Too Many Princes (19 page)

Lottres gave back a narrow glance.
“
Storks,
”
he replied with a sour humor.

Brastigan laughed, perhaps as much to reassure himself as to placate his brother.
“
Don't worry. The falcon will find us. It said so itself.
”

He couldn't believe he was quoting that creature, and Lottres didn't seem impressed, either. He barely nodded.

“
Anyway,
”
Brastigan went on, determined to pierce his bad humor,
“
it looks like you chose the better path for us. There's no way anyone could follow us out here.
”
He gestured to take in the open terrain.
“
We'd see him too fast.
”

Finally, Lottres relaxed.
“
I hope so.
”

Brastigan, in his turn, rode with a better heart. As if their talk had summoned it, the falcon drifted down to them shortly afterward. Defiantly, Lottres raised his fist to receive it.

Brastigan swallowed his ill feelings and turned in the saddle to signal a halt. He loitered only long enough to hear confirmation that Wulfram had gone after the decoys before leading his mule to drink. Lottres and the bird continued talking, but he didn't stay to hear what they spoke of. The whistling voice made his teeth clench. While his mount stood in the shallows, sucking in the brackish water, Brastigan kicked at the wildflowers along the stream bank.

The slither of approaching feet provided a welcome distraction. Brastigan nodded at Pikarus's approach.

“
News?
”
the soldier asked.

“
It worked.
”
Brastigan snapped off a long grass stem. He stuck the frayed end in his mouth and sucked in the taste of green. The seed head bobbed before him like an old man's pipe.

Pikarus eyed him.
“
But..?
”

“
It won't fool him for long, I don't think,
”
was Brastigan's reply.
“
He knows me, remember? Morbern's men may be loyal, but they can't fake my height—nor my hair. If he follows them to the inn again tonight, he'll have no doubt.
”

“
And then he has a choice,
”
Pikarus said softly, with all his contempt of the night before.
“
He can keep his paid appointment, or turn and follow us.
”

Brastigan spat out the grass stem and yanked another from its roots.
“
If he does that, we'll know where the money is.
”

“
If he does that,
”
asked Pikarus gravely,
“
should he be allowed to live?
”

In his heart, Brastigan knew the answer to that, but he merely shrugged.
“
I'll want to talk to him. Find out whose man he is.
”

Pikarus nodded.
“
I understand. We do have a watchdog of sorts.
”
A glance over his shoulder suggested the falcon, but offered no opinion on its provenance.

“
Wulf might not be our only problem,
”
Brastigan said around the stem in his teeth. Thinking again of the fight that nearly took his life, he added,
“
It's the one we don't see who'll get us, so just you keep a good watch.
”

“
Aye.
”

Pikarus said no more than that, merely looked across the river with narrowed eyes. The water, running past them, seemed to murmur in its bed of secrets from the north. Brastigan studied his comrade in the silence. For all that he spat on Wulfram, Pikarus was just as much a cipher. At least the man of work said plainly what he was. Not so for the man at arms. Was it the memory of Therula's blue eyes that drove him, or some other duty? Brastigan didn't ask, and the soldier kept his thoughts to himself, and then it was time to ride on.

The party hadn't made any great haste in the days before this, but now they pressed their speed. Nothing like an enemy to spur you on, thought Brastigan sardonically. Though they made good time, the land about them seemed oddly lonely under the noonday sun. By the time of afternoon shadows, he found himself seeking some sign of man—a stone fence, a cow shed, a dock on the river bank. He saw none, and that was eerie. He hadn't known such a stretch of land lay empty in Crutham.

Dusk met them at the base of a wooded knoll. A wide, flat spot had been leveled from the slope and extended out above the standing water. Fire pits, lined with stones from the hillside, held cold ashes of other fires. There was even a series of rusted metal posts at just the right distance to tie up the mules.

As Brastigan sat his long-eared steed, taking in these details, Javes drew up beside him.
“
Set camp here, your highness?
”

Brastigan shrugged.
“
No place better.
”

“
Very good.
”
Turning in the saddle, Javes bellowed to the others,
“
All right, you men, let's get to it!
”

The quiet order of the riding line gave way to a bustle of activity as the soldiers set about pitching tents, gathering wood, carrying water. It was obvious they had set camps before from the way each took up his task without assignment. Only the two princes were left without duties.

“
This looks like a regular way station,
”
Lottres observed. The falcon had left his shoulder bare, a great improvement in Brastigan's eyes.

“
Probably is,
”
he agreed.
“
The road looks well traveled. I'm surprised we didn't meet anyone today.
”

“
Not the season for it?
”
Even Lottres sounded doubtful of that.

“
Well, this is no good,
”
Brastigan decided. He swung down from the saddle.

“
What?
”
Lottres asked.

“
Sitting here, watching. I'd rather make myself useful, wouldn't you?
”
Brastigan wanted to be accepted among the soldiers, not regarded as a royal snob who had to be coddled while others worked.
“
Come on, Pup. I'll teach you something useful.
”

Lottres hesitated, and Brastigan thought he might make some retort. Then he climbed down from his mule.
“
Of course. You teach, I'll learn.
”

Brastigan frowned, but decided not to ask what his brother meant. They were just in time to take the reins while the last of the pack mules had their burdens pulled off. Together with two other soldiers, they led the animals off for a drink and a rub
-
down. Brastigan savored the familiar work. He also thought his brother had been riding too much apart. Lottres needed normal activities to take his mind off other things. Winged things.

