A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (21 page)

Karryl clasped his hands on the table. “Almost certainly. From what I’ve heard so far, it seems clear that he wants Otty out of the way until the time comes when he can activate the spell you just mentioned.”

“So why didn’t he just snatch him, or something, instead of putting us through all that?”

The younger magician thought for a moment before replying. “It strikes me that he just couldn’t resist showing you what he’s capable of, but to cover his actions he had to convince you that he was there to help you. It’s quite clear that his deviousness matches his ego.” He smiled at Corlin and Bardeen. “I think it is time we gave him a name, don’t you?”

Corlin looked worried and raised an eyebrow. “Bit risky that, don’t you think?”

Karryl shook his head. “Not if we refer to him as ‘Jacca’, which comes from the old tongue and means a trickster. How does that sound?”

The minstrel failed to stifle a derogatory snort. “Hah! He’s that all right. Yes. I like that. Jacca it is.”

Bardeen gave a hearty chuckle. “There is another ancient language in which it means something completely different...and even less complimentary.”

He stood up from the table and crossed the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea Karryl?”

The tall magician shook his head as he also stood, and moved towards the door. “Thank you, but no. I’ve planned to meet Aenys. After that, I have to persuade Master Gibb to let me rummage deeper into the palace archives.”

He looked down at Corlin, still slumped in his chair and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Good day Corlin. I hope we will meet again.”

Only partially untangled from his web of thoughts, Corlin looked up and blinked. “Oh! Erm...yes. Thank you.”

After a brief nod and a knowing smile at his fellow magician, Karryl vanished, his disappearance accompanied by a soft ‘puh’ of displaced air.

It was obvious to both magician and minstrel that the other preferred to sit and think rather than talk. After a long interlude of tense silence, Bardeen stood up and clattered about for a few moments before placing a large mug of tea in front of Corlin.

His next words caught the minstrel completely off guard. “It would be a good idea, I think, if you delayed the next stage of your quest for a month or so.”

Corlin stared at the magician as though the man had gone mad. “I can’t do that! D’you realise what I still have to do, and I must get back to Lord Treevers with all the pieces of the clock before the winter Festival?”

Bardeen’s condescending smile put Corlin on edge. His jaw tightened as he fought to control himself and listen to the magician’s reasoning.

“Of course I do, which is why I think you shouldn’t go haring off into the mountains just yet. You’ll save more time by just waiting here until the weather over the passes improves. The going will be easier, you’ll make better time, and both you and Megan will be rested and fit to cope with whatever else you might run in to.”

Corlin scowled. “Such as?”

Bardeen rested his clasped hands on the table and shook his head, avoiding meeting Corlin’s determined gaze. “I don’t know, but even the lower passes in those mountains have a reputation for being treacherous...and your destination isn’t called the Fellgate for nothing.”

The minstrel took a deep breath and relaxed a little. “So, why that name, and where is it?”

Bardeen stood up from the table and began busying himself around the kitchen, talking as he worked. “The name is a corruption of the old language. ‘Fellen’ meant ‘lost’ or ‘hidden’ depending on the context, and a ‘gatte’ which was variously a ‘token’ a ‘password’ or ‘a key’ ”.

He pitched a couple of logs into the firebox of the range and pulled a kettle across onto the hob. “So you see, it’s neither fell, nor a gate, but even so, not to be treated lightly.”

Corlin’s brow furrowed. “That still doesn’t tell me where it is.”

The magician stooped down and retrieved a chubby ginger kitten which was attempting to climb up into the log-basket. “Nor can I. It’s a place of folk-tales, and stories to frighten children with. What few records there are, show that anyone who tried to find it, for whatever reason, found themselves back where they started and telling wild tales of unseen things that frightened the living daylights out of them and drove them off.”

Corlin gave a sceptical grunt. “Well, Jacca must know where it is, ‘cos that’s where he’s supposed to have hidden the clock’s innards.”

