The Gift (32 page)

“We’ll stay here tomorrow,” he said. “I think we’re safe enough; I doubt anyone will seek us in Fort. I want to buy some supplies and hear what news I can. And we could do with a rest before we go on.”

Later, after they had checked the horses — Darsor’s report was encouraging, although Maerad suspected that he chafed at any stabling — they went to the taproom for a meal. It was a cheery room with a huge hearth, over which stood copper plates and horse brasses, with whitewashed walls stained by centuries of wood smoke, and clean rushes on the dark wooden floor. A few farmers sat quietly at tables drinking the black local beer, but otherwise it was almost empty. The innkeeper, a pleasant-faced man called Mr. Dringold, was serving drinks, and Cadvan ordered them some wine and a roast lamb with vegetables. A little boy of about four with a black shock of curly hair served the wine, carrying the clay carafe with great seriousness, as if he bore the most precious crystal, and Cadvan thanked him soberly.

Shortly afterward Dringold’s wife, a cheerful woman with the same curly hair as her son, brought them their meal. After their thin fare of the previous few days Maerad’s mouth was watering, and Cadvan was taken aback by how quickly her serving disappeared. They followed the roast with a mulberry pie with cream, and followed that with some excellent white cheese, made locally, as the innkeeper told them proudly. They had some more of the very passable wine, and they sat without speaking in the nook by the fire, very well content.

“Quiet boy, your son,” said Mr. Dringold in passing, as he carried some beers to another table.

“He’s never spoke since the day he was born,” said Cadvan. “But he’s handy enough.”

“Just passing through, are you?”

“That’s the idea. There doesn’t seem to be much call for cobblers around here.”

“Mr. Dothan there wouldn’t thank you if you stayed,” said Dringold, nodding his head at a stocky man hunched over a nearby table. “He has enough trouble holding body and soul together as it is. There aren’t that many in these parts who can afford more than one pair of shoes, if any, if you take my meaning.”

He returned to their table after delivering the drinks, and he and Cadvan started chatting. Maerad sat sleepily by them, listening to the conversation. It was getting late, and she was looking forward to sleeping in a real bed, with real sheets. The talk was more of the same: the difficulties of making a living, how business was falling off year by year and prices were going up and up. Maerad noticed that Dringold didn’t mention Bards. Cadvan nodded sympathetically.

Suddenly the innkeeper’s wife rushed into the room, her face white. “Ewan,” she said. “It’s Lanal! He’s got the croup again, but it’s bad.” Dringold stood up hastily and excused himself.

“I might be able to help,” said Cadvan, rising. “This boy had the croup bad as a child, and I learned some tricks.” The woman looked at him doubtfully, but didn’t protest when he followed them to their private quarters. Unsure what to do, Maerad followed Cadvan.

The little boy was sitting by the fire in the kitchen, cradled by one of the maids. He was clearly struggling to breathe; he made terrible honking noises every time he pulled in a breath. Maerad saw that his lips were a livid blue. She had seen children in this extremity before. Usually they died.

“How long has he been like this?” asked Cadvan, and Maerad noticed with a slight shock that he wasn’t speaking like Mowther the cobbler.

“About half an hour,” said the woman. “But he’s been getting worse and worse. I don’t know what to do.” She drew in breath tightly, as if she were trying not to cry, and bit her lip.

“Do you have any coltsfoot in the kitchen? Or borage?” he asked.

“Coltsfoot? I think so . . . and borage too, I think. . . .” She went to a shelf laden with small glass bottles of dried herbs, and picked them out.

“Make a tea, quickly,” said Cadvan. “Steep one spoon of each in a large pot.”

He took the child gently from the maid and sat down with him. The boy didn’t have enough breath to cry but was clearly frightened and struggled weakly in Cadvan’s arms.

“What is his name? Lanal?” Cadvan looked up at Dringold. The innkeeper nodded. Cadvan looked down at the boy, and then whispered in his ear: “
Feärnese,
Lanal.
Feärnese.
” Immediately the child’s breathing eased, and he stopped struggling and relaxed trustingly back into Cadvan’s chest. Cadvan stroked his hair and chest, whispering all the time, and a minute later the horrible noise stopped and he began to breathe properly. The frightening blue color ebbed from his mouth. Then, it seemed quite suddenly, the child sat up.

