Authors: John Dickinson
‘He says we must go to him,’ grunted the man. ‘Both of us, together.’
‘For all the Angels!’ cursed Padry. ‘Where are they then?’
Again the man-at-arms banged at the castle door.
‘Ho there! Lackmere! Open for the lord chancellor!’
There was no answer from inside.
Night was coming early. Heavy, dry clouds hung low over the land, dimming the light to a feeble yellow in the west. Already the details of the thorn forest out of which they had climbed were dissolving into shadow. The rocks of the crag on which Lackmere stood were a dull grey-brown, and the walls of the castle were the same grey-brown colour, rising above their heads to a
line of battlements and squat towers against the gloomy sky.
The man-at-arms set his shoulder against the gate.
‘It is barred from within,’ he grunted. ‘There must be someone inside. Unless they are drunk, or dead now.’
The castle was a single enclosure, constrained by the narrow hilltop on which it was sited. Surely no one inside could fail to hear them. But there were no lights, and no banners on the walls. To left and right the gate towers peered down on them. Black arrow-slits showed nothing within.
‘Try it again.’
‘Ho, Lackmere …’
Lex was looking out over the shadowy waste like a shipwrecked sailor at the sea.
‘It is wolf country,’ he said. ‘If we camp, we must hobble the horses.’
‘There’s someone coming,’ said a man-at-arms.
Padry held his breath. Yes, unmistakably, there was someone coming after all. A long, slow step sounded from within, approaching. It reached the door and paused.
‘Who is there?’ a voice said through the boards.
There was something indistinct about the words. Padry wondered whether the speaker was indeed drunk.
‘I am Thomas Padry, Chancellor to the King,’ he answered.
There was silence inside.
‘I do not know you,’ said the voice.
‘Bones of Angels!’ exploded Padry. ‘Will you leave us to the wolves? I tell you I am the King’s lord chancellor! And I bear letters from Develin!’
Again there was silence behind the door.
From above their heads another voice spoke.
‘Let them in, Highness.’
Padry looked up. No head showed there against the sky: only the silent battlements, and the slow clouds drawing by, so close, it seemed, that they must scrape themselves against the flagless poles above the towers.
Clunk! went
the door bars, reluctantly. A black crack split the gate from top to bottom. It widened. Nobody bid them enter. A curious, watery smell flowed out from inside.
Muttering an oath, Padry shouldered through the narrow gap and into the darkness of the gate-tunnel. There was a figure there, a tall man, standing in the shadow behind the door. Instinctively Padry stepped away from him. He retreated further to make way for Lex and the men-at-arms as they coaxed the horses into the strange-smelling place. The tall figure swung the gate to and dropped the bar again.
‘We ask for lodging for the night, and an audience with the master of the house,’ said Padry. ‘In the King’s name.’
‘The master of the house is not here,’ said the figure, in the same slurry voice. He did not seem at all impressed by the name of the King.
‘To whom may I address myself, then?’ said Padry. ‘You?’
‘His son will attend you.’
The figure pushed past them in the darkness. Again Padry stepped away, repelled by the dank smell that seemed to flow from him. The tall man led them out into a small courtyard. In the light of the fading day Padry saw that he wore a great closed tilting-helm that completely hid his face, and a ragged cloak that dropped all the way to the ground. His movements seemed slow but he covered the ground in great, stalking strides. Padry and his followers hurried after him, stumbling across the uneven paving.
‘You may stable your horses in there,’ said the doorman. He pointed a long arm – it seemed incredibly long – towards a low, dark building. ‘Then you may go up to the keep. I will see that they have hay and water.’
There were no lights in the courtyard. There was no sound of any man or animal, other than the strange doorman. Padry squinted in the dimness. The castle was a mean place. Walls bulged with age. The spaces were narrow. He thought the roofs were in poor repair.
‘What about my men?’ he asked.
‘They should go up, too.’
‘Is there no watch? No guardroom?’
‘No.’
The castle seemed almost deserted. Padry and his followers felt their way into the rude stable and found that it held only two horses, shifting and snorting in a line of stalls that could have accommodated ten. Dull light filtered in through gaps in the roof where slates were missing. They tethered their mounts, patted them and removed their harness, all
in the near darkness. Then they returned to the dim courtyard. The doorman had disappeared. In the keep a light was burning.
