Sorcerer of the North (17 page)

The light of day brought no logical explanation, no physical solution. There was something terrible in Grimsdell Wood. He let out a long sigh. He thought again of Halt's briefing, and his opinion that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, there was an explanation for such phenomena.

"I suppose I'm going to have to go back and find out what it is," Will said quietly.

Not surprisingly, he had little appetite when he went for breakfast in the dining hall. But he managed to cram down a couple of warm rolls, smearing them with a preserve made from raspberries, and by the time he was halfway through his second cup of coffee his jangled nerves were almost back in place. Not looking for company, he sat alone at one of the long tables in the hall, staying away from the small groups that clustered together, chatting quietly over their breakfast. It was there that the page found him.

"Jongleur?" he said coolly. He was old for a page. He must have been in his early forties, which meant he had found no favor at all in the eyes of his superiors. The majority of young boys employed as pages in a castle moved on to positions as squires or assistants to the Craftmasters. Those who didn't were usually lazy, truculent or stupid. Or all three. His next statement decided Will that the fourth option was the correct one. As he glanced up from his coffee cup, the page continued.

"See Lord Orman at ten of the clock."

He turned and walked away. For a moment, Will was tempted to call the page back and give him a dressing down for his lack of manners. As a Ranger, he was used to being treated with respect.

Then he realized that he wasn't a Ranger at the moment. He was a jongleur. Ruefully, he decided that Orman's undisguised contempt for country minstrels must have rubbed off on some of his staff.

There was a water clock in the dining hall and he saw that he had over an hour before his interview with Orman. He wondered briefly why the lord of the castle wanted to see him. His immediate thought was that it had something to do with the events in Grimsdell Wood, but then he realized that this was probably his imagination working overtime, since Grimsdell was foremost in his mind.

More likely, he thought, Orman wanted to see him about the earlier scene with his cousin Keren. The more he considered it, the more he felt that was the case. Orman had been embarrassed in front of the entire assembly. Chances were he would be ready to take out his anger on Will, and he faced the prospect philosophically. There was nothing he could do about it, so there was no point worrying about it. But he realized that he would have to tread a careful path in the future. There was no point in alienating the castle lord, no matter how unpleasant he might be.

He passed the time in the castle's small library, situated in one of the corner towers, hunting through the dusty shelves of books and scrolls to see if there were any references in local histories to the Night Warrior, and looking at random for volumes on sorcery and spells. On both counts, he came up empty-handed. There was only one small volume on sorcery, although he noticed several empty spaces in the shelves beside it. And the few sketchy accounts of local history that he found held no mention of any Night Warrior. Frustrated and distracted by the memory of his reaction in the wood the night before, he made his way to Lord Orman's suite of rooms, on the fourth floor of the keep tower.

Orman's secretary, a small man with a bald head except for tufts of white hair above either ear, looked up as he entered the anteroom. He reminded Will of a bald squirrel, his head moving quickly from side to side, as if to see Will better.

"The Lord Orman wanted to see me," he said briefly. He saw no reason to introduce himself to the secretary.

"Aaah yes, yes, the jongleur, aren't you? Come this way then. Lord Orman is free at the moment."

He rose from behind a table that was laden with paperwork, half-unrolled scrolls and thick ledgers, and knocked on the massive door that led to Orman's chamber. From the other side, Will heard the thin, nasal voice reply.

"Come."

Gesturing for Will to follow, the secretary opened the door and entered. Orman was by the window, looking out at the view of the castle yard below. It was a large room, lit even in daylight by candles and oil lanterns placed at strategic points. A fire in one corner heated the room, which was lined with shelves of books and heavy wooden cabinets. One of these was open and Will saw a display of scrolls inside. Orman had a reputation as a scholar, he thought. His room certainly seemed to reflect it.

"The jongleur, my lord," said the secretary, indicating Will. Orman turned away from the window and studied Will for several seconds without speaking.

