Raven's Heirs

by Lesley Arrowsmith

The Harper

  The three lateen sailed ships were pulled well up the beach, but even so some of the waves were crashing over their sterns and sucking at the shingle below them. The wind howled, and Owain stood up on the stockade ramparts with his cloak thrown back, drinking in the storm.

  It had been too stuffy in the hall, too full of bored corsairs longing for something to relieve the monotony of a winter ashore. Before long, there would be a fight. Owain had seen it all before, and so he had slipped outside to enjoy the wild weather.

  The waves and the wind were so loud that he didn't hear Kofi until the wizard stood almost next to him – and his stomach tied itself into a series of elaborate knots. Owain could almost touch the leapard skin that Kofi always wore, casually slung around his shoulders. He gripped the wood of the railing with fingers that suddenly seemed numb.

  Kneel to me, Boy. The voice was inside his head.

  Owain turned and knelt, clumsily, stretching his bad leg out behind him stiffly. Kofi knew it was uncomfortable for him to kneel, which was why he made him do it. Thinking about his leg, and the storm, kept other things from the forefront of his mind.

  Kofi laid his hands on Owain's head, pressing down slightly. I have been scrying, Boy, he said. Your future – concerns me.

  Owain felt his mouth go dry as powder. What had he seen? I – I don't know what you mean, he managed at last. It didn't really matter what he said – Kofi was already rummaging around in his memories. Owain pushed all thoughts of pigeons down into that little dark place that Kofi had never yet been able to get into. A headache was already blossoming behind his eyes; Kofi wasn't gentle when he searched. Then, with a final wrench that made Owain feel like throwing up, Kofi was out of his mind.

  "There's something," Kofi said, out loud this time. Owain winced at the sound of his voice, huddled now against the rampart with his hands up at his temples, wishing the world would go away for a while. "If you are planning anything, Boy," Kofi said, bending close to his ear, "be sure I will find it out. Remember what happened to your friend, and be wise."

  And Owain did throw up then, remembering.

  He wasn't sure how long he lay there, shaking and retching – but it was almost dark when he finally reached for his crutch where it had fallen on the boardwalk, and staggered back into the hall to find a quiet corner to recover.

  The storm had not blown over the next morning. Gwalchmai stood on the stone quayside under the walls of the fortress of Aberllong, and looked out gloomily at grey, foam-topped waves as far as the eye could see. Even the seagulls weren't flying in this weather. More importantly, the ferry wasn't leaving, either.

  A little way up the quay, a Palatine merchant stood, huddled in his fur-trimmed robes and fur lined cloak, complaining bitterly to whoever would listen tha he had to get his cargo across the river today. He claimed to have important customers waiting for hisspices from the furthest reaches of the Turkic lands. The ferry captain, who was refusing to sail in such rough waters, was avoiding the merchant by lurking in the customs officer's office, where it was warm and dry. Gwalchmai had pretended that he didn't understand Occitan, so it was no use the merchant complaining to him. Privately, he didn't see why a delay of half a day or so was so important – the spices would have been travelling for weeks already.

  He was beginning to think he would leave it until tomorrow when the ferry captain emerged from the office, squinted at the storm clouds, licked a finger and held it up to the wind, and finally climbed aboard the wide, flat-bottomed boat.

  The Palatine merchant was the first up the gangway after him, with his servants and the train of twenty pack horses after him. When they were safely aboard, Gwalchmai led his two horses up the ramp after them, and found a quiet corner away from the more nervous of the merchant's horses. The deck of the boat was still pitching and yawing uncomfortably, but it was clear that the wind had dropped, and the waves were no longer as high as they had been. He stood with his hand on the little mare's neck, ready to sooth her if she needed it. The gelding was steady as a rock, and would take anything Gwalchmai cared to throw at him, but he was less certain of the mare, who was loaned to him by Brecca, and had not travelled on a ferry before.

  Like most of the pack horses, though, she suffered through the unpleasant journey with her head down, snorting and snuffling her feet unhappily. When the gangway was lowered at the other side, she nearly dragged the reins out of Gwalchmai's hand in her eagerness to get back on dry land.

