Bard's Oath (15 page)

No, it was up to him and Stormwind to make the first impression, to play the ambassadors for the future colts. For the future of Yarrow’s holding.

Raven took a deep breath. “Let’s go, boy,” he said.

Stormwind tossed his head and started off once more.

*   *   *

At the great yellow tent, Raven dismounted. “Let’s hope there aren’t too many nobles’ stewards ahead of us,” he murmured to the Llysanyin, “or we’ll be here all day.”

As he crossed the threshold into the tent, Raven paused to let his eyes adjust. While the inside of the tent was not as dim as he’d first thought, it was a far cry from the blazing sunlight outside.

Trestle tables had been set up around the perimeter of the tent. Clerks sat at them, quill pens busily scratching in account books as they accepted fees from the men and women in line and deposited the coins in the iron-bound wooden boxes at their sides. Men and women in all manner of dress milled about, some in livery, some quite well dressed, many in plain but good clothes, and a good number in the shabby finery or motley of mummers, minstrels, jugglers, and acrobats.

Raven looked around in bewilderment. Which line should he get into? Or did it matter?

A small, wizened old man wearing blue-and-orange livery appeared at his side. “Horse trader, merchant, blacksmith, or entertainer, good sir?” the old man asked briskly.

“Horse trader,” Raven answered, remembering that blue-and-orange were Lord Sevrynel’s colors. This was no doubt one of the understewards who ran the fair.

The old man studied him. “I’ve never seen you here before, sir. How many horses have you to sell?”

“I’m here for Yarrow Whitethorndaughter. She’s been delayed by bad weather and a blocked pass. She sent me ahead.”

“Ah!” The old face broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is well known and much respected here. I must tell you, sir, that we were getting a bit worried whether she was coming this year. Usually she’s here before this. You’ve a letter from her?”

Raven patted his belt pouch in answer.

“Excellent.” The old man indicated a long line of fairly well-dressed men and women. “That’s where you go, Master…?” He tilted his head in question.

“Redhawkson. Raven Redhawkson, sir. Yarrow is my aunt.” He almost added
And partner,
but the words still felt awkward on his tongue, as if he bragged.

Bushy grey eyebrows went up and the old steward stared at Raven for a long moment.

“We’d heard that Yarrow has taken a nephew as her partner,” the old man said slowly, fingering his chin. There was an odd note in his voice. It was not, Raven thought, unfriendly; just … thoughtful.

“That would be me,” Raven replied, unsure of just what was happening and surprised that word of Yarrow’s new partner had spread this far.

“Indeed.” Now the old man looked beatifically up at him and said, “Just take your place before that table, Master Redhawkson, and Elamry will see to everything.” He tilted his head toward a table where sat a grey-haired woman, busily writing with a quill pen in the account book before her.

With another gap-toothed smile and a slight bow, and the old man turned away to assist someone else. Raven took his place at the end of the line, still wondering.

Though the clerk and her assistant were brisk and efficient, the line was long. And while many accepted the site in the horse lines allotted to them, others argued for a better position in the camp. Raven wondered how many prevailed; very few, he thought, judging by the sour expressions as the petitioners passed him.

At last there was only one person ahead of him, a portly man in a dull green tunic heavy with white and yellow ribbon trim. When he began protesting that he wanted a different spot, Raven sighed and let his thoughts wander once more.

Then the mention of his aunt’s name cut through the mental debate of which food tent he’d passed had the most appetizing aromas wafting from it. At once Raven’s attention was riveted on the conversation ahead of him.

“Well, then—if you won’t give me Darsi Coper’s place, what about Yarrow Whitethorndaughter’s? You know as well as I do that she’s never this late, she must have changed her mind about—”

Raven interrupted in alarm. “Yarrow’s coming. She’s just been delayed.”

The man turned and glared at him. “And who are
you
?”

“Raven Redhawkson. Yarrow is my aunt.” To the clerk, Elamry, he said in some alarm, “Truly, she’s on her way.”

As the man snorted “I don’t believe—” the clerk held out her hand.

“Your proof, young sir,” she said.

Raven fumbled his belt pouch open and tugged out the hide tube that held Yarrow’s letter. He gave it to Elamry.

