“Thank you for your honesty,” said Fell, feeling both aggrieved and relieved. “Then who is it?”
“You will see. In three days, outside the walls of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”
The old man stood and his joints cracked like dry twigs. Fell rose also. “If you are some sort of prophet, then you must know the outcome of the invasion. Will my people survive?”
“Some will, some won't. But it is not quite so simple, young man. There is only ever one past, but myriad futures, though sometimes the past can be another man's future. Now there is a riddle to spin your head like a top, eh?” The old man's features softened. “I'm not trying to baffle you, Fell. But I have knowledge gained over twenty times your lifetime. I cannot impart it to you in the brief moment we have. Let us merely say that I know what
should
happen, and I know what
could
happen. I can therefore say with certainty what
might
happen. But never can I tell you what
will
happen!”
“Even Gwalch is more sure than that,” put in Fell, “and he's drunk half the time.”
“Some events are set in stone, and a part of destiny,” agreed Taliesen, “as you will see in three days at Citadel town. Others are more fluid.” He smiled. “Don't even try to make sense of what I tell you. Just be close to Citadel town. And now I will show you something more memorable than teeth whistling. Watch carefully, Fell, for you will not see its like again.”
So saying, the old man walked toward the wallâand through it. Fell gasped, blinked, then pushed himself upright and ran to the wall.
It was solid rock.
But of the old man there was no sign. For a moment Fell stood there, his broad right hand resting on the rock. Then he turned and glanced back at the fire. It had died down. Adding more wood, he waited until the flames rose and flickered high, then settled down beside the fire. It was pitch-dark and icy cold outside the cave now, but he felt the heat from the blaze and was comfortable. And as he dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep he heard again the words of the old man.
“Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the
new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”
Will Stamper moved through the market crowds, scanning for signs of cutpurses or beggars. He had been corporal of the Watch for two years now, and the burly soldier took his job very seriously. Beside him the shorter Relph Wittersson munched on an apple.
“More people this year,” said Relph, tossing away the core. A mangy mongrel sniffed at it, then moved away.
“Population's growing,” Will told him, stroking a broad finger under the chin strap of his iron helmet. “All them new houses on East Street are sold now, and they're talking of building to the north. God knows why people want to come to this place.”
“You did,” Relph pointed out. Will nodded and was about to speak when he saw a small grey-haired man in a dirty brown tunic moving at the edge of the crowd. The man saw him at the same instant and swiftly darted down an alleyway.
“Alyn Shortblade,” said Will. “I'll have the old bastard one of these days. What was I saying?”
“Can't remember, something about buildings going up and immigrants coming in,” answered Relph, pausing at a meat stall and helping himself to a salt beef sausage. The stall holder said nothing and looked away. Relph bit into the sausage. “Not bad,” he said, “but too much cereal. Shouldn't be allowed. Can't rightly call it a sausage if there's more bread than meat in it.”
The two moved slowly through Market Street, then down Baker's Alley and into the main square, where the tents and marquees were being erected ready for Tournament Day. The sound of hammers on nails filled the square as workmen continued to build the high-banked seats for the nobles and their ladies and Will saw the slight, blond Lord Leofric directing operations. Beside him stood the captain of the Watch. Will cursed softly. Relph tapped Will's arm.
“Let's go back through Market Street,” he advised. Will was about to agree when the captain saw them. With an imperious flick of his finger he summoned them over. Will took a deep breath. He had no liking for the captain, and worse, no respect. The man was a career soldier, but he cared nothing for the well-being of his men.
Redgaer Kushir-bane, Knight of the Court, son of the Earl of Cordenia, did not wait for the soldiers to reach him. Arms clasped behind his back he strode toward them, his red beard jutting. “Well?” he asked. “Caught any cutpurses?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Will, giving the clenched fist salute.
“Hmmm. Nor will you if that stomach keeps spreading, man. I'll have no lard bellies under my command.”