  It was raining again now, and the customs officers on the Palatine side of the river had rigged a small awning to stand under while they checked the passengers' papers. Gwalchmai presented a parchment signed by Morwenna, her son Liam Tir Bran – who ran the port of Aberllong, and most of the vast hinterland that bore the name of the Raven clan, and the Palatine ambassador who looked after the interests of the Palatine ships that were forced to dock there. In nearly two hundred years, the Dukes of Moissac had been unable to find anywhere along their own coastline to build a port town, and were forced to rely on the Tiraeg city for all their southern and eastern trade. The miserable little port of Varaville was not deep enough to take most sea going ships – and had been burnt down several times in the recent wars between Ytir and the Palatinate.

  Passed through the customs post, Gwalchmai glanced across to the row of low taverns that huddled round the edge of the docks without enthusiasm. He could manage without bad beer and luke warm stew, even though the thought of a seat by a fire was momentarily appealing – the sooner he got to Corcuvion and got this mission over with, the better.

  Owain sat on the bench outside the hall, soaking up the thin sunshine and watching the men of the Raha practice hand to hand fighting with the men of the al-Khader. They were pulling their blows, but they were using the same wickedly sharp scimitars they would use in real combat. So far, al-Khader was winning, and there had only been a few minor injuries. Ibrahim al Malki, the Bey's personal doctor, was sitting on the sidelines with a quantity of bandages and various salves.

  The sound of a horn from the landward side of the island, where the causeway was, stopped the game of King of the Hill in which the first officer of al-Khader was beating all comers. Not an attack, though – visitors. Owain sat up straighter – the island never got visitors.

  Most of the men who had been sparring were clustered round the gateway when Yusuf and Khamees led the stranger into the courtyard.

  As they approached the hall, Owain had eyes only for the horses. The dark brown gelding had a white sock on his near fore leg, and a blaze down his nose. He seemed unbothered by the crowd surrounding him. The second horse was, perhaps, a hand and a half shorter than the first. She was golden brown, with a mane and tail the colour of straw, and she was beautiful. As they got nearer to the well, Owain could see the enamelled fittings on the bridles, red and blue with flashes of copper – Tiraeg harness. There was no doubting it; the gelding could have come from anywhere, but the mare was a Plains pony, like the ones his father used to breed.

  A great wave of homesickness burst open without warning. All Owain could do was sit motionless, longing to get closer to the horses; longing, more than anything else, to go home.

  Fighting against the misery, Owain turned his attention to the man. He was old – his long hair was divided into four white plaits, and his long moustache was also white. Owain swallowed hard. Only high ranking Tiraeg wore their hair like that – he had once worn his hair like that himself – but he didn't know the man.

  They were outside the hall now, and the old man had dismounted. He was unbuckling a harp case from his saddle with the casual nonchalance of a man who had no idea what sort of danger he was in, just by being there.

  Owain wasn't sure where the island was, but he knew it wasn't of the coast of Ytir. So, what was a high ranking Tiraeg Harper doing here? His heart thumped faster, almost painfully. It was just possible, just barely possible, that this was the answer to the message
s he'd sent.

  He dismissed the idea almost instantly. What chance did one elderly Harper have of getting him out of here? It was far more likely that the Harper would be on the first ship out to the Koine Empire. They'd get a good price for a Harper in the slave markets of the south, even an old one. They'd get a good price for the horses, too.

  The old man, still surrounded by a crowd, disappeared into the hall. The Bey would be there, the Captain of Captains, and he would decide what was to become of the stranger. Those outside the hall began to drift away. Khamees had taken charge of the horses, and was leading them towards the barn. There had been no horses there in all the time Owain had been on the island; there was no need for them when the pirates never ventured across the causeway onto the mainland, and the island was small enough to walk round. There were still stables in the barn though, empty apart from the one that was used to pen the goats. Owain watched them go, admiring them, wanting to touch them, remembering the distinctive smell of horse and leather and hay that had been a part of his growing up ever since he could remember anything – until that day on the beach when it had all been taken away from him. He was hardly concious of picking up the crutch and putting it under his arm until he was on his feet.

