Icebound Land (16 page)

H
ALT LOOKED AROUND THE LARGE CHAMBERS THEY HAD BEEN
shown to.

“Well,” he said, “it’s not much, but it’s home.”

In fact, he wasn’t being quite fair with his statement. They were high in the central tower of Château Montsombre, the tower Deparnieux told them he kept exclusively for his own use—and that of his guests, he added sardonically. The room they were in was a large one and quite comfortably furnished. There was a table and chairs that would do quite well for eating meals, as well as two comfortable-looking wooden armchairs arranged on either side of the large fireplace. Doors led off either side to two smaller sleeping chambers and there was even a small bathing room with a tin tub and a washstand. There were a couple of halfway decent hangings on the stone walls and a serviceable rug covering a large part of the floor. There was a small terrace and a window, which afforded a view of the winding path they had followed to reach the castle and the forest lands below. The window was unglazed, with wooden shutters on the inside to provide relief from the wind and weather.

The door was the only jarring note in the scheme of things. There was no door handle on the inside. Their quarters might be comfortable enough. But they were prisoners for all that, Halt knew.

Horace dumped his pack on the floor and dropped gratefully into one of the wooden armchairs by the fire. There was a draft coming through the window, even though it was still only midafternoon. It would be cold and drafty at night, he thought. But then, most castle chambers were. This one was no better or worse than the average.

“Halt,” he said, “I’ve been wondering why Abelard and Tug didn’t warn us about the ambush. Aren’t they trained to sense things like that?”

Halt nodded slowly. “The same thought occurred to me,” he said. “And I assume it had something to do with your string of conquests.”

The boy looked at him, not understanding, and he elaborated. “We had half a dozen battlehorses tramping along behind us, laden down with bits of armor that clanked and rattled like a tinker’s cart. My guess is that all the noise they were making masked any sound Deparnieux’s men might have made.”

Horace frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. “But couldn’t they scent them?” he asked.

“If the wind were in the right direction, yes. But it was blowing from us to them, if you remember.” He regarded Horace, who was looking vaguely disappointed at the horses’ inability to overcome such minor difficulties. “Sometimes,” Halt continued, “we tend to expect a little too much of Ranger horses. After all, they are only human.” The faintest trace of a smile touched his mouth as he said that, but Horace didn’t notice. He merely nodded and moved on to his next question.

“So,” he said, “what do we do now?”

The Ranger shrugged. He had his own pack open and was taking out a few items—a clean shirt and his razor and washing things.

“We wait,” he said. “We’re not losing any time—yet. The mountain passes into Skandia will be snowed over for at least another month. So we may as well make ourselves comfortable here for a few days until we see what our gallant Gall has in mind for us.”

Horace used one foot to remove the boot from the other and wiggled his toes in delight, enjoying the sudden feeling of freedom.

“There’s a thing,” he said. “What do you suppose this Deparnieux is up to, Halt?”

Halt hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not sure. But he’ll probably show his hand sometime over the next few days. I think he has a vague idea that I’m a Ranger,” he added thoughtfully.

“Do they have Rangers here?” Horace asked, surprised. He’d always assumed that the Ranger Corps was unique to Araluen. Now, as Halt shook his head, he realized his assumption was correct.

“No, they don’t,” Halt replied. “And we’ve always been at some pains not to spread word of the Corps too far and wide. Never know when you’re going to end up at war with someone,” he added. “But, of course, it’s impossible to keep something like that a total secret, so he may have got some word of it.”

“And if he has?” Horace asked. “I thought he was originally only interested in us because he wanted to fight me—you know, like you said.”

“That was probably the case at first,” Halt agreed, “but now he’s got wind of something and I think he’s trying to work out how he can use me.”

“Use you?” Horace repeated, frowning at the idea. Halt made a dismissive gesture.

“That’s usually the way people like him think,” he told the boy. “They’re always looking to see how they can turn a situation to their own advantage. And they think that everyone can be bought, if the price is right. Do you think you could put that boot back on?” he added mildly. “The window can only let in a limited amount of fresh air and your socks are a touch ripe, to put it mildly.”

