A Cast of Stones (32 page)

The next day, the villages came closer and closer together until the beginnings and endings could no longer be discerned. “Are we in Erinon, then?” he asked.

The guard on his left spoke, his voice conversational. “Not for some miles yet, though the people here would say different. The city proper is surrounded by Diran's Wall. It was intended to be the defense of the city in case of a siege when it was built five hundred years ago, but the area outside the wall holds more people now than the inside.”

An hour later, Errol's senses were overwhelmed by the size of the city. How did so many people manage to live in one place? A year ago he would have laughed at the tale of it. Now he could only shake his head in wonder. Yet the bustle held a furtive undercurrent, and more than one merchant or goodwife cast nervous glances over their shoulder as they went about their business. At the sight of the guards a chorus of voices raised a clamor.

“The king can protect his fish,” an old woman screeched. “Why can't he protect those of us in the poor quarter?”

A burly man snarled, showing broken and missing teeth. “Aye, there's that, there is. Even the king's city isn't safe anymore.”

The guard next to Errol set his gaze ahead and refused to answer, his face carved from planes of stone. Errol had been in few cities, but the tension in the streets of the capital was unmistakable.

They passed a low building with a sign of the sheaf and pestle denoting it as a healer's. A handful of people waited out front, placid and calm, in stark contrast to the crowds he had just passed through. It was the first time he'd seen people in the city that
weren't squawking or jostling for position. The healer, dressed in his white robes, came to the door accompanied by an older man, bent by age, and leaning heavily on a cane.

“You'll have to stay off that leg when the weather changes, Dane,” the healer said. He called back into the shop. “Dorrie, bring Dane that bag of lamb's ear and soulsease tea.”

A woman's voice answered. Errol had started to ride away when she appeared. He reined Midnight back to a stop. Her simple clothes and the smudges of dirt on her face belied the rich green of her eyes. A lock of sun-gold hair had worked its way free of her head covering. She pressed the bag into Dane's hands with a quick embrace and a smile that made the old man's eyes twinkle.

“There ye go, Dane,” she said with a laugh. “Ye'll need to stop chasin' the lasses if ye want that knee to heal.” Her laughter brought a blush to the old man's cheeks.

“Yer too good, Dorrie. Thank 'ee.” He turned to the healer. “Thank 'ee Healer Norv.”

Dane hobbled away, and the healer and his assistant escorted the next patient into the shop. Encouraged by the sign of kindness and generosity amidst the bleakness, Errol twitched the reins and continued on.

An hour later, at a shouted command from the front, the caravan turned aside. Errol watched them go, and then he approached the city wall from a low rise. Gates wide enough to accommodate twenty men abreast pierced the ancient gray stone every few hundred paces. Spires far higher than the one surmounting the cathedral at Windridge thrust skyward. People of unimaginable variety milled, bustled, ran, and did a hundred other things all at once in the streets. Each face he examined held some unique trait that Errol didn't share.

Errol gripped Midnight's reins as he passed through the imposing gate, until the ache in his fingers reminded him to relax. A forced grin met his request for directions to the watch's barracks and he resolved to avoid conversation if possible.

So slowly he wasn't certain when it started, the crowds of people
began to thin and the sound of Midnight's hooves came to him more often. When he came to another wall—not as high as, but thicker than, the first—only soldiers and churchmen could be seen. He rode up to a smaller, guarded entrance.

A pair of bored-looking guards in red uniforms stood at attention with pikes crossed. “State your business,” the left one said. His eyes never flickered.

Errol looked beyond the gate. Manicured grass stretched for a hundred spans before a monolithic building rose like a bulwark from the earth. To the right he saw what he guessed to be the king's palace, its towers soaring to stand watch over the city and the empire.

“I, uh, I'm here to see a friend. He's in the watch.”

The guard, with the reddish hair and lilting speech of so many in Erinon, lifted an eyebrow. “No one's permitted entrance to the grounds without a pass.”

Errol slumped a fraction in his saddle. “How do I get a pass?”

“The captain of the guard has to sign one for you.”

That didn't sound so hard. “Where can I find the captain of the guard?”

The man beckoned Errol to the side, to a door that led into a guardroom where a dozen other guards lounged and threw dice. A man with two silver bars on his chest occupied a smaller room that lay beyond the first.

The guard opened the door and motioned Errol inside.

“State your name and business,” the captain said without looking up from a stack of papers.

He cleared his throat. “Errol Stone. I'm here to see a friend who's in the watch.”

The man at the desk lowered the quill and sat up in his chair with a smile. “Boy, the men in the watch don't have friends.”

Errol shrugged. As far as descriptions of Cruk went, that was fairly accurate. “His name is Cruk.”

The man nodded. “Aye, one of the captains. But how do you know him?”

“He lived in my village for the past five years.”

“So you say.” The captain nodded. “Can you describe him?”

Errol spread his hands. “He's about this wide, and a bit taller than me. He calls me
boy
all the time, and when I get too close to Cilla or do things he doesn't like, he throws me places.”

A grin appeared in the captain's freckled face. “And this man is your friend?”

Errol shrugged. “He tried to teach me how to use a sword, but I wasn't very good at it. Cruk said the only thing I could do well was drink.” Errol gripped his staff.

The captain's interest faded. “Be that as it may, I can't let you in unless it's official business.”

Errol bit his lip in frustration. “Can you send someone to get him?”

