, avoiding the larger market squares, but also keeping out of the narrow alleys. His pace was steady, never halting to check a street or his direction. Soon they came to a bridge which Pocket, thanks to Muckle, knew to be the Goat’s Tongue and Sir Corc led them over, crossing the Poddle and into Hogulent. Pocket had yet to set foot on this side of the city, but he quickly saw why it had a reputation for being the worst end of Black Pool. The buildings were little more than lean-tos next to the river and housed a thriving community of the city’s most destitute, but Sir Corc passed the forest of begging hands and pressed further into the slums. The choking reek of the tanneries that operated in the district threatened to gag Pocket and though Flyn put on a brave face it was obvious he was suffering as well. Sir Corc did not appear to notice.
They wound their way through the cattle pens bordering the tanneries, the poor doomed beasts staring at them from their muck-ridden confines. Beyond, Pocket could hear the dull thud of the maul and the desperate lowing of the soon to be slaughtered. Sir Corc approached a low wooden shed amongst the myriad of outbuildings and leaned near the filthy curtain that served as a door. He whispered something that Pocket did not catch, but the reply was loud enough.
“Come ahead,” said a strangely accented voice.
Sir Corc pushed back the curtain and held it open as Flyn ducked inside. Pocket followed closely behind. He was not surprised to find a dwarf inside. He had seen many since coming to the city. Finding him brushing down a mule inside the shed was a bit odd, but nothing was as shocking as the small, naked girl with wings trapped in a bronze cage hanging from the wall. She looked up when Sir Corc entered and despite her size, Pocket had to take a step back when she yelled.
“Stop staring, you sword-wearing game cock and get me out of here!”
THIRTEEN
“Pains in that tender hide, boy?”
Padric ignored the jibe and the mocking chuckles of the other men that followed, silently cursing Drefan’s sharp eyes. The sour, old warrior must have spied the wince that played across his face when he shifted in the saddle. Almost a fortnight of daily rides and still Padric’s body protested at spending hours astride a horse. His legs had grown stronger and the tight, painful pulling of the previously unknown muscles down the insides of his thighs had lessened mercifully, but the soreness in his back and hips seemed to worsen with each day. The rain only made matters worse. His clothes were soaked through and clung to him, the wet wool rubbing his skin raw where it touched the hard leather of saddle and harness. Still, he never complained outwardly and found he had a natural skill while ahorse, a feeling validated when Kederic granted him permission to accompany the patrols.
He could feel Drefan’s stare, the bastard waiting for a reaction, but Padric would not be baited and focused on the entrance of the crofter’s dwelling. After a moment, Aglaeca emerged from within, sword still in hand and shook his head. Acwellen ran a hand down his face, pulling the rainwater from his beard, then spat onto the flooded ground. With a jerk of his head, he signaled Aglaeca to mount.
“Fled or dead?” Drefan asked whimsically and even without looking Padric could see his slimy grin.
“Both.” It was Banan who answered; his first word of the day and likely his
last.
Padric thought he had the right of it. If the crofter and his family had been killed here then there would be some sign. Padric’s mind went unbidden to the memory of the pig keeper they found not a week before. The goblins had nailed him to the door of his cottage and set him on fire. The blackened remnants of his arms still hung from the wood, a pile of greasy ash and bone below. That unfortunate man had lived barely two days ride from the fort. The croft where they now stood was several days further distant and Padric could not help but think that it was unlikely its former inhabitants made it to safety. More than likely they were hunted down in the forests or harried into the bogs. Padric hoped they did not have any children.
He thought of his own family, and, not for the first time, was thankful they lived in the shadow of Stone Fort many miles away. If the Red Caps would not attack Kederic’s wooden holdfast, they would not dare attack the fortifications that guarded his home. He had grown up despising the warriors that mocked him, hoping that some bloody conflict would lead them far away and claim their lives. Now he was grateful that so many spears stood between his parents and the brutal acts he had witnessed since leaving them. Besides, he had new men to despise.
“Come lads.” Acwellen jerked the reins of his horse. “Let’s turn these nags to home. Nout to find here.”
The big man led them away from the croft, each rider falling into his designated place. Padric’s horse was square in the center of the line, four warriors before him, four behind. After their initial meeting at Bairn’s Babble, Padric had not been keen on accompanying Acwellen and his men, but the Thegn had insisted. Padric could not well refuse after asserting his need to help so strongly. Kederic had saved his life, clothed him and fed him and offered him lodging. In no small way was he beholden to the man and Padric would not dishonor himself by balking at the duties given him.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 23