  And then he stopped. Other people were heading towards the barn – there were other horse lovers among the crews of the corsairs, and any novelty was welcome after a long and boring winter, but seeing the pony had reminded Owain of days when he had slipped down to the stables at Pengwern early, with a gift for his own pony.

  He turned towards the kitchens.

  He leaned around the open door and looked inside. It was early to be preparing dinner, but there were a couple of slaves there, finishing up the washing up from the night before - and the person he was hoping to see.

  "Psst, Paraskevi, be nice to me!" He spoke in Koine, the only language the old woman from the islands understood. She and her sister had been taken in a raid almost by accident, but then the Captains discovered what good cooks they both were, and they'd been feeding three shiploads of men twice a day ever since.

  Paraskevi looked up from the sharp knife she was drying, and flicked the drying up cloth at Owain. "Pah! Why would I be nice to you, little weather witch?" she asked.

  Owain grinned at her. "I remind you of your grandson," he said, "of course. Please, Paraskevi, you know those old dry apples at the back of the store cupboard? Can I have a couple?"

  "A couple? Are you trying to get fat?"

  Behind her, he could see her sister Anna smiling.

  "It's for the horses."

  "Horses? Here? Have you lost your mind?"

  Manoli whispered something in Anna's ear. He had a hare-lip, and only Anna had the patience to understand him. Anna started to giggle. "Manoli asks if they might be big goats - it would be easy to get confused."

  Paraskevi snorted, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh herself.

  "Surely a big goat is just another name for a -" Owain stopped, realising too late that he had forgotten the word for cow in Koine. "Lots of milk," he tried. "Mooo?"

  All four of them collapsed into giggles. "Oh! A cow!" Anna spluttered.

  "Well, they're not cows - they're definitely horses, and there's an old man with them too."

  That sobered them all up. They all knew what would happen to the old man as soon as the first ship set off for the South.

  Paraskevi nodded to her sister, and Anna disappeared into the store cupboard, coming back with two wizened apples.

  "Efaristo poli," Owain said, tucking them into his sash.

  "Hmm," said Paraskevi. "Now go away and stop disrupting my kitchen."

  He was only halfway across the courtyard when he heard the shout from the door of the hall.

  "Hey, Pigeon Boy - come on in here, will you? That mad old man doesn't speak any language we recognise, and the Bey wants to talk to him."

  Owain felt his heart thumping painfully fast. He didn't believe it - Tiraeg harpers were almost as good at languages as awynwch were. The old man must speak Koine, at least.

  Yusuf waved at him impatiently. "Come on, boy - you can look at the horses later. They're not going anywhere," and as Owain passed him, he added, "and isn't that little pony a beauty?"

  Owain grinned his agreement, and went in. The hall was dim - which was just as well. Owain didn't want the Bey to see how nervous he was.

  It was a formal audience - the Bey was seated on the dais, and he was wearing his coat of amber silk that had the most embroidery around the hem. He didn't usually try to impress his prisoners, so he must think there was something special about this one.

  The old man was standing to one side, flanked by two of the Bey's larger and more impressive bodyguards, while a couple of the others were going through the contents of his saddlebags on the floor. The old man himself had opened his harp case and was cradling the harp protectively in his arms while another man searched the case. He was chewing at one end of his moustache, but apart from that he didn't seem overly worried.

  Owain bowed low with his palms together, in the formal style. "Lord Bey?" he murmured.

  "I want to know how this madman found us," the Bey said. "He only seems to have one phrase of Koine, and no Turkic at all."

  "Efaristo poli," said the madman, bowing low to the Bey. He turned to look at Owain with benign interest, and if he did understand the Turkic words, he gave no sign of it.

  "The Lord Bey wishes to know how you found this place," Owain said, in Tiraeg. The old man was wearing a silver torc, but it was all muffled up in his cloak and Owain couldn't see the finials. He beamed at Owain, and came forward to shake his free hand.

  "At last! A civilised tongue in this benighted place! Tell your master I am a travelling harper. My name is Gwalchmai Morgan - perhaps you have heard of me? No? But my purpose is only to entertain, nothing more. As you can see," he indicated the jumble of dirty washing on the floor, "I'm not armed. Besides, what threat could I possibly pose?"