The clerk studied the wax seal on the ties over the end cap for a moment, then nodded. “That certainly looks like Yarrow’s seal. I recognize that little chip in the rim,” she said. “Let us just make certain.…”

She broke the seal at one end and pulled out the letter. “Mmmm, hrmmm, hrmmm,” she hummed as she read it. “Oh, yes—this is from Yarrow. Ah! This young man, you might like to know, Master Rupern, is her partner and named in this letter as one who may speak for her. Now let us see what else…”

She read on. “I’m sorry, Master Rupern, but Yarrow Whitethorndaughter is indeed on her way. You may not have her place on the horse lines.”

Raven thought he detected a note of satisfaction in the words. Master Rupern shot Raven a look of pure venom and stalked from the tent.

When he was gone, Elamry said cheerfully, “He’s been trying to oust Yarrow from that spot for years—it’s much better than his.”

“So are her horses,” muttered the assistant with a snicker.

“Jaster!” Elamry said sternly.

“Sorry, Mistress Elamry,” the young man. “I know, I know—it’s not my place—”

“To comment about any trader’s horses … while on duty.” She hrmmmed once more, then said to Raven, “Very well, then, young master, you just need to pay the fee and I’ll have the men set up your aunt’s tents on her site.”

Once more Raven dug into his belt pouch. He pulled out five silver pennies. “Here you go,” he said as he dropped them into Elamry’s waiting hand. “Three for grain and hay and firewood and two for the camp, is that right?”

She nodded as she scribbled something on a quarter sheet of parchment, then handed it to him. “Show this to anyone wearing a blue-and-orange baldric—they’ll show you where to go if you’re not familiar with the fair. Is there aught else, young sir, that we might help you with?”

“Aunt Yarrow said she’d pay for next year’s storing of the tents at the end of the fair. We’re to get one for me while we’re here.”

“Which will change the fee for that,” the clerk said as she made a note in her book. “That’s done, then.” She looked shrewdly at him. “This is your first time here at Balyaranna, isn’t it, young sir? I suggest that you visit the camps on either side of yours. It will be impossible for you to guard your camp by yourself until your aunt gets here, and I know that Skorrie Dunreid at least owes Yarrow a favor or two. He’s the one selling the Mountain Lilies.”

She was referring, Raven knew, not to flowers, but to a breed of highly prized palfreys from Kelneth known for their creamy white coats and wheat-gold manes, intelligence, and sweet tempers as well as to being uncannily surefooted. Yarrow was doing well to be in such company; but then, when the first of their Llysanyin half-breeds came to market, Skorrie Dunreid would count himself lucky to be
their
neighbor on the horse lines.

Elamry went on, “Ask them to lend you someone to keep an eye on things when you’re not there. It doesn’t happen often, thank the gods, because the penalties are so severe, but some fool may think your hay and grain stores to be easy pickings because no one’s at the camp.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” Raven said gratefully. He’d been wondering how to deal with that problem. Sitting in camp all day and night until his aunt came didn’t appeal to him. And once he’d finished his travel rations, how would he eat if he couldn’t leave? “I’ll do that.”

“Then allow me to wish you a good fair and a good profit.”

“Thank you,” Raven said with a slight bow and left the tent.

Once outside, he whistled for Stormwind. Then he picked one of the “roads” leading from the steward’s tent at random. He intended to find one of the aides and get himself to Yarrow’s site as quickly as he could to supervise the setting up of the camp and the storing of the grain and hay. He’d see that Stormwind had a good feed, then—if Yarrow’s neighbors agreed to help—it was off for a bit of something for himself. And after that …

He smiled. After that, he would ride through the fair. Let any fools about think he rode a plow horse. Those with eyes to see would know. Oh yes, they would know.

*   *   *

Skorrie Dunreid proved to be a jolly-looking Kelnethi with the longest beard Raven had ever seen. The man wore it in two grey-streaked braids that hung down over his big barrel of a chest and past the wide leather belt snugged around a grey-and-black-checked tunic that strained over his stomach. When Raven led Stormwind into his camp and introduced himself, Skorrie slapped him on the back and roared for ale.

He also stared and stared at Stormwind. As they waited for the ale, Skorrie sidled up to Raven and muttered, “Was that song true? Did you really…?”

“I did.”