"That will be all, Xander," he said, and the secretary bowed and quietly left, closing the door behind him. Orman, still studying Will through unblinking eyes, sat at a table beside the window. There were two other chairs at the table but he made no sign for Will to take one, so he remained standing. He could feel the color mounting in his neck and face at the castle lord's arrogant treatment. Forcing himself to look casual, Will looked away from Orman, allowing his gaze to wander around the room, taking in the stacks of open books and papers on the huge desk against an inner wall.

"My cousin Keren is a disruptive influence," Orman said finally. "You would do well to remember that in the future."

Will said nothing, but bowed in acquiescence. So his prediction had been right. Orman seemed to expect no reply and went on.

"It's easy to be 'popular' when you have no responsibilities, of course. And there are those in this castle who would like to see Keren in charge ..." He hesitated and Will had the strange feeling that the other man almost expected him to comment. Still, he held his peace.

"But he is not," Orman continued. "I am in authority here. No one else. Is that understood?"

The last few words were almost spat out, with an intensity that surprised Will. A little taken aback, he met the hot, angry gaze of the other man and bowed.

"Of course, my lord," he replied. Orman nodded once or twice, then rose from his chair and began to pace the room.

"Then mind your manners in the future, jongleur. I
will
be treated with the respect that my position demands. I may be only the temporary lord of this castle but I will not be undermined by you or Keren. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lord Orman," Will said evenly. He was puzzled. He had the strange feeling that, in spite of his anger, Orman seemed to be almost pleading for respect and recognition.

Orman paused in his pacing and took a deep breath.

"Very well. That said, I realize it is not your fault that you fail to live up to the standards that I consider should be the norm for a jongleur. Country ditties and folk songs are all very well, but they are no substitute for the classics. The kind of simplistic doggerel you sing merely stultifies the minds of the common people. I believe it is a performer's role to lift people. To elevate their perceptions. To expose them to a greatness beyond their own limited horizons."

He stopped, looked at Will and shook his head slightly. Will was in no doubt that Orman found his potential for elevation sadly lacking. He bowed again.

"I regret that I am a simple entertainer, my lord," he said. Orman nodded sourly.

"With the emphasis on simple, I'm afraid," he said.

Head lowered, Will felt his cheeks beginning to flush. Get over it, he told himself. If you plan to be a jongleur, you have to develop a thick skin for criticism. He breathed deeply a few times, regaining control of himself. Orman watched him curiously. The barb had been intentional, Will realized. The castle lord wanted to see how he might respond.

"And yet," Orman said, in almost grudging recognition, "the instrument you play is an uncommonly good one. It's not a Gilperon, by any chance, is it?"

"It's a mandola," Will began his usual response. "It has eight strings, tuned in ..." He got no further.

"I
know
it's a mandola, for pity's sake!" Orman interrupted him. "I was asking if it were made by Axel Gilperon, probably the kingdom's foremost luthier. I would have thought that any professional musician would have heard of him. Even you."

It was a bad slip, Will realized. He tried to cover as best he could.

"My apologies, my lord. I misheard you. My instrument was made for me by a local craftsman in the south, but he is well known for copying the style of the master. Naturally, a poor country musician like myself could never afford a real Gilperon."

He laughed in a self-deprecating way, but Orman continued to stare at him, suspicion all too evident in his gaze. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by a tapping at the door.

"What?" Orman demanded angrily, and the door opened just far enough for his secretary to peer nervously into the room.

"Your pardon, Lord Orman," he said, "but the Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle has arrived and insists on seeing you."

Orman scowled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Xander opened the door a fraction wider, making covert gestures toward the anteroom behind him. "She's
here,
my lord," he said, keeping his voice as low as possible. Orman made an ill-tempered gesture, realizing that the visiting noblewoman was already in his anteroom.

"Very well, show her in," he said. He glanced at Will, who had moved toward the door. "You wait. I'm not finished with you yet."

Xander nodded gratefully and withdrew. A few seconds later, he opened the door wide and entered, standing to one side as he ushered in the new arrival.