  "He says he is Gwalchmai Morgan, a travelling harper, Lord Bey. He says he wants to entertain you," Owain said. "He says he is not armed, and poses no threat."

  The Bey snorted. "Tell him I'll be the judge of that. Ask him again how he found his way here, when he should not have been able to find us."

  The harper was looking expectantly at Owain. "The Lord Bey wishes to know how you found your way here," Owain said. "This place is supposed to be a secret - and he says he'll decide whether you're a threat or not."

  Gwalchmai shrugged extravagently. "I got lost in the marshes - the Drake led me here. That's my horse, you see."

  "Lord Bey, he says it was his horse."

  The Bey scowled. "If it's that easy for a horse to find us, I must have words with Kofi - who should be here, now," he added darkly. "He'd soon get the truth out of this old fool. Ask him why he has two horses."

  "You have two horses, Master Harper. Why is that?"

  "Alas, not only was I lost in the marshs, but my servant ran away three nights ago. So you see, I have been the victim of great misfortune." He bowed agan in the direction of the Bey. "But it seems that my luck must be changing - I was looking for a suitable audience to entertain, and I come upon this great lord and his retinue in the middle of nowhere!"

  Owain relayed the harper's words. The Bey smiled in the depths of his great beard.

  "He seems harmless enough," he said. "Tell him he is indeed fortunate. Tell him he will have the honour of entertaining His Excellency Jumail Marhouri Jameel al-Saad this evening. In the meantime, boy, show him to our guest quarters, where he can rest and refresh himself."

  As Owain relayed the Bey's words, one of the men kneeling bythe small mound of the harper's possessions started to bundle them up and stuff them back in the bags. The harper beamed up at the Bey. "My Lord Jumail is most gracious - tell him he won't be disappointed by my playing tonight." He placed his harp carefully back in its case, and allowe
d himself to be led away. Two of the Bey's bodyguard fell into step behind them as they crossed the courtyard to the little cottage beside the barn. "I hope you realise you're a prisoner here," Owain said quietly. "They'll send coffee and something to eat, and let you play for them, but they won't let you leave."

  The old man was still looking about him with an innocent expression. "Thanks for the warning," he said, "and tell me, if you would - what's a fluent Tiraeg speaker doing in this nest of Turkic cut-throats?"

  "Being a prisoner too," Owain said briefly.

  They had reached the door of the cottage. "Thanks, lad," the harper said. "I dare say I'll be able to speak with you again at dinner?" He was unfastening the big silver pin at the shoulder of his cloak as he spoke. He swung the cloak off, and folded it over his arm - and Owain could clearly see the raven heads on the finials of his torc.

  "Don't linger, lad," the harper said. "Everything will be fine." He stepped into the cottage without a backward glance.

  Owain turned away before Saif and Maqsood could see his expression. Gwalchmai Morgan owed his allegiance to the Raven clan - Morwenna had sent him.

  It seemed a very long time until dinner. Remembering the apples in his sash, he spent some time with the horses, and as the light dimmed, he went to shut up the pigeons.

  After that, there was one more thing he needed to do - he went down to the beach on the tip of the island to watch the sun go down between the sea and the marshes. He sat on the dune just up from the beach, resting his chin on his good knee. "I don't know what to tell you," he said softly, in Tiraeg, as the lower edge of the sun's disc touched the sea. "I asked for help, and they've sent an old man. I don't think he knows what he's got into - they'll keep him for a while, and then they'll sell him South - but he's got this sort of mad confidence, as if he could do anything.... If he can get me out - well, that's what I want. I want to go home more than anything - but I'll be sorry to go and leave you behind."

  "Sorry, too.... Go."

  It might have been no more than the breeze stirring the reeds, and only an awynwch could have heard it.

  "You mean it, Ferdia?" Owain asked. "You don't mind if I go?"

  "Mind.... Go."

  The sun sank below the horizon, and the red glow of sunset faded. Owain knew he would hear no more that night, but he sat for a while anyway, listening to the wind and the water.

  He wore his good blue silk coat to dinner, the one that had come straight off the back of one of th passengers on that particularly rich caravel the Raha had captured last season.