‘Come on,’ said Padry as his men hesitated.
A narrow flight of steps led up the outside of the keep to a door at the first storey. The door was open. Firelight and lamplight glowed from inside. Padry led the way in.
He stood in a square chamber, the full width and length of the keep. There was a fire in a big hearth and a trestle table set near to it with places laid. Other tables and benches were stacked against the walls. The room was hung with arms and hunting trophies – antlers and wolfskins.
Two men were crouching by the fire. One was the doorman, still in his cloak and his great helm. He was feeding vegetables into a pot that hung on the hearth. The other rose as they entered.
‘Welcome, in my father’s name,’ he said. ‘I am Raymonde diLackmere. I have charge of this house until my father returns.’
He was a short man with straggling brown hair and slanting brows. He wore a faded doublet and a knight’s belt. His cheeks would have been clean-shaven after the fashion of the provinces, but he had allowed the stubble to grow for some days. His tone and stance offered no welcome, whatever his mouth said. And he did not bother to invoke the Angels.
His face, sour and triangular, tugged at Padry’s memory. Yes, he looked like the Baron of Lackmere,
whom Padry had met once or twice in his Develin days. But it was not only that…
‘We are grateful to you and your father,’ Padry said. ‘Will your father return tonight?’
The man smiled bitterly. ‘He has not set foot in his house for a half-dozen years.’
A half-dozen years:
the words were spoken as if they were all the explanation Padry should need. Again, Padry struggled with his memory. There had been something, some evil thing that had happened here. There had been … there had been
two
sons. And one had killed the other, and …
‘Angels’ Knees!’ exclaimed Padry. He stared at the man in front of him.
This was the brother-killer! And not only that…
‘You – I have seen you before,’ he stammered. ‘You were one of Velis’s men! You were at the sack of Develin!’
The man’s face had hardened. ‘I was,’ he said.
As Padry fought for words, the man shrugged. ‘I counselled him to do it,’ he said.
‘You have a letter for me,’ he added, when Padry could not speak. ‘From my Lady Develin.’
His hand was out. Padry stared at it. He could not look at the man’s face. He could not see the room. His eyes were fixed by that hand – that hand that had killed the man’s own brother. The hand that had done – what? to whom? – at Develin. He thought of Grismonde and Pantethon and Denke – all that learning lost, all those scholars, those young men of promise! And the Widow, too, and all her folk,
dead in the senseless, shameful wreck of old Develin.
I counselled him to do it
.
The hand was held before him for the words of Develin’s daughter.
‘I was not told this,’ he muttered.
‘You said you had a letter.’
‘Not that. Not that,’ he said.
The road may be harder than you would think possible
, she had said.
‘Give him the letter,’ he mumbled to Lex.
He turned and walked to the wall. His head seemed to be singing. He heard the rustle of paper being handed over. He heard the seal being broken – a light, slight sound. He put his hand out to steady himself. His palm touched – not stone, but fur. He looked up. A wolf mask, dried and pinned to the wall with rusty nails, grinned back at him.
‘She writes only that the bearer of this letter is looking for the Prince Under the Sky, and that I am to help them if I will,’ said the man.
Padry stared at the wolf mask, willing the shock to clear from his brain.
‘How has she forgiven you?’ His own voice sounded harsh in his ears.
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Raymond diLackmere with a chuckle, ‘I do not know that she has.’
‘Good,’ said Padry.
‘So? But you have come for my help and you have come to my hearth. You may, of course, change your mind and set your fellows on me – if you think they will win. Or you may leave, if you think that
will make you better than I am. Or you may break bread with me. I am willing, although we had prepared for two and must now stretch to seven.’
The bristles of the wolfskin were harsh beneath Padry’s right palm. The fingers of his left hand had reached instinctively for his belt. They touched the walnut shapes dangling there. They closed on one and knew it. It was the one carved in the shape of the dragon. He gripped it, hard. The philosopher is not slave to passion. The just man keeps his eyes on the Path. As the way darkens he keeps them on it still.