“Yes, sir.” It was futile to offer any form of argument, as Will Stamper had long ago discovered to his cost. Happily for Will the captain turned his attention to Relph.
“There is no shine to your buckle, man, and your helmet plume looks like it's been used to wipe a horse's arse. That's a five-copper fine, and you will report to my adjutant for extra duty.”
“Yes, sir,” said Relph meekly.
“Well, get on with your rounds,” commanded Redgaer, spinning on his heel, his red cloak swirling out.
“What a goat-brain,” whispered Relph.
“Your plume looks
like it's been used to wipe a horse's arse,”
he mimicked. “More likely it was used to brush his tongue after he'd dropped on his knees to kiss the Baron's rear.” Will chuckled, and the two soldiers continued on their way through Tanner Street and back into the market.
“Whoa, look at that!” said Relph, pointing. Will saw the object of his attention and let out a low whistle. A tall woman was moving through the market, her hair shining silver despite her youth, and on her left fist sat a red hawk. “Look at the legs on that girl, Will. All the way up to the neck. And what an arse, tight, firm. I tell you, I wouldn't crawl across her to get to you!”
“Bit thin for my taste,” said the older man, “but she walks well, I'll say that. She's a Highlander.”
“How do you know? Just because she's wearing buckskins? Lot of Lowlanders wear buckskins.”
“Look at the way she moves,” said Will. “Proud, arrogant. Nah . . . Highlander. They're all like that. I see she's not wearing a marriage bangle.” As they watched they saw the hawk suddenly bait, wings flapping in panic. The woman calmed it, gently stroking its red head.
“She could stroke me like that,” said Relph. “A bit lower down, though. Come on, let's talk to her.”
“What for?”
“I go off duty at dusk. You never know your luck.”
“I'll bet that five-copper fine that she's not interested.”
“And I'll bet you I'll spear her by midnight!”
“You arrogant son of a bitch,” said Will with a smile. “I'm going to enjoy watching you cut down to size.” The two soldiers angled through the crowd, coming alongside the woman as she stood by the dried fruit stall.
“Good morning, miss,” said Will. “That's a fine bird.”
The woman offered a fleeting smile. “She hunts well” was all she said, then she turned away.
“Are you from the Highlands?” asked Relph.
The woman swung back. “I am. Why do you ask?”
“My friend here had a little bet with me. I said you were mountain-bred, he insisted you were a Lowlander. I told him you could always tell a Highland woman.”
“Tell her what?” countered the woman, turning her pale gaze on the soldier.
“No . . . I mean, recognize one. It's in the . . . er . . . walk. Tell me, are you . . . er . . . staying on in Citadel tonight? There are some fine places to dine, and I'd be honored to escort you.”
“No, I am not staying on. Good day to you.” She walked on, but Relph hurried alongside, taking hold of her arm. This made the hawk bait once more.
“You don't know what you're missing, sweet thing. It's never wise to turn down a good opportunity.”
“Oh, I never do that,” said the woman. “Good-bye.”
She strode off, leaving Relph red-faced. “Ah,” said Will, “the sound of five fresh copper coins jingling in my palm. I can almost hear it.”
Relph swore. “Who does the bitch think she is?”
“I told you, she's a Highlander. As far as she is concerned you are an occupying enemy soldier. And if she doesn't hate youâwhich she probably doesâshe despises you. Now let's move on, and you can figure out how to pay me.”
“How'd she get a hawk?” said Relph. “I mean, a woman with a hawk. It's not proper. Maybe she stole it!”
“You can put that thought from your mind now, son,” said Will sternly. “Just because a woman doesn't want to sleep with you, it doesn't mean you can just lock her up. I'll not have that kind of wrongdoing in my cells. Put it from your mind, and concentrate on the crowd. It'll be more than a five-copper fine if there's a purse cut while we're on duty. More like five lashes!”
“Yes,” said Relph. “Plenty more sheep in the field anyway.” He laughed suddenly. “Did you hear that Gryen picked up a dose of the clap from the whorehouse in North Street? His dick is covered in weeping sores. He's in a hell of a state. They put bloody leeches on it! Can you imagine that? Must be pretty small leeches, eh?”
