Sorcerer of the North (21 page)

Crowley made a gesture of irritation.

"I'm worried, dammit," he said, and Halt raised one eyebrow.

"You don't say," he said with mild irony. "Well, now that we have established that fact and I have conceded that yes, you are worried, perhaps you might stop your interminable pacing."

"If I stop it, it can hardly be interminable, can it?" Crowley challenged him. Halt pointed to a chair on the other side of the table.

"Just humor me and sit down," he said. Crowley shrugged and did as he was asked. He sat for a full five seconds, then was up and pacing again. Halt muttered something under his breath. Crowley surmised, correctly, that it was uncomplimentary, and chose to ignore it.

"The problem is," he said, "Will's report raises more questions than it answers."

Halt nodded agreement. He was about to come to his former apprentice's defense but he realized that Crowley wasn't criticizing Will's report. He was merely stating a fact. There were a lot of unanswered questions in the brief message: strange sights and sounds in the wood, apparently caused by a person or persons unknown; friction at the castle between Orman and his cousin; Orman's apparent inability to command; and the fact that someone, presumably Orman, had arranged for Alyss to be followed when she went on her morning ride. In most castles, it would have been an interesting set of occurrences. In a vulnerable strategic site like Macindaw, close to a hostile border, it was downright dangerous. Still...

"It's early days yet," he said finally, and Crowley dropped into the chair again, sprawling sideways, one leg cocked over the arm. He sighed deeply, knowing Halt was right.

"I know," he said. "I just wonder if there might be more than Will and Alyss can handle up there." Halt considered the point.

"I trust Will," he said, and Crowley made a gesture of agreement. In spite of his youth, Will was highly regarded in the Rangers—more highly than he knew. "And Pauline says Alyss is one of her best agents." Lady Pauline was a senior member of the Diplomatic Service. She had originally recruited Alyss and undertaken her early training. Alyss was as much her protégé as Will was Halt's.

"Yes. They're the right choices for the task, I know. And if we send in too many people we run the risk of exposing our hand and doing more harm than good. It's just I have a... funny feeling about this. Like someone is behind me and I can sense them but I can't see them. You understand?"

Halt nodded. "I've got the same feeling. But as you say, if we overdo things, we'll give the game away."

There was a long silence between them. They were both in agreement. But they also both had that same uneasy feeling.

"Of course, we could always send maybe one more person to help out if they need it," Halt suggested.

Crowley looked at him quickly, then said, "One more person wouldn't be overdoing it."

"Someone who could provide a bit of muscle—if they need it," Halt continued. "To cover their backs, as it were."

"I think I'd feel a bit better knowing they had even a little bit more backup," Crowley said.

"And of course," Halt added, "if we send the right person, he might provide more than just a little bit."

The eyes of both men met over the table. They were old comrades and friends. They had known each other for decades, served together in more campaigns than either could remember. Each knew exactly what the other was thinking and each was in complete agreement with the other.

"You're thinking Horace?" Crowley asked, and Halt nodded.

"I'm thinking Horace," he said.

Will had no idea that his superiors had decided to send help to him and Alyss. The pigeon that had carried his report was the only one that had learned the route between Norgate Fief and Castle Araluen. So it was the only one that could carry a reply back to him, and it would take three or four days before it would recover sufficient strength to undertake another journey. Then, of course, it would return to its last roosting place—with Alyss's man some distance from the castle. Until Will made contact with him, he would be unaware that help was on its way.

Had he known, he might have felt a little more secure. Horace was only one man but he had proved his worth many times over. As an apprentice, he had been an extraordinarily talented warrior—a natural, as his teachers put it. He had defeated the rebel warlord Morgarath in single combat and later had served with great distinction in the Skandian war against the Temujai riders. In addition, he had earned a fearsome reputation for his skill in single combat—the name of the Oakleaf Knight was still spoken with awe throughout Gallica. His exploits were such that King Duncan had no hesitation in formally knighting him before he had completed half the allotted time for his apprenticeship.

