Too Many Princes (13 page)

Once Lottres and most of the soldiers were up, Brastigan flourished Victory once again.
“
Now we shall ride, my valiant men! We shall never return until our deed is accomplished. Forward!
”

Therula waved to them, smiling and yet serious. Tarther glowered his disapproval. And Oskar must have known he was being mocked, for his expression was more snarl than smile. Brastigan felt his own resentment burning like hot coals in his chest. Pale eyes and dark eyes met, across the noise and hurry, in a moment of understanding. He raised his free hand in salute, acknowledging their mutual hatred.

Then he tapped his horse with a booted heel. The white charger lumbered forward, and the rest fell in behind it. The racket of so many hooves absorbed all other sound as they trotted toward the castle gate. The portcullis rose as they drew near. With a final shake of his sword, Brastigan passed beneath the bars and left his childhood home. He was not, after all, sorry to be going.

A short way down the sloping ramp, Lottres drew up beside Brastigan.
“
My valiant band? What's all that about?
”
he called above the clatter of hooves over cobbles.

“
He started it.
”
Brastigan sheathed his sword and grinned at his brother.

Lottres seemed to slump in the saddle.
“
Does everything have to be a fight with you?
”

He sat up straighter.
“
It wasn't my idea, good brother.
”

But Pikarus was of like mind, for he brought his bay up on Brastigan's other side. Over the bobbing ears he asked,
“
Is it wise to antagonize Prince Oskar?
”

“
Hah!
”
Brastigan gave a bark of laughter.
“
What a pair of old women! He'll have plenty of time to forget about it before we see each other again. Anyway, Pup...
”
Brastigan reached over to give Lottres a playful shove.
“
Relax! We haven't even left the shadow of the castle walls.
”

Lottres winced from his roughness, and restlessly picked at his helmet's chin strap.

“
You got your wish,
”
Brastigan reminded him jauntily.
“
We're off on an adventure. What's the point, if you don't enjoy it?
”

Instead of cheering Lottres, the suggestion seemed to make him thoughtful again. Pikarus dropped back, and the two of them rounded the first switchback in silence. Slowly, one jolting step at a time, Harburg rose from the morning mist to greet them.

“
Maybe you're right,
”
Lottres murmured, long after Brastigan had forgotten what he said to be right about.
“
Maybe I will.
”

“
Will what?
”

Lottres shrugged. Brastigan stared at him sidewise until his shoulders hunched defensively.
“
Cut it out, Bras. I won't know until we get there.
”

“
Won't know what?
”

“
Nothing.
”

By the time they rode through the Butcher's Gate on Harburg's heavily fortified eastern wall, the sun had turned the mist into butter and was melting it from the morning air. The rolling hills of Daraine were laid bare as an endless tapestry of farm fields stitched together with seams of stone fencing. Here and there were clusters of buildings: farm houses, barns and sheds. Groves of trees grew on any hillside too steep to plow. The patches of darker emerald suggested what wild land this must once have been.

Southward, toward the mountains of Gerfalkan, a taller hill was adorned with a single great stone. At its base, unseen from the lands below, was a pool of clear water. No other structures marred the smooth sides of the mound. Whatever the season, that spring was ever flowing. Brastigan knew, because he often rode up to see it. The view from the height was so expansive, he could almost conceive of a future outside Harburg.

The local people spoke of the place with vague suspicion and avoided visiting. The Dragon's Candle, they called it, though none knew why. Brastigan, who was neither sentimental nor superstitious, felt a little sorry there was no time, this trip, to ride up and see it again.

The falcon unexpectedly swept from the sky and plucked some small, wriggling thing from beneath a dense carpet of turnip leaves. It glided to a roadside fence and stared at them with eyes like tarnished coins. Lottres raised his hand tentatively in greeting, but the falcon didn't speak. It bent its beak to peel off strips of gore and fur, and snapped them down. That was its good morning to them.

The days quickly settled into a rhythm: riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for luncheon, riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for the night, rubbing down the horses. The king's highway was well made and cared for, with a surface of clay that had gravel beaten into it. It was broad enough for two carts to pass abreast, as they frequently did. Since it was a main thoroughfare, the horsemen frequently passed rows of neatly kept houses, shops and inns. The abundance of taverns made stops far more refreshing.

For the most part, the falcon circled high above them. Sometimes it vanished for hours at a time, but it always returned. Brastigan thought it must find the horses' land bound pace unbearably slow, but it didn't descend to say so. Where it roosted at night, he had no idea and little desire to know. All in all, he was content to know the falcon hadn't drawn them out of Harburg and left them.

The weather held fair as a handful of days went by. Brastigan passed some of the time on the road with idle speculations. Such as Therula and Pikarus, for one thing. He couldn't help wondering if that situation was as it seemed.
Pikarus was wearing a fancy glove, all of a sudden—one with Therula's initial on it. Brastigan hadn't seen it before, but he would have bet it was Therula's own handiwork. Pikarus wasn't talking about the relationship, and no wonder. It would be a real coup if a lowly man-at-arms could win the hand of a royal princess. That wasn't likely to happen, in Brastigan's opinion. If it did... Queen Alustra as a mother-in-law? What a nightmare!

As a military convoy, they took lodging at whatever fortress they came across. That occurred every two or three days. There was always room, for Crutham was at peace. Other nights, they chose among whatever inns presented themselves. Brastigan let Pikarus choose, so they had modest accommodations and simple meals.

That was as well. The kind of inn Brastigan favored wasn't to be found along the king's highway. Nor would he bring Lottres into the back alleys. Moreover, Brastigan wasn't interested in carousing. He only sought rough company when he was bored. In Harburg, that had been a daily occurrence. Now it wasn't.