Bardeen raised a finger in contradiction. “Not necessarily. If there
are
creatures living up there, and Jacca
is
the clockmaker, it’s quite possible he put it in their safe-keeping without even going near the place. Who knows what devious schemes he may have concocted in the past, or with whom?”

His expression dark and sullen, Corlin picked at a broken fingernail for a moment or two. “How long before Megan has her new shoe?”

The magician frowned, puzzled by the sudden change of subject. “Tomorrow probably. Why?”

Corlin’s fist clenched on the table-top as he glared at Bardeen. “Because I don’t like the idea of hanging round in Vellethen for a month. I’m a WestLand farmer; I can cope with bad weather and rough conditions. As for wild animals, I know a few tricks when it comes to dealing with
them
.” He paused as if considering what to say next. “Not only that; I want to get the drop on Jacca.”

Bardeen looked intrigued and folded his arms. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Corlin’s mouth twisted. “Well, just before he disappeared with Otty, he did tell me to come to Vellethen. So, now I’m here, it’s a fair bet he’ll be expecting me to stay for a while, right?”

The magician nodded and gave a knowing little smile. “And you think you can be there and back before he knows you’ve gone.”

Corlin tapped the table with his forefinger. “Exactly. Not only that; I reckon that the token Browd gave me could be the means of safe passage once I get near the Fellgate. If Jacca knows about it and plans to get it off me and use it himself, he’ll have to be quick. Without Megan’s shoe he’ll have trouble finding me...I hope.”

Bardeen moved the boiling kettle to one side of the hob, then sat down at the table, facing Corlin.

He shook his head slowly, as if despairing of a wilful child. “It’s your quest Master Corlin, and I can only advise you. Far be it from me to tell you what to do. If you feel that you should continue as soon as possible, then do so. I will take you to collect Megan tomorrow, and then you can go on your way.”

As Corlin responded with a nod of satisfaction, the magician held up a restraining hand. “But that is for tomorrow. The remainder of today would, I think, be best spent getting yourself seen in Vellethen. Buy a few things perhaps. Make it seem as though you do indeed intend to stay for a while.”

Corlin couldn’t argue with that, and decided to make a quick visit to the privy. When he came back into the kitchen, it took him a few seconds to realise that the stranger waiting for him was Bardeen. The magician now sported a neatly trimmed goatee, and his white hair was tied in a neat queue at the back of his neck. The distinctive magician’s robes had been replaced by a short dark blue jacket, matching knee-breeches, black stockings and buckled shoes. The entire outfit was finished off with a soft velvet hat with a silver emblem set at the front of the crown.

Corlin grinned. “I’m impressed; but why the disguise?”

Bardeen gave a self-conscious little preen. “Thank you. Now, it’s almost certain that Jacca doesn’t know me, but if he is in Vellethen and was to see you with a magician, he would soon add two and two. This way he will see you, not with a magician but with a Guild-master, which will hopefully set him on entirely the wrong track in his search for either of us.”

Corlin nodded his appreciation, but his brow furrowed. “Suppose he recognises the guild emblem. He’d only have to ask another member.”

Bardeen chuckled. “That’s the beauty of it. There aren’t any. I’m the only member of the Guild of Linguistics; and anyway, I’m in disguise, remember. Shall we go?”

Each equipped with their own unique and curiously carved staff, disguised magician and minstrel made their way down into the city. Corlin’s staff hadn’t seen a lot of use since Cadomar had conjured it up from somewhere for him, but by the time several shops had been visited and a number of useful purchases made, including gimalin strings and foodstuffs, the minstrel was feeling very appreciative of whatever quality it was with which the staff was imbued. Sometimes he even felt as though his feet weren’t touching the ground, but he knew that wasn’t true. He had taken a quick look a time or two.

It was late afternoon when Corlin turned away from the stall he had been looking at near the far end of Little Market.

He gave Bardeen’s elbow a nudge. “I’ve just seen Jacca, but I think he was alone. Where d’you think Otty is?”