“Serves him right,” said Will. He stopped outside the apothecary shop and stepped inside.
“What are we looking for?” asked Relph.
“My youngest has the whooping cough. Betsi asked me to pick up some herb syrup.”
“Always ailing, that boy, ever since the fever,” said Relph. “You figure him to die?”
Will sighed. “We lost two already, Relph. One in the plague back in Angosta, and the second when I was campaigning in Kushir. Yellow fever struck him down. I don't know whether the boy will survive or not. But he's a fighter, like his dad, so he's got an even chance.”
“You were lucky with Betsi,” said Relph as Will waited for the apothecary to fill a small blue bottle with syrup. “She's a good woman. Cooks up a fine stew, and your place is always so clean. I'd bet you could eat off the floor and not pick up a scrap of dust. Good woman.”
“The best,” agreed Will. “I think when summer comes I'll try to relocate down south. Her folks is back there and she misses them. Might do that.”
“There's a rumor we'll be campaigning in spring. You heard it?”
“There's always rumors, son. I don't worry about them. One of the reasons I came here was for the quiet. Betsi was always worried that I'd be killed in a battle. Ain't no battles here, so who are we going to campaign against?”
“The captain was saying that the Highland clans were getting ready for war, attacking merchants and travelers.”
Will shook his head. “It's not true. There was one attack, but the Foresters caught the men and killed them. They weren't Highlanders. No, I'm looking forward to summer, son. I'll take the family south.”
The apothecary handed over the bottle and Will gave him two copper coins.
Outside Relph tapped him on the arm. “How come you pay? I don't. Bastard townies can afford to look after us. After all, we look after them.”
“I always pay my way,” said Will. “It's an old habit.”
Grame the Smith delivered the Baron's grey stallions and left the Citadel. It had been no surprise when the Baron failed to pay for the work, and Grame had been expecting nothing more. He wandered through the town, and considered buying a meal at the Blue Duck tavern. Roast pork with crackling was a speciality there. Grame tapped his ample stomach. “You're getting old and fat,” he told himself. There was a time when he'd been considered one of the handsomest men in Cilfallen, and he had grown used to the eyes of women lingering on him as he passed. They didn't linger much now. His hair had long since departed his skull, and sprouted unattractively from his shoulders and back. He'd lost three front teeth and had his lips crushed at Colden Moor, the teeth smashed from his head by an iron club wielded by an Outland soldier. God, that hurt, he remembered. It was a kind of double pain. As he fell he knew his good looks were gone forever.
Now he sported the bushiest white beard, with a long, drooping mustache to cover the mouth.
He reluctantly passed the Blue Duck and continued along Market Street, catching sight of Sigarni talking to two soldiers. The first was a tall man, middle-aged, with the look of the warrior about him. The second was smaller; this one took hold of Sigarni's arm, but she spoke to him and moved away. Grame saw the man's face turn crimson. The smith chuckled, and made his way to where Sigarni was standing before a knickknack stall. She was examining a brass tail-bell.
“Good day to you,” said Grame. Sigarni gave him a friendly smile, but he saw her cast her eyes back toward where the two soldiers were standing.
“I'm thinking of buying Abby a bell,” she said. “All the other hawks here have them.”
“For what purpose,” asked the smith, “apart from the fact that all the others have them?”
Sigarni thought about it for a moment, then grinned. “I don't know, Grame,” she admitted. “But they are pretty, don't you think?”
Grame took the bell from her fingers and looked at it closely. “They're well made,” he said, “and they'd be silent in flight. Falconers use them to locate their birds. You can hear them when they land in a tree. Do you have trouble with Abby? Do you lose her?”
“Never.”
“Then you don't need a bell. What brings you to Citadel?”
“There is a hawking tourney, with a money prize of two gold guineas. I think Abby could win it.”