Even on the royal road, the innkeepers seldom saw real royalty. Brastigan and Lottres had seldom been the center of so much attention. They had too many older brothers. The fawning had its charm, but Brastigan found it soon began to pall on him. As did the flirtation of the alewives. These women were of a better class than his accustomed lot but Brastigan enjoyed them only with his eyes. He wanted no brats brought to his door, as had befallen his father and a number of his brothers. Most nights, he retreated to the sanctuary of a room he shared with Lottres.

Curiously, it was the younger prince of Crutham who stayed up late drinking as they traveled on. Perhaps Lottres took advantage of the maidservants, though his stammering when Brastigan ribbed him suggested otherwise. Most days he seemed to ride in a stupor, contemplating his horse's pale mane. The reversal was amusing, when Brastigan thought about it.

It wasn't so funny when he woke by himself one night. Through the floor he could hear muffled sounds as the last patrons were ushered from the common room below. The alewives bade the innkeeper good-evening and the bar fell to shut out the night. After a few brief words to someone else, the proprietor shuffled upstairs. Brastigan heard the door across from his own open, then close softly.

He rolled over but couldn't get comfortable, so he got up to use the chamber pot. As he turned back, the wan moonlight showed him Lottres's empty bed. The sheets lay smooth, the blanket still folded at the foot of the bed. Brastigan frowned, scratched his head, tried to marshal a sleep-heavy brain. The last he saw, Lottres had been in a deep consultation with some scruffy minstrel. Hearing more tall tales, no doubt. He sure was fond of them.

Brastigan sighed as he turned from the warm, waiting blankets on his own bed. It took a bit of shuffling in the dark to locate Crusher. He stubbed his toe in the process and, thus painfully awakened, padded down the stairs.

The common room was dark and silent, of course. The scent of the fireplace hung in the air faintly, bitterly. A single tallow candle had been left burning. This revealed the welcome sight of Lottres sitting near the fire. The slim young man had pulled a bench practically onto the hearth, where embers glowed dully under the blackened log rack. He was leaning forward so far he seemed about to fall into it.

Fire-gazing again. This was becoming an unsettling habit.

Brastigan hadn't realized how worried he was until he saw his brother safe. Then he released an exasperated breath and stepped forward purposefully. As he walked, he kicked a spoon under a bench and sent it singing into the darkness.

Lottres straightened at the sound. At least he had some awareness of what was going on around him, Brastigan thought. Hands on hips, he stood over his brother.

Lottres blinked up at him.
“
What are you doing down here?
”

“
Getting you up to bed,
”
Brastigan answered gruffly.
“
You're going to fall from the saddle one day if you don't start getting more sleep.
”

His brother smiled wryly.
“
Yes, Nursie.
”

“
I'll nurse you!
”
Brastigan knocked his curly head lightly with Crusher.
“
Come on.
”

Lottres rose stiffly, as if he had been sitting in that strange position for some time. As his brother followed him toward the stairway, Brastigan muttered,
“
What are
you
doing in here? That's what I'd like to know.
”

“
I was listening to the fire,
”
came the desultory explanation. Lottres sounded as if he was already half asleep.

Brastigan's snort echoed up the stairs.
“
The bards, you mean. Why do you waste your time with them and their wild stories?
”

“
I'm looking for news.
”
Around a yawn, Lottres repeated his familiar argument.
“
I'd like to know what lies ahead of us. Wouldn't you?
”

“
You're going to start rumors about yourself.
”

“
Instead of rumors about you? That would be a change,
”
Lottres teased.
“
What, are you jealous?
”

“
Ha!
”
Brastigan swung open the door to their chamber. As he did so, he saw Pikarus opening the door to his own room, just down the hall. Speaking of nursemaids... Brastigan nodded to the squad leader before following his brother into their room.

“
Get to bed, Pup,
”
Brastigan yawned,
“
so I can get to bed.
”

More shuffling in the dark commenced, as Brastigan returned to bed and Lottres got ready for his. Finally, the room was quiet. But only for a short time.

“
Bras?
”
Lottres's voice came from the darkness.
“
I meant to tell you, I think we're being followed.
”

“
What?
”
Rushes crackled as Brastigan rolled over.

“
There's a tinker. Maybe you've seen him.
”
Lottres paused to yawn again, while Brastigan waited impatiently.
“
He's been at every inn where we've stayed for the past five days.
”

“
I couldn't see past the boot-lickers and flunkies,
”
Brastigan answered.
“
Anyway, we were at Rockaine Keep last night.
”

“
I know. The only nights I haven't seen him were then and when we stayed at Belegoth Keep the third night out. You'd think, if he were a wanderer looking for work, that he'd be stopping along the way.
”

Brastigan said nothing, so Lottres continued,
“
I walked by his table two days ago, and again tonight during supper. His tool pack doesn't even look like it's been opened.
”

Brastigan rolled onto his back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared into the darkness where the ceiling was supposed to be. He searched his memory for any suspicious travelers.

“
You're right,
”
he said after a moment.
“
I think I've seen him a couple of times.
”

Brastigan poked at the image in his mind: a shabby fellow with a long nose, drooping moustache, matt of brownish blond hair beneath a battered felt hat. Always hunched over his food as if someone might steal the plate from him. Or as if he wished to hide his face? To all appearances, he was the vagabond blacksmith, but Brastigan was sure he'd seen that hat before.

Lottres said,
“
Tinkers never have any money, either, and there are less expensive places he could be sleeping tonight. He always sits near us at meals. I can't say what it means, but I thought I'd better tell you.
”

“
Does Pikarus know?
”

“
Not yet.
”