The magician shook his head. “I couldn’t say right now, but Jacca’s being alone is all to the good. Now, I think it’s time we went home.”

Corlin was expecting to have his arm gripped and suddenly find himself in Bardeen’s kitchen, but to his surprise the magician turned, raised his arm high in the air and waved. A couple of minutes later a carriage drawn by a sturdy piebald cob drew up beside them. After handing over a silver and having a few quiet words to the driver, Bardeen ushered Corlin inside, piled their numerous packages on the seat and climbed in beside him.

He gave Corlin a mischievous grin. “This should throw him.”

Corlin frowned. “Won’t he just follow us?”

Bardeen tapped his nose. “Just wait and see.”

A short while later the driver turned down a side-street and pulled up outside an inn. Setting the brake, he clambered down from his seat, gave the horse a nose-bag, and went inside. Bardeen gathered up the packages and piled them into Corlin’s arms.

Holding both staffs in one hand, he gripped Corlin’s wrist with the other. “Are you ready?”

Corlin nodded. At the end of the street, and two miles away from Bardeen’s house, a man with a braided hat-band lounged against a wall as he waited for the passengers of the carriage to come out of the inn.

The sun had been up for an hour when Bardeen gripped Corlin’s wrist and transported them to the courtyard which fronted the livery stables. Megan whickered a welcome as the two men entered her stall, and stood quietly as Corlin checked her shoes.

The minstrel straightened up, his face alive with surprise. “She’s got a complete new set! Why’s he done that I wonder?”

Bardeen chuckled and pointed across the stable-yard. “Ask him yourself. Good morning Marcus!”

The young man raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning!” He lifted Megan’s saddle off its stand, talking as he worked. “Her old shoes were quite worn so I thought it best if she had new ones all round.” He winked at Corlin as he lifted the saddle onto Megan’s back and bent to fasten the girth. “No extra charge.”

Having set up an instant rapport, Corlin and Marcus chatted and joked as they prepared Megan for her travels. Saddled and bridled, she stood patiently as the three men availed themselves of the morning sunshine and spent half an hour in animated conversation, until the moment came when it was unanimously agreed that the time had come for Corlin to resume his quest. Despite Bardeen’s argument that in all likelihood the instrument would be an encumbrance, the minstrel’s gimalin, now in a new waterproof case he had purchased in Vellethen, was slung across his back. Remembering its behaviour at the Whispering Forest, Corlin had reservations about leaving it behind. He felt deep down that there was more than just music in this rare and beautiful instrument which had so mysteriously come into his possession.

After a final check of the saddlebags, the minstrel swung into the saddle and grinned down at Bardeen and Marcus. “I hope we meet again but, in case we don’t, thanks for all your help.”

Marcus nodded as if it was all in a day’s work, but Bardeen gave the minstrel a knowing smile. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Until then, take it steady. You have at least a two day ride to the moors; another day’s ride from there should see you within sight of the foothills.”

He stood back and raised a hand in farewell as Corlin turned Megan and rode towards the five-barred gate which Marcus was now holding open. He raised his hand, smiled and made the sign for good luck as Corlin passed through. The sound of the gate’s heavy spring-latch closing was lost in the clatter of Megan’s hooves on the stony track.

Following the directions which Bardeen had given him earlier that morning, Corlin kept Megan to a steady walk. Although the urgency of his quest was never far from his mind, he carried his late father’s words in his heart, and on quite a few occasions recently, events had given him cause to recall many of them.

With his ultimate destination no more than a purplish blue haze in the distance, this was one of those occasions. “The hastier you are, the slower your progress.”