“I’m thirsty, Mummy,” he said. “I want something to drink.” He looked shyly at Cadvan and reached out his arms for his mother.

“He’ll be all right now,” said Cadvan, handing him over. “Give him some of the tea, when it has cooled down; it will clear his lungs. If he starts to get like that again, let him breathe the vapors of the coltsfoot before he gets this bad. And keep him in a warm room.”

There was complete silence in the kitchen.

“I thought he was dying,” said the innkeeper’s wife.

“Children forget pain quickly,” said Cadvan. “I’ve often seen it.”

Now that his terrible fear for his son had abated, Dringold almost looked as if he were angry. “That was Bard stuff, that was,” he said, a little too loudly.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” Cadvan answered. “Like I said, I learned a few tricks when mine was a little boy.”

“Only Bards are allowed to do the Healing,” said Dringold. “A midwife was drove out of town last month for making simples.”

“That’s not the law where I come from,” Cadvan said, and Maerad saw a flash of anger in his eyes. “If someone is sick, someone should heal, if they can. Anyway, the boy is safe now.”

They stood in the kitchen watching the little boy, who was now acting as if he had never suffered a day’s illness in his life and was nagging his mother for a biscuit.

“So, what do we owe you?” said the innkeeper. Cadvan looked as if he had been insulted, and Dringold blushed.

“You owe me nothing,” said Cadvan. “I’d appreciate it if you kept it under your hats, is all. I’d not like to be chased by Bards, if I’ve done the wrong thing.”

“You haven’t done the wrong thing,” said the innkeeper’s wife impulsively. Her eyes were now wet. “Oh, Ewan, I was so frightened. He’s never been like this before. I thought of Medelin’s little one that was took ill last week, and I couldn’t have borne it.”

“It’s all right, Rose,” said Dringold gruffly. “Thank you, then, Mr. Mowther, if Mr. Mowther you be.” He gave Cadvan and Maerad a sharp look. “I owe you greatly. That little boy is all the world to me and Rose.” He pulled out a large red kerchief and blew his nose.

“Well, me and the boy had better get to bed,” said Cadvan. “And so had you.” He nodded good night, and he and Maerad left the kitchen and made their way to their rooms.

“Was that wise?” asked Maerad, as soon as they were in the privacy of their sitting room.

“Wise?” Cadvan shot her a piercing glance.

“I mean, if we’re trying to hide that we’re Bards . . .” She trailed off. “I mean, Mr. Dringold obviously suspects us. . . .”

“If that is all that matters: no, it was not wise,” said Cadvan. “However, what is wisdom, if it means allowing that little boy to die?”

“Would he have?” said Maerad.

“Yes,” answered Cadvan shortly. “He would by now be dead.” He hunched his shoulders and sat down, brooding. “Maerad, sometimes there are choices that lead to ill, but that nevertheless have to be made. I could not stand by idly, knowing I could save him. That is not the way of Bards.”

Maerad thought regretfully of the washing. “I guess we’ll have to leave early tomorrow, then,” she said.

“I think not,” said Cadvan. “I think Mr. Dringold and his wife will stay quiet about us. We’ll wear the risk, for now.” Even through his disguise Maerad could see the shadows of exhaustion on Cadvan’s face. She thought of the maid and wondered if he was making the right decision. But she too was tired, and was glad of the prospect of rest.

When they emerged from their beds the next day, the sun was high. They breakfasted generously on spiced sausage and beans and bacon; Mr. Dringold’s menu even ran to fried mushrooms, which pleased Cadvan. Dringold also arranged for their washing to be taken to the launderers, where it would be ready by that night. Cadvan and Maerad then made their way to the Fort market.

Maerad had never been in a market before and was fascinated. It was alive with colors and smells. There were huge orange pumpkins and green and gold squashes, and streaky yellow apples, sweet and slightly wrinkled from their winter storage; and she saw greens of all kinds, early spring lettuces and leeks, and dried bunches of parsley and mint and marjoram and nettles, and the purple-green of huge winter cabbages, slashed in half to reveal their intricate white innards. There were piles of dried beans and peas, and yellow lentils and brown grains, and bunches of garlic and onions, and sacks of hazels and walnuts and almonds, stippled the colors of autumn; and great round white cheeses wrapped in leaves or blue wax, plumped fatly on the wooden trestles. Over everything drifted the smells of freshly baked breads and roasting chestnuts, and sausages and onions frying on a brazier, and everywhere were the sounds of donkeys braying and cows lowing and goats bleating in stalls and dogs barking and the chatter of townspeople bargaining.