A widening of the captain's eyes told Errol he'd just proposed something unthinkable. “Boy, unless you're the king, you do not summon one of the watch. They answer to him alone. You tell an interesting tale, but the only way you're going through that gate to the barracks is if you intend to challenge for a spot on the watch.” He gave a contemptuous glance at Errol's staff. “Which, obviously, you're not about to do.”

“All right, then. I hereby challenge for a position in the watch.”

The captain shook his head in disbelief. “Are you that eager for a beating, or are you just ignorant?” He sighed. “Well, you're about to learn how the watch discourages people from wasting their time. Padrig,” he yelled through the doorway, “conduct Errol Stone to the barracks of the watch and present him to the officer on duty.” The captain shook his head again. “Good luck, boy, but I doubt if there's enough luck in the kingdom to keep you from the lesson you're about to get.”

Errol shrugged. He'd been beaten before. If gaining access to Cruk, Martin, and Luis cost him a few bruises, then he'd just have to pay the price.

A large rectangular building housed the members of the watch. Five stories high and two hundred paces long, the building was
constructed of the same gray stone he'd seen throughout the city, and it dwarfed every building he'd seen on his journey to Erinon. Yet it looked almost small compared to the king's palace.

“In here,” Padrig said. He guided him through an archway that proved to be a tunnel leading to an immense courtyard. The reason for the immensity of the barracks became clear. The open area enclosed by the mammoth structure held the training ground for the members of the watch.

Stacks of weapons in racks lined the outer edges, and here and there, small knots of men trained. At the far end men practiced archery, some on horseback, some on foot. In the middle, men fought and wrestled without the benefit of weapons, their chests and backs gleaming with sweat. Closest to him, several men in black sparred well-dressed nobility, halting from moment to moment to give some word of instruction or to correct an error in stance or posture.

The men in black, men of the watch, didn't give their instruction in half measures. Mistakes apparently meant swift correction. Blood appeared commonplace. Errol watched an unconscious man being removed from the sparring area. He gripped his staff and held it close, as though the wood could give him some protection or comfort.

A man with a single red sword emblazoned on an armband noticed them and glided across the ground to them. “Another one, eh?” the watchman asked.

Padrig rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

“He's the third one this week.” He turned to Errol. “I'm Lieutenant Garrigus.” Deep brown eyes looked him over. “Hmmm. A staff man. We haven't had one of those in a while. Not a bad weapon, the staff, when it's properly used. Unfortunately, most men think it's a glorified club.” He shook his head. “You won't be allowed to use the knobblocks. Take them off.”

Errol slid his hands along the wood, twisted each weight loose, and stashed them in his cloak.

“What's your name?”

“Errol Stone.”

The lieutenant nodded. “An orphan. Well, we've more than a couple of those in the watch. Why are you here, Errol Stone?”

He looked over at Padrig. “I have a friend here in the watch. This man's captain wouldn't send for him, told me the only way I might get to see him was to challenge. So I did.”

Even before he'd finished, the lieutenant was shaking his head. “So you don't want to join the watch.”

“No, not really.”

The lieutenant's face darkened. “Soldier, escort this boy firmly out of the barracks.”

Errol broke Padrig's grip and stepped away. “I came here to see my friend.”

“I don't care why you're here,” the lieutenant said. “I don't have time to spend on some peasant boy who wants to gad about the imperial grounds.” He turned, pointing. “You see these men? They've taken the black as a pledge to give their lives to protect the king.”

“I know the story of the watch,” Errol said, “but I need to see my friend.”

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. “You want to see him? All you have to do is follow through on your challenge. You'll face five men of the watch. To join our ranks, you have to defeat three of them. If you manage to beat even one of them, boy, I'll go fetch your friend myself.”

Errol's heart skipped a pair of beats. The best swordsmen in the kingdom came to the watch. How good were they, really? He took a deep breath. “All right, I challenge for the watch.”

With a snort, the lieutenant led Errol over to an empty area of the courtyard and left him to loosen up with some of the simpler forms. Errol let his breath flow smoothly, calmed his mind, and thought of Rale, Jhade, and everything he'd been taught.

Minutes later the lieutenant stood before him, five men with practice swords behind him. He stepped aside to show a squat man ten years older than Errol, a silver sword on his breast. “Errol
Stone, this is Sergeant Olwen. He'll be administering your first beating. The four men with him are members of his squad.” He turned, facing the sergeant. “This boy wants to see his friend. He seems to think members of the watch run messages. I would appreciate it if you could disabuse him of that notion, Sergeant.”

The sergeant glowered. “Aye, Lieutenant. It'd be my pleasure.”

The lieutenant smiled without humor at Errol. “Prepare yourself, boy.”

As Errol removed his cloak, fire pumped through his veins. How would the sergeant compare to Skorik?

“Begin!” the lieutenant's voice cracked.

The sergeant charged, but Errol's staff, light and familiar after months of work with the heavier knobblocks, disappeared leaving only a high-pitched buzzing behind. He flowed and moved with the sergeant's charge. Almost before it began, the fight ended. The sergeant lay facedown on the ground, unconscious.

The men of the squad took a collective step back, and Errol heard a set of mutterings. “Never saw him move . . . nobody handles a staff that way . . . can't be a peasant boy . . . what's the lieutenant up to . . . better check the sergeant.”

Errol grounded his staff and leaned on it. “I've had my fill of fighting, Lieutenant, and I really need to see my friend. I believe you said that if I beat even one of the five you'd get him yourself. How good is your word?”

Dark eyes flashed at him. “My word is good. But I also said you'd face five men of the watch, and five men you'll face.” He turned to the man who'd been last in line. “Brascus, you can go. I'll be taking your spot.”