So the news that Horace was on his way might well have counteracted the unease Will felt on this bright winter morning. Still mulling over the conversation in the barracks room, he planned to see Alyss as soon as he could find a reasonable excuse, to talk it over with her. Already, he was half inclined to seek assistance from Sir Keren. After all, the young garrison commander was obviously not close to his cousin and he had an independent armed force at his command, which could prove valuable. But before Will could take such a radical step, he would have to discuss it with Alyss.

He was also keen to set a time when they might further investigate the mysterious Malkallam—for he must be the one behind the lights, the images and the attempts to discourage visitors to Grimsdell Wood. But before any of the above steps could be taken, he needed to contrive a way to have Alyss send for him. As a lowly jongleur, he could hardly barge in on a lady's quarters uninvited.

In the meantime, he had gone to the stables to make sure Tug was well cared for. And, since the dog was beginning to fret in Wills confined and somewhat stuffy castle quarters, he had taken her to the stables to keep Tug company. Both animals seemed content with the arrangement when he left them together. Tug had adopted an amused, superior attitude to the dog, while she, in her turn, seemed to accept the shaggy little Ranger horse as a reasonable substitute for Will himself. The dog wouldn't stray, he knew, but there was plenty in the way of strange new scents and noises and odd corners to keep her occupied in the castle stables.

It was as well he left her there. As he was crossing the courtyard, a vaguely familiar figure left the gatehouse, striding toward the central keep. He was a tall man, with dark hair and beard, and from a distance Will couldn't make out his features. But the way he moved, the way he held himself, was familiar—as was the heavy war spear he carried in his right hand, hefting it easily in spite of its considerable weight. After a few seconds' hesitation, Will made the connection in his mind.

John Buttle. The man he had left with the Skandian crew in faraway Seacliff Fief.

"What the devil is he doing here?" Will muttered to himself. Hastily, he turned away and dropped to one knee, pretending to fasten a strap on his boot. But fortunately, Buttle wasn't looking in his direction. He entered the keep and Will straightened, his mind racing. By now, Buttle should have been safely ensconced on Skorghijl with the Skandian crew, hundreds of kilometers to the northeast and well out of the way. But his turning up here was a real problem. After all, he had heard the conversation between Will and Alyss and knew that...

He stopped in mid-thought. Alyss! If Buttle were to see her, he could easily recognize her. Of course, he reasoned, her hairstyle and clothes were more elaborate now, as befitted a titled lady. When Buttle had last seen her, she had been wearing the simple but elegant courier's robe and her long hair had been down. But Alyss was a striking figure and, given enough time, he might remember her. If he did, he would know she was not the empty-headed Lady Gwendolyn, but a Diplomatic Service Courier.

Whether he might recognize Will was a moot point. He wouldn't look to see him in the bright, garish clothes of a jongleur. He knew Will was a Ranger and he would expect to see him in dull-colored, plain Ranger garb. As Halt had taught him, people tend to look for what they expect to see. Besides, the light had been uncertain in the shadows by the door where they had fought. But once he recognized Alyss, it would be only a matter of time before he made the connection to the other stranger in the castle.

Will's first step was clear then. He had to warn Alyss immediately. She would simply have to keep out of sight until they had sorted out this awkward new development. He started toward the keep door, then hesitated. Buttle had gone through there and Will had no idea where he might be now. He might be just inside, in the main hall. Or he might even be coming back out again. Will looked around for an alternative entrance to the keep. The kitchens, he knew, opened out into the rear of the courtyard. He'd go that way.

Before he could move, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into the stern face of the sergeant major. Two other members of the garrison stood close by, their hands on their weapons. There was no sign of the previous evening's friendliness. The three men were all business.

"Just a moment, jongleur," the sergeant major said. "Lord Orman wants a word with you."

Will sized up the situation. The sergeant major was old and slow-moving, albeit an experienced warrior. And the other two were merely men-at-arms—their weapon skills weren't likely to be too advanced. He was confident he could deal with at least two of them before they could draw their weapons. But that would still leave one to sound the alarm—and the gatehouse and drawbridge were thirty meters away and manned by another three or four armed men. He'd never get out of the castle if he tried to fight now. The only thing he could do was try to bluff it out. He made this assessment in approximately half a second.