On the edge of the square two minstrels played pipes and a fiddle, with a hat laid on the ground before them for coins. They were dressed in bright clothes, with scarlet scarves around their necks, and they wore blue felt hats with bells that jingled as they danced. They sang about foolish farmers and lovelorn lassies, and a haunting ballad of a man who fell in love with a river sprite, and a funny song about a drunk blacksmith falling into a well. Maerad stood before them enraptured, until Cadvan told her she looked exactly like the idiot she pretended to be and dragged her off to do some shopping.

He drifted in a leisurely fashion around the market, chatting with the stallholders, and Maerad followed him silently, admiring again his ease with people, how he could make even the most reserved open up and talk. He bought a supply of dried fruits and meats, barley flour and grain, a little oil and vinegar, some tough bread that would keep for up to two weeks, and a small sack of oats for the horses. What struck her most forcibly was the fear that arose at any mention of Bards or Barding; stallholders would look around as if they thought someone listened and would say no more, or loudly change the subject. When Cadvan had finished making purchases, they went back to where the minstrels had been playing, because Maerad wanted to hear more, but there was an argument going on. A woman who was clearly a Bard — she wore the cloak and the clover leaf brooch of Ettinor — was shouting and confiscating the minstrels’ instruments. When they protested, she froze them both with a gesture of her hand. Then, with a look of contempt, she scooped up the coins from their hat and left them there, unable to move. Cadvan watched the scene with distaste.

“There is too much that is illegal here,” he said.

“What will happen to them?” asked Maerad.

“They will be uncharmed, eventually,” said Cadvan. “But they might be left there all night, as a punishment.”

After that Maerad didn’t want to stay at the market any longer, and they returned to the Brown Duck, where they packed their baggage. Cadvan decided they should eat in their room that night and arranged for a meal to be brought to them. “We’ll leave before dawn tomorrow,” he said.

“And what then?” asked Maerad.

“If anyone is asking questions, there is beginning to be a trail that the ill-minded could follow,” said Cadvan. “We’re going to disappear.”

“What does that mean?” Maerad lifted a dubious eyebrow; clearly there were going to be no more inns for a while.

“It means we go into the wild,” said Cadvan. “For the next eighty leagues west the country is empty and pathless. It will be hard to find us, if anyone is looking in this direction.”

“But in such places live the creatures of the Dark,” said Maerad.

“Not only those,” Cadvan said. “It seems to me less risky than taking the roads, nevertheless. No way is without peril.”

There was a knock at their door and Dringold entered, carrying their dinner. He placed it on the table, and then lingered.

“I should tell you,” he said. “There were questions asked this evening.”

“Were there?” said Cadvan, seemingly indifferent.

“A Bard came. She was inquiring about any travelers seen coming this way. I said there was a traveling cobbler staying. There weren’t no point in saying otherwise,” he added hastily, “because they always know already; there’s always those happy to run to the Bards. I said you’d already gone, in any case. Then she said she had heard rumors that my son was sick and was healed. I laughed it off. I told her Rose was always panicking about that boy and it weren’t nothing serious. She gave me a funny look. Then she said, had I seen the Bard Cadvan, traveling with a young girl. I told her I knew Lord Cadvan as well as any Bard, and would always be pleased to welcome him into my inn; but I hadn’t seen him these three years. And then she left.”

He paused. Cadvan looked at him expressionlessly. “I am certain the Bard Cadvan is always pleased to stay in such a fine inn,” he said. “And is always grateful for discretion.”

“So it’s not a bad plan to stay in your rooms tonight,” said Dringold. “If you take my meaning. I’ve let the maid know you’ve gone.”

“We plan to leave before light,” Cadvan said. “It shouldn’t be a problem.” He gave Dringold a sudden warm smile, and surprised, the innkeeper grinned back and then bowed.

“I’m sure it won’t be, Lord Cadvan. I’m mighty grateful you came,” he said. And then he left.

As the door closed, Maerad’s stomach churned with anxiety. She had briefly forgotten their present danger, lulled by the small pleasures of the day, and now her fears returned doubly; she remembered the deathly white hands of the Hull and the red coals of its eyes.