  Paraskevi had produced a goat curry that could be smelt all over the island. Even the slaves who clustered round the doorway of the hall looked hopeful as he limped past them - the remnants of this meal would be worth waiting for. Every lamp hanging from the rafters was lit, and the flags of all the ships had been hung up round the walls, with swags of looted silk over the dais. The hall was already full, and everyone was wearing their best clothes, mostly hauled out from the bottom of sea chests and still bearing the creases.

  The old man was already up on the dais by the top table, and his face brightened when he saw Owain. "My dear boy, thank goodness you've arrived!" he said. "I can't talk to anybody! Do they want me to play first and eat later, or eat and then play?"

  Owain spotted Mulraj near the head of the al-Khadar table. For a moment, he thought that the first mate was the highest ranking officer in the hall. Then he saw that Mulraj was talking to a man in a cream and gold coat, with an egret plume pinned to his turban. Relieved, he made his salaams to Captain Faisal al-Saad. "Sir, the Harper wishes to know when he should perform."

  The Captain came to join them at the top table. "I think after dinner." He nodded across to Captain Al Nahyan. "Music after dinner? Yes? Tell him that, boy."

  "Food first, then music," Owain reported back. "And what are your plans...?"

  The Harper grinned, and winked. "Later, lad," he said. He pointed down the hall, and Owain turned.

  A quietness spread from the back of the hall by the doors slowly up the room. The Bey was making his entrance, magnificent in the amber silk - but the watchful silence was not for him. Stalking by his side was the wizard Kofi.

  Owain's stomach started to tie itself in those familiar knots. There wouldn't be a 'later' now. With Kofi at the table he would never be able to talk privately with the harper. The wizard would know everything they were thinking.

  "Who's that?" the harper murmured in his ear now.

  "K-kofi - the wizard. He was supposed to have questioned you before. He doesn't usually eat with us."

  "Well then!" The Harper was wearing his innocent expression again. "He must have come specially to hear my music!"

  The Bey seated himself at the centre of the top table, the last stragglers found their places, and the men of the Sohar who were on serving duty that night brought in the fresh flat breads, and bowls of relish, and the great steaming pots of goat curry. By the time everyone was served, conversation in the hall had almost returned to normal.

  Kofi sat at the far end of the table from Owain and Gwalchmai, his leopard skin cape wrapped around him, watching the harper as if he were a choice morsel that the wizard would enjoy eating later.

  Gwalchmai smiled at him, and bowed slightly. "This reminds me of a particularly fine dinner I once attended at Cader Ardry," he commented - and launched into a scandalous story involving the Ard Ri's sister and a visiting diplomat which took all of Owain's concentration to translate adequately. By the time he had finished that, the Bey and the Captains were all laughing and asking for more stories. Owain ate his food in snatches, hardly tasting it, too busy to think about anything beyond the present moment.

  Kofi sat silently at the end of the table and watched them both. If he touched his food, Owain didn't see it.

  At last, the food was cleared away, jugs of coffee and plates of dried fruit were brought out, and the Bey suggested that it was time for the Harper to play.

  Gwalchmai moved his chair to the front of the dais, opened his harp case, and began to tune his harp.

  He chose an instrumental piece to begin, and agian the quietness spread down the hall - though this time there was no fear in it.

  Owain sipped at his coffee, and hunched down in his chair in an attempt to be inconspicuous. The music was - home. When he had been a kid, he probably wouldn't have taken much notice of it, but here - here it was the distillation of everything he missed about his old life. He couldn't stop the memories now - the pigeons strutting around the grey stone court of Pensarn Court; his father lifting him into the saddle of that fat little pony for the first time; his mother practicing her archery in the paddock behind the house, while he ran for her arrows - and holding his new sister in his arms for the first time with his mother's arms around them both; the horse herds the first time he went out on the big round up with his father....

  Such thoughts were dangerous, here. He knew from bitter experience how vulnerable they made him to Kofi'[s power - but it was so hard to keep the memories hidden away while the harp played....

  And suddenly he was angry, and the anger pushed the memories away. They'd sent one old man to find him, and what could one old man do? He'd be sold South on the next ship, and Owain would never see home again.

  *****