Even so, Corlin valued this time he had snatched from Bardeen, and decided to by-pass Hanbrook by taking the trail which led up into the hills behind the village, through acres of meadows and woods and on to the moors beyond. The morning’s promise of a fine day held good, and Corlin noticed tiny dots of soft green scattered amongst the bare branches of the trees. The season was changing. By nightfall, the neat little village was far behind and Corlin was deep in the woods, investigating a charcoal burner’s hut set to one side of a small clearing. The recently burnt out stack, and a small pile of windblown leaves and dross against the sturdy door, told him that the site had not been worked in the last few days. Even so, Corlin felt an inexplicable discomfort, as though something was not quite right about the place. He peered into shadows cast by the light of an obliging half moon creeping over the tops of the trees, and gave an occasional sniff as the breeze wafted unfamiliar odours into his nostrils.

Leaving Megan tethered to a nearby tree-stump and enjoying the contents of a nose-bag, Corlin cautiously approached the darkened hut. He prodded the door with the end of his staff, and stepped quickly back as the wooden barrier creaked open an inch or two. In an instant his senses were assaulted by a heavy nauseating stench accompanied by a deep, prolonged and throaty growl. His first thought was that some wild creature had taken refuge in the hut, but then a more sinister possibility reared its appalling head. Corlin moved to one side, reached out with his staff and gave the door a hefty shove. He swallowed hard with relief as nothing rushed out to attack him, but the low rumbling growl continued. Quelling the urge to throw up, he tried not to breathe too deeply as he held his staff out in front of him and stepped unsteadily into the shadows and stink of the hut’s interior.

Slumped against the far wall, barely six feet away, was a man’s body. The staring eyes and the blue-tinged lips drawn back in a ghastly rictus, told of a painful death. Lying next to the corpse, a heavy-shouldered red-coated hound curled its lip, threatening rumbles from deep in its chest warning Corlin not to come any closer. Leaning on his staff, Corlin began to talk, his gaze drifting to a battered old oil lamp and a tinderbox sat in the middle of a small table.

He struggled to keep his voice from trembling. “So, what do we do now, dog? I think the best thing I can do is get this lamp lit and see what’s what.”

At the sound of Corlin’s voice, the hound ceased its grumbling and stood up. Careful not to make any sudden moves, the minstrel reached out, pulled the lamp and tinderbox towards him, and set about making some light. The hound watched his every move, its thick whip-like tail held low and waving slowly, as Corlin held the lamp high and forward to get a better view of the body.

He contemplated it for a moment or two, worked out what had really occurred, then turned to look down at the blameless and bewildered animal. “Are you going to be a good dog and let me give your master a decent burial?”

The hound looked back up at Corlin, its flop-eared head on one side as if it understood. It then proceeded to follow Corlin around, whining now and then as the minstrel searched the tiny hut for something in which to wrap the body, and tools to dig with. Half an hour later, with a moth-eaten blanket serving as a shroud, and the hound whimpering and snuffling beside him, Corlin dragged the old charcoal burner’s corpse out of the hut and over to the edge of the clearing. Even though the humus-rich soil was soft and moist, his bent foot made the task of digging no easier, and he was forced to settle for a shallow grave. After placing a layer of un-burnt logs over the mound, he quietly sang a hymn to D’ta for the dead.

His task complete, he returned to the hut, turned out the lamp, retrieved his staff and shuffled dejectedly back to Megan. With a half moon high in the sky to light the way, he wanted to move on and find somewhere else to spend the remainder of the night. After removing Megan’s nosebag, he clambered into the saddle and looked across the clearing. The hound was sitting by the log-covered grave, staring at it as if expecting his master to return at any minute.

Corlin whistled one short note, and called “Come on, dog. We’re leaving.”

The hound turned its head, looked at Corlin, then looked back at his master’s final resting place. Half expecting the soulful eyed mutt to ignore him, Corlin was quietly pleased when, as if resigned to the inevitable, the dog stood up and trotted over to where Corlin and Megan waited. The grey mare lowered her head and whiffled softly at the long-legged hound which seemed completely unmoved by the encounter, much to Corlin’s relief. He rummaged in a saddlebag, brought out a large chunk of sausage and pitched it down to the dog. A couple of minutes later a fed horse, a half-fed hound and an empty minstrel were making their way through the woodland in search of a place to sleep.