"Very well, sar'major," he replied, smiling. "I'll drop in on him when I've finished my errand."

The hand didn't budge from his shoulder.

"Now," the sergeant major said firmly, and Will shrugged.

"Of course, now is convenient for me as well," he said. "Lead the way." He gestured for the soldier to go ahead of him but the older man stood firm. His eyes were unamused.

"After you, jongleur," he said.

Will gave what he hoped was an unconcerned shrug and led the way across the courtyard. The three soldiers fell into place around him—the sergeant major behind him and the other two flanking him. Their heavy boots rang on the cobbles as they approached the door.

Will breathed a silent prayer that they wouldn't encounter Buttle on his way out. A man being so obviously escorted would be bound to draw attention and if Buttle looked closely, he might well recognize him, jongleur's clothes or no.

Fortunately, there was no sign of his former prisoner as they entered. The sergeant major prodded him with a hard, blunt object—Will realized that he had drawn the heavy mace he wore at his belt—and they headed for the stairs to Orman's rooms.

As was the fashion, the stairs curved around to the right, so that an attacker fighting his way upward would have to expose his entire body to use his sword while a defender above him could strike with only his right arm and side exposed. He could hear the sergeant major beginning to breathe heavily behind him as they went upward and the two flanking men had to fall behind on the narrow stairway. He could easily sprint away from them here, he realized. But the question remained, where could he go? Once again, he decided to bide his time for a better opportunity. Once he tried to escape, he knew, any chance of pretending innocence was gone. He decided to wait until his chances of success were better. Here, in the heart of Orman's castle, with armed men behind him and nowhere to go but upward, those chances didn't look too bright.

They reached Orman's fourth-floor suite of rooms. Will hesitated at the door to the anteroom but the mace prodded him once more.

"Go on in," the sergeant major's grim voice ordered and, with no choice but to obey, Will did as he was told.

Xander was at his table in the anteroom. He looked up as they entered without knocking. If he was surprised to see the minstrel being escorted by three armed men, he gave no sign of it. He held up a hand, motioning them to stop, then slipped out from behind his paper-laden table and opened the door to the inner office. Will heard his quiet voice.

"The men have brought Barton, my lord," he said. There was an indistinct mumble from inside the room and he bowed his head quickly and emerged, motioning for the sergeant major and Will to enter as he opened the door wider.

The mace prodded Will in the back again. That little habit was starting to annoy him and he was tempted to take the weapon from the sergeant major and do a little prodding of his own. Truth be told, he was curious to know what Orman wanted from him, and as long as he didn't summon more guards, Will was confident he could escape any time he chose.

Orman was behind his own work table. Will noticed that the books on magic were still among his papers, one of them lying open at a page marked with a leather bookmark. Orman was wearing his usual dark robe and he seemed to be hunched over in the large wooden armchair. He moved awkwardly as he waved Xander out, almost as if he was in pain. His voice, when he spoke, confirmed the impression. He seemed to form his words with difficulty and his breathing was heavy and labored.

"Well done, sergeant major. Any trouble from him?"

"None, sir. Came right peaceably," the soldier announced. Orman nodded slowly.

"Good. Good," he muttered to himself. There was a pause as he breathed heavily, then he flicked the fingers of one hand at the sergeant major in a gesture of dismissal.

"Very well, sergeant major. You can leave us. Wait outside, please."

The old soldier hesitated. "Are you sure, my lord?" he asked uncertainly. "The prisoner may try to ..." He stopped in mid-sentence. He wasn't sure what Will might do. In fact, he wasn't even sure that he was a prisoner. He had been ordered to take two men and go fetch him here right away and so he had assumed that there as trouble brewing. Now, as Orman dismissed him, he began to wonder if this was simply a social matter and he remembered with some concern the prodding he had been doing all the way up the stairs.