"Lord Orman, may I present Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle." He bowed low as the lady entered the room. Blond, tall and beautiful, she was dressed in an exquisite sea-green silk gown and carried herself with the unconscious dignity and grace of a born noble. Will suppressed an exclamation of surprise.

Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle was Alyss.

Alyss swept toward the gray-gowned castle lord, ignoring Will. "Lord Orman," she said, "it is so good of you to shelter me for these next few weeks!" She held out her hand, palm downward, to Orman, leaving him in no doubt as to whom she considered to be more senior in rank.

Orman grudgingly bent over the hand and brushed his lips to it. "Weeks, my lady?" he said. "I thought it was a matter of a few days? A week at most?"

"But surely not!" Alyss recoiled a little at his
gaucherie.
"The roads to my fiancé's castle are thick with snow and I have heard that there are wolves and bears in this countryside! I cannot possibly progress further until the roads clear—anxious as I am to be with my beloved Lord Farrell. Surely, Lord Orman, you would not begrudge me the hospitality promised by your poor dear father."

Orman was trapped. It was interesting, Will thought, how the noble pecking order worked. Sour and ill-mannered as he might be, and a potential murderer to boot, Orman was overwhelmed by Alyss's presumption of superior rank.

"Of course not, Lady Gwendolyn! he said. It was a mere inquiry, nothing more."

But Gwendolyn had already dismissed him and was staring at Will as if he were some kind of inferior insect.

"And whom do we have here?" she asked, arching one eyebrow.

"A jongleur, my lady, arrived only a day ago himself."

"Does this jongleur have a name?" she replied, her gaze fixing on Will. He hesitated. It was Orman's place to introduce him. Someone of common rank could not initiate a conversation with a noblewoman such as Gwendolyn. As he watched the byplay between the two, Will was immensely impressed by her ability to play the role she had taken.

"Will Barton, my lady," said Orman. By having him introduce Will to her, she had reinforced her superior rank once again. Will bowed deeply.

"At your service, my lady," he said. Alyss studied him thoughtfully, one elbow cupped in her hand while her long, elegant fingers stroked her cheek.

"Are you a skilled performer, Will Barton?"

Will glanced sidelong at Orman. "I am a simple entertainer, my lady," he said.

Orman shook his head disparagingly. "Folk songs and country ditties are his limit, I'm afraid, my lady. Hardly what you would call one of the higher rank."

"Folk songs?" Alyss said, and broke into a shrill little laugh. "What fun! Very well, jongleur, you may attend me in my suite in an hour's time. Perhaps your ditties can help me forget the misery of separation from my beloved." She glanced at Orman. "I trust you have no objection, Orman?"

Orman shrugged. "None at all, my lady," he said. "Please avail yourself of all our facilities."

Will's eyebrow shot up. So he was a "facility," was he? Fortunately, he had his expression under control again before Orman noticed. The castle lord's attention was fully occupied by Alyss, as she forged on with her superb impression of an overbearing noblewoman.

"Then perhaps you could have your kitchen deliver a light meal to my rooms as well, Orman?" she said. "I'm tired and hungry after my travels through this dismal countryside of yours. You may present your household to me tomorrow, but for the remainder of the day I prefer to rest."

Orman bowed. "Of course, my lady." Really, thought Will, there was little else he could say. He realized that Alyss was looking at him once more.

"But before I retire, there are one or two things we might discuss, Orman ..." she said meaningfully, and Orman took up her cue.

He made a covert shooing gesture to Will. "Very well, Barton, you may go. We'll continue our discussion another time."

Will bowed deeply. "Lady Gwendolyn, my lord," he said, and backed toward the door. They ignored him, which was only fitting, as Orman ushered Alyss to a chair.

"Remember, jongleur," she called imperiously as Will reached the door, "my rooms in an hour. I may not be ready for you then, so you may have to wait, but be there anyway."

Will bowed again. "Of course, my lady," he said.

As he exited, he heard her saying breathlessly to Orman: "Now, Orman, you must tell me what ails your poor dear father! Is there anything I can do to help?"

Xander eased the heavy door closed behind Will before he could hear Orman's reply.