“Oh, sorry!” said Horace, tugging the riding boot back on over his sock. Now that Halt mentioned it, he was aware of a rather strong odor in the room.

“Don’t knights in this country take vows of chivalry?” he asked, returning to the subject of their captor. “Knights vow to help others, don’t they? They’re not supposed to ‘use people.’”

“They take the vows,” Halt told him. “Keeping them is another matter altogether. And the idea of knights helping the common people is one that works in a place like Araluen, where we have a strong king. Here, if you’ve got the power, you can pretty much do as you please.”

“Well, it’s not right,” Horace muttered. Halt agreed with him, but there didn’t seem to be anything to gain by saying so.

“Just be patient,” he told Horace now. “There’s nothing we can do to hurry things along. We’ll find out what Deparnieux wants soon enough. In the meantime, we may as well relax and take it easy.”

“Another thing…,” Horace added, ignoring his companion’s suggestion. “I didn’t like those cages by the roadside. No true knight could ever punish anyone that way, no matter how bad their crime might be. Those things were just terrible. Inhuman!”

Halt met the boy’s honest gaze. There was nothing he could offer by way of comfort. Inhuman was an apt description of the punishment.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “I didn’t like those either. I think that before we leave here, my lord Deparnieux might have a little explaining to do on that matter.”

They dined that night with the Gallic warlord. The table was an immense one, with room for thirty or more diners, and the three of them were dwarfed by the empty space around them. Serving boys and maids scurried about their tasks, bringing extra helpings of food and wine as required.

The meal was neither good nor bad, which surprised Halt a little. Gallic cuisine had a reputation for being exotic and even outlandish. The plain fare that was served up to them seemed to indicate that the reputation was an unfounded one.

The one thing he did notice was that the serving staff went about their tasks with their eyes cast down, avoiding eye contact with any of the three diners. There was a palpable air of fear in the room, accentuated when any of the servants had to move close to their master to serve him with food or to fill his goblet.

Halt sensed also that Deparnieux was not only aware of the tension in the atmosphere, he actually enjoyed it. A satisfied half smile would touch his cruel lips whenever one of the servants came close to him, eyes averted and holding his or her breath until the task was completed.

They spoke little during the meal. Deparnieux seemed content to observe them, rather as a boy might observe an interesting and previously unknown bug that he had captured. In the circumstances, neither Halt nor Horace were inclined to offer any small talk.

When they had eaten, and the table had been cleared, the warlord finally spoke what was on his mind. He glanced dismissively at Horace and waved a languid hand toward the stairway that led to their chambers.

“I won’t keep you any longer, boy,” he said. “You have my leave to go.”

Flushing slightly at the ill-mannered tone, Horace glanced quickly at Halt and saw the Ranger’s small nod. He rose, trying to retain his dignity, trying not to show the Gallic knight his confusion.

“Good night, Halt,” he said quietly, and Halt nodded again.

“’Night, Horace,” he said. The apprentice warrior drew himself up, looked Deparnieux in the eye and abruptly turned and left the room. Two of the armed guards who had been standing by in the shadows instantly fell in behind him, escorting him up the stairs.

It was a small gesture, Horace thought as he climbed to his chambers, and it was probably a childish one. But ignoring the master of Château Montsombre as he left made him feel a little better.

Deparnieux waited until the sound of Horace’s footsteps on the stone-flagged stairs had receded. Then, pushing his chair back from the table, he turned a calculating gaze on the Ranger.

“Well, Master Halt,” he said quietly, “it’s time we had a little chat.”

Halt pursed his lips. “About what?” he asked. “I’m afraid I’m just no good at all with gossip.”

The warlord smiled thinly. “I can tell you’re going to be an amusing guest,” he said. “Now tell me, exactly who are you?”

Halt shrugged carelessly. He toyed with a goblet that was sitting, almost empty, on the table in front of him, twirling it this way and that, watching the way the faceted glass caught the light from the fire in the corner.

“I’m an ordinary sort of person,” he said. “My name’s Halt. I’m from Araluen, traveling with Sir Horace. Nothing much more to tell, really.”