Atti was in the wilderness somewhere, alone, searching. He
must
find her.
He pushed himself away from the wall. Still with his fingers on his sign, he turned to face the man of blood.
‘I will stay – and eat with you.’
‘I am glad that Talifer’s labour is not in vain. Is it ready, Highness?’
‘It will serve,’ said the doorman.
It was the poorest meal that Padry had ever tasted in such a setting: a watery gruel –
very
watery indeed. It seemed that the doorman had simply added a pail to the pot when he realized that there would be seven to supper. There were lumps of vegetables in it, some of which had barely cooked. There was bread but not much of it. There was cheese and salted meat, which were more welcome. Raymonde diLackmere neither apologized nor asked for thanks for what he had put before them. He sat at the head of the table. Out of rank, Padry was obliged to sit at his right. Lex sat
opposite. The three men-at-arms took the lower places. No one spoke.
The doorman served them all. Padry felt himself shrink involuntarily as the man came behind him to reach a skinny arm past his ear. He wondered what facial disfigurement was hidden inside that helm. And what was the fellow called? Talifer! What a princely label for such an unpleasing creature! A name of legend from the first founding of the Kingdom. Perhaps that was why his sour master nicknamed him ‘Highness’. In this place all natural order seemed to be upside down.
At length Talifer left the room by the outer door, no doubt to see to the horses. The men-at-arms stared after him. One let out a long breath. Still no one said anything.
Padry stole a glance at the man on his left, at that wolfish face brooding over a bowl at the head of the table. So much evil was there, behind those slanting brows. What good could ever come of him? The man was making no effort to entertain his guests as a host should. The quiet did not seem to trouble him. Did he eat like this in silence, every night? But in a way Padry was glad. He did not think he could have brought himself to converse with this murderer. Let him only learn what he needed, and then he would be gone.
‘Sir,’ said Lex suddenly.
The knight looked up. ‘What’s that?’
‘Are there no other men in your house?’
‘None. No women either, or children. There are men-at-arms quartered in the village, if I need them.’
‘Strange that you surround yourself with so few, and but one servant.’
‘Talifer is no servant,’ said Raymonde. ‘But of course, it is because of Talifer that – for the present – I do not keep others in the house. They find it hard to endure him.’
‘And is he a man?’ asked Lex.
Padry looked up sharply. He knew that he had had the same thought, and yet had stifled it. He had stifled it because he had feared what the answer might be.
‘Oh yes. He is, mostly. And much more so than he was.’
Lex was watching him. They were all watching him, trying to guess his meaning. The knight grinned as though he were enjoying himself.
‘If this is a riddle, I do not understand it,’ said Lex.
‘He has lived a long while, in another way,’ said Raymonde. ‘He forgot much, and was changed much. But he did not altogether lose himself. No man will do that this side of death. Now the more that he lives as a man, in the house of a man, and eats men’s food, the more he becomes again what he once was. Mind you, he does not
need
to eat. Such a one eats only because it helps him to remember. Although … you will have noticed that he prefers not to let you see him at his meal.’
‘But what—’ began Lex again. Then he broke off. They heard Talifer’s long step on the stair outside.
Step, step, step
, coming up to the door. Bones of Angels – was he climbing them three at a time?
The door opened. The silence at the table was so
thick Padry was sure that the helmeted man must have felt it as he came in. He was carrying a keg under one arm, and a leather bottle. From the bottle he poured wine for Raymonde, Padry and Lex. From the keg he poured ale for the men-at-arms.
‘Thank you,’ said Padry, tasting the wine and finding it surprisingly good. He looked up curiously.
The blank eye-slit stared down on him, expressionless.
Nothing more was said until the meal was finished. The men-at-arms were dismissed to sleep in the room below. They went hurriedly, looking over their shoulders.
Once again Talifer poured wine for Raymonde, Padry and Lex. The fire cracked and spat. The wavering light played on the men’s faces. The air droned in the high slit windows. Far off some beast (a dog? a wolf?) was giving tongue. The floor creaked as Talifer came to stand behind Raymonde’s chair.