Skorrie exhaled loudly and tugged on one of the braids, winding it around a fist. “As if I needed to ask—the proof’s standin’ in front of me,” he said quietly. At Raven’s quizzical look, he went on, “When I was a lad, Dragonlord Brock Hatussin halted at our holdin’. It was foul weather and he was lookin’ for a place where he and his Llysanyin, Aedis, might wait out the storm. I spent every moment I could studyin’ Aedis so that I would know it if I ever saw another Llysanyin. I’m lookin’ at one now.”

He held a hand out for Stormwind to sniff. “Oh, now—you’re a bonny, bonny lad, aren’t you?” Skorrie said softly, and rubbed the Llysanyin’s nose for a moment. A voice calling “Here, Da!” made him turn.

He accepted two foaming mugs from an apple-cheeked girl who smiled shyly at Raven before scurrying off. “My youngest, Lia,” Skorrie said proudly, gazing after her. “She rides the Lilies to show the customers. A fine, light hand on the reins she has, and a perfect seat. The horses’ll do anything for her.”

They raised their mugs in a toast to Lia and fine riding. Skorrie took a long draught, wiped the foam from his mustache, and said briskly, “So, then—what might old Skorrie do for you, lad?”

Raven explained his predicament and mentioned Elamry’s suggestion, Skorrie chiming in every few words with “I see, I see.”

When Raven was done, all Skorrie said was “First Balyaranna?”

Raven nodded, not daring to say anything.

Skorrie blinked, then roared, “Well, then, lad—we can’t have you sittin’ about on your arse your first time here, now can we?” He slapped Raven on the shoulder again, then said seriously, “Yarrow once saved some of my Lilies from thieves. Found themselves starin’ at the tip of her sword and ran for it, they did. Don’t worry, son. Me and mine will keep an eye on your things. You and that fine lad of yours go enjoy yourselves.”

Raven thanked him profusely. “I’ll just see to the setting up—” His stomach rumbled.

“Pfft!” Skorrie waved a hand in dismissal. “I know how Yarrow likes her camp arranged—I’ve been next to her for enough years, haven’t I? While that’s goin’ on, I want you two to have your noonings here, then go off and see the sights—and I won’t take no for an answer. It’s a grand fair, it is, and there’s nothing like your first one. So off with you.”

Raven spent the rest of the day becoming familiar with the fair and getting the layout set in his mind. It amused him to watch people’s reactions to Stormwind as they passed. Many clearly saw no further than the Llysanyin’s sturdy legs, feathered feet, and round barrel. Others stared with puzzled intensity. Raven wondered if those had seen Shan when Linden was in Cassori to be a judge in the debate over the regency.

Raven chuckled, remembering Chailen’s description of Shan’s escape to go after his two-foot: “Knocked Varn and me head over heels early one morning and was off down the road like an arrow. We laughed our heads off imagining just how surprised Linden would be when Shan caught up with him—and how bruised. Lucky for Linden he had been ill. Shan took pity on him, I guess.”

*   *   *

Linden sat before the evening fire, scratching in the dirt with a stick. Maurynna came up from behind and leaned against him, looking over his shoulder.

“Counting off the days?” she asked.

“I am. If we’re to get to the Balyaranna Fair in enough time for Sevrynel to ask us to be marshals—and
not
have to risk giving offense to someone he’s already asked—we need to leave the party tomorrow morning. And I think we should all go together.”

“Poor Shima.”

“Poor Shima,” Linden agreed. “But we’ve given him as much time with Karelinn as we could, and—”

“And he’ll see her again when she gets to the fair,” Maurynna finished for him. “Still, I’ll let you break the bad news to him.”

Sixteen

Leet pulled his horse to
a halt at the crest of a hill. Before him the road marched on to Balyaranna; to the right of the road a small yet charming manor house and its grounds lay before him.

If Thomelin had not played him false, this was the manor of Ridler Barans, the Lord Portis of Portishome, and father to Tirael Barans. Leet clenched his jaw at the thought of that cursed name, then forced it from his mind.

Keep to the task at hand,
he told himself sharply.
If Thomelin is right …
Woe to the luthier if he had lied or misled him, Leet thought balefully.
I’ll not be made a mock of, especially by him
.

Damn the coward, anyway. It had been his duty to cry Challenge for his son’s death. Instead the craven had swallowed the lie that “it was an unfortunate accident.”

“You should have cried Challenge, you coward,” Leet hissed. “Instead you left it to me.”