The smile stayed fixed on Deparnieux’s face as he continued to regard the bearded man sitting opposite him. He appeared nondescript enough, that was for sure. His clothes were simple—verging on drab, in fact. His beard and hair were badly cut. They looked as if he had cut them with a hunting knife, thought Deparnieux, unaware that he was only one of many people to have had that very same thought about Halt.

He was a small man too. His head barely came up to the warlord’s shoulder. But he was muscular for all that, and in spite of the gray hairs in his beard and hair, he was in excellent physical condition. But there was something about the eyes—dark and steady and calculating—that belied the claim of ordinariness that the man made now. Deparnieux prided himself that he knew the look of a man who was used to command, and this man had it, definitely.

Plus there was something about his equipment. It was unusual to see a man with this unmistakable air of command who was not armed as a knight. The bow was a commoner’s weapon, in Deparnieux’s eyes, and the double knife scabbard was something he had not encountered before. He had taken the opportunity to study the two knives. The larger one reminded him of the heavy saxe knives carried by the Skandians. The smaller knife, razor-sharp like its companion, was a perfectly balanced throwing knife. Unusual weapons indeed for a commander, Deparnieux thought.

The strange cloak fascinated him as well. It was patterned in irregular daubs of green and gray and he could see no reason for the colors or the pattern. The deep cowl served to hide the man’s face when he pulled it up in place. Several times during their ride to Montsombre, the Gallic knight had noticed that the cloak seemed to shimmer and merge with the forest background, so that the small man almost disappeared from sight. Then the illusion would pass.

Deparnieux, like many of his countrymen, was more than a little superstitious. He suspected that the cloak’s strange properties could be some form of sorcery.

It was this last thought that had led to his somewhat equivocal treatment of Halt. It didn’t pay to antagonize sorcerers, the warlord knew. So he determined to play his cards carefully until he knew exactly what to expect of this mysterious little man. And, should it prove that Halt had no dark powers, there was always the possibility that he might be persuaded to turn his other talents to Deparnieux’s own ends.

If not, then the warlord could always kill the two travelers as he pleased.

He realized now that he had been silent for some time following Halt’s last statement. He took a sip of wine and shook his head at the sentiments Halt had expressed.

“Not ordinary in any way, I think,” he said. “You interest me, Halt.”

Again, the Ranger shrugged. “I can’t see why,” he replied mildly.

Deparnieux twirled his wine goblet between his fingers. There was a tentative knock at the door and his head steward entered apologetically and a little fearfully. He had learned by bitter experience that his master was a dangerous and unpredictable man.

“What is it?” Deparnieux said, angry at the intrusion.

“Your pardon, my lord, but I wondered would there be anything more?”

Deparnieux was about to dismiss him when a thought struck him. It would be an interesting experiment to provoke this strange Araluen, he thought. To see which way he jumped.

“Yes,” he said. “Send for the cook.”

The steward hesitated, puzzled.

“The cook, my lord?” he repeated. “Do you require more food?”

“I require the cook, you fool!” Deparnieux snarled at him. The man hastily backed away.

“At once, my lord,” he said, backing nervously toward the door. When he had gone, the Gallic warlord smiled at Halt.

“It’s almost impossible to find good staff these days,” he said. Halt eyed him contemptuously.

“It must be a constant problem for you,” he said evenly. Deparnieux glanced keenly at him, trying to sense any sarcasm behind the words.

They sat in silence until there was a knock at the door and the steward returned. The cook followed a few paces behind him, wringing her hands in the hem of her apron. She was a middle-aged woman, and her face showed the strain that came from working in Deparnieux’s household.

“The cook, my lord,” the steward announced.

Deparnieux said nothing. He stared at the woman the way a snake stares at a bird. Her wringing of the apron became more and more pronounced as the silence between them grew. Finally, she could bear it no longer.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” she began. “Was the meal not—”

“
You
do not speak!” Deparnieux shouted, rising from his chair and pointing angrily at her. “I am the master here! You do not speak before me! So remain silent, woman!”