By the time the beasts were staked out securely, fires were blazing in the pits and cider was being passed in steaming cups. Javes got out his bow and brought back a brace of hares from the marsh, and so they ate hot meat. The stars above shimmered through the rising heat of the fires.

Lottres left off his fire-gazing at last. Brastigan was glad to see that. Instead, the younger prince sat in the rank grass on the bank above the water. The soldiers turned questioning glances in that direction, but Brastigan thought it too soon to renew their quarrel. As long as Lottres stayed in sight of the camp, he wouldn't press the issue

Later, he lay in his tent, listening to frogs belch and mosquitoes whine and thought with satisfaction that he didn't miss the soft bed of an inn at all.

* * *

Thus passed a handful of days, in hot sun and the smell of swamp mud. Camp was set each night in much the same way. Soon Brastigan no longer needed to take duties for himself. Their participation was expected. In daylight, the two brothers rode in a comfortable silence, for the falcon once again kept its distance from their kind. They scarcely saw it, save on the evening of the third day, when it descended to report there were no tinkers on the road behind them.

By then, Brastigan had something else to distract him. A grassy hill rose tall from the plain before them, its conical sides too perfect for any work of nature. Frowning against the sunset, he could barely pick out the vertical stroke of a single stone at the summit. When a rise in the trail permitted, Brastigan turned in the saddle to stare westward, behind them. Sure enough, there lay the distant wart of the Dragon's Candle. Lottres, reined in beside him.
“
What's wrong?
”

“
That.
”
Brastigan jerked his thumb at the nearer mound.
“
I didn't think there was more than one of those.
”

“
Yes, I'd seen it.
”
Lottres regarded the monument with interest.

Riders were backing up on the trail behind them. Brastigan was about to move on when a new voice interrupted.

“
There are at least two others,
”
said Egger, one of the soldiers who rode nearest.
“
I've seen them. One in Carthell and another in Firice.
”

“
What are they?
”
Lottres wanted to know.

“
Ah, well, that's beyond me, your highness,
”
Egger demurred.
“
I just know I've seen them.
”

“
He's no help,
”
Brastigan grumbled, urging his mule forward.

“
You could ask around in Rowbeck,
”
Lottres suggested.
“
We'll be there tomorrow.
”

Without a ready answer, Brastigan could only watch the hill grow larger as they drew near. The valley pinched in around it, and the river flowed more swiftly. River plains gave way to fields and farms. The road once again ran straight and flat, deeply rutted with wagon tracks. At last, they rounded a wooded thumb of hills to see Rowbeck lying before them in twilight.

The hill, standing above the town, was still bathed in fiery sunset rays, but the buildings lay in shadow. Plumes of chimney smoke drifted in feathered layers above slate roofs and the river ran in a rocky bed close beside buildings of rough timbers. The water's chatter was nearly loud enough to cover the sound of hooves as they entered the square.

The town had but a single inn, which was so small the royal party filled the handful of guest rooms to overflowing. The common room featured rafters too low for Brastigan's comfort and a haze of smoke in the air. The locals who came in for a flagon of ale had trouble squeezing in. The overcrowded chamber stank of tallow and sweat and burnt meat. After the silence and clear air of the marsh, the voices of men seem coarse and irritating, like a stifling wool blanket over the room.

Worse, from Brastigan's viewpoint, there were no women that he could see, not even a cook in the back. You could tell from the stew, which tasted strongly of cabbage. Brastigan knew he wasn't the only one to grumble at the flavor. Without other options, he could only eat more quickly to end the torment of the ill-cooked meal.

Still, the hard bed waiting in the chamber upstairs offered little enough comfort that Brastigan chose to linger over a draft of the local barley brew. It, at least, was properly stout.

As he drank, Lottres nudged him and murmured,
“
There's your source.
”

“
My what?
”
Brastigan followed his brother's gaze to behold a wizened old man seated at the fireside.

“
The hill,
”
Lottres prompted, pushing his bowl of stew away half eaten.
“
It's the old ones you want to ask about such things. They know all the best tales. Look, he's practically by himself.
”

Indeed, there was a strapping young man beside the oldster, but he sat turned toward a group of men his own age, shutting the old man out of their conversation.

“
By all means, let's pay our respects.
”
Brastigan followed as Lottres made for the hearth, and he didn't leave his ale behind.

The young men (farmers, by the mud stuck to their cleated boots) didn't so much as look around as Brastigan and Lottres pushed through to the old man. His face, they now saw, was so wrinkled it seemed about to fold in half. One eye was vague and milky beneath jutting brows, but the other one was clear and sharp as a nail. A long pipe lay cradled in his lap.

“
May we join you?
”
Lottres began politely.

“
If ye can find a space,
”
came the laconic retort.
“
Busy tonight, it is.
”

“
That's our fault, I'm afraid.
”
Lottres maintained his humor as they crowded onto a bench facing him.
“
We're just passing through, and we couldn't help noticing that mountain outside the town.
”

The old man made a noise between his nose and chin that might have been a chuckle.
“
The Dragon's Tooth, is it? I knew it. You strangers always ask.
”
His good eye, beneath the brim of his cap, fastened on Brastigan's hair with friendly contempt.

“
Well, what is it?
”
snapped Brastigan, who didn't like feeling that he was being laughed at.

“
Wait,
”
his brother interrupted.
“
Strangers? When?
”

The old man's gaze was keen on Lottres's face.
“
Oh, now and again.
”

“
Where from?
”
Lottres frowned.

“
They didn't say.
”
He cocked his eye at them in a way that reminded them they hadn't given their names, either.