Small Magics (7 page)

“I don’t know how big he says it is,” said Thomas. “It’s five stories tall, and has thousands of books in it. The main floor is all tables for people to sit and read and columns to hold up the rest of the place and windows so you can see. In the afternoon, you can spend an hour just watching the dust dancing on the air.”

Eileen’s voice was wistful. “Sounds wonderful.”

“To you,” snorted George. “Me, I don’t think I could stand it there.”

“Not much for reading?” Thomas asked.

“Nor for writing,” said Eileen. “He wouldn’t have learned either if Da hadn’t made him.”

“Unlike her,” snorted George. “Ever since the nuns taught her to read, she’s had her nose in whatever books she could borrow.”

“The only one I have with me is in Perthian,” said Thomas. “Next time I come back, I’ll bring some histories. You’d like them.”

“What’s that?” said George, pointing into the woods.

Thomas turned to look and saw a thin flicker of light moving far off in the trees. “I don’t know.”

Eileen stood up to see. “Looks like a torch.”

“Shouldn’t be,” said George. “There’s nothing over there. Besides, everyone should be inside asleep, saving their energy for the Fire tomorrow night.”

“Shush,” said Thomas. “Listen.”

George cocked his head. “I don’t hear…” He stopped. The woods had fallen silent. All the night creatures had stopped their noises and everything was still, as if holding its breath. A moment later, Thomas caught a shout, faint and distant, then another. He pushed himself to his feet. “Come on.”

“Not that way,” said George, catching his arm. “There’s a path on the other side of the pond.”

The three slipped into the woods with George soundlessly leading them. Thomas was aware for the first time how much noise he made when he walked. He paid more attention to how he was stepping, and soon found himself moving, if not actually quietly, then softer, at least. Ahead, the torches began to get brighter. Thomas could hear voices, angry and demanding.

“Come out of there, you little rat!” a man yelled.

The reply was muffled, but it seemed to anger the speaker.

“You think we won’t burn you out? I’ll torch that pretty wagon and listen to you squeal.”

“No need to torch it,” said a second man. “It’s a waste of a good wagon. I say we smoke him out. He’ll beg us to let him come out into the air.”

“There’s no time,” a third one said. “Bash in the door.”

The three friends reached the edge of a small clearing with a wagon path running through it. On the far side of the clearing a dark horse jerked nervously back and forth on its tether. There were three men standing in the clearing, all with rough faces that showed clearly the fights and privations they had survived. Their clothes were plain and dark, but not travel-worn or ragged as one would expect of bandits. Two held torches and daggers in their hands, the third had an axe. They were surrounding a large box wagon covered in colourful, swirling designs that the flickering yellow light made ugly and garish.

“We’re about a mile from the common,” George whispered. “That’s the juggler’s wagon.”

“What do they want with him, do you think?” asked Eileen, speaking no louder than George.

“Nothing good.” He looked around, “Never a stick around when you need one.”

“Last chance!” called the shorter of the two torch-bearers. “Come out. His Grace is waiting for you.”

“I’ll die before I go near him!” shouted Timothy from inside the wagon.

“No, but you’ll wish you had, I’ll bet. Billy, start on the door.”

“We have to stop them,” whispered Thomas.

“Three on two,” mused George. “I think we can do it.”

“Three on three,” hissed Eileen.

“Two,” said George, glaring at his sister. “I’ll not be risking your life.”

The axe sunk into the wagon’s door with a dull thud.

Thomas looked closer at the three men. “There’s only the one axe,” he said. “The other two just have daggers. Come on.”

“One moment.” George looked around him, then reached up and grabbed a low, thick tree branch some six feet long. The branch bent in his hand, then split from the tree with a loud “CRACK!”

“By the Four,” said Thomas. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

George grinned, and Thomas turned his attention back to the men in the clearing. The three men had all spun around, and were now peering into the woods. Thomas took the moment to step out of the woods and into the light of the torches, his hands on the grips of his rapier and dagger.

“Well,” Thomas said, raising his voice to fill the clearing, “here’s a bunch up to no good!”

No one moved for a moment, then the biggest of the men stepped forward. “Run off, lad, before—”

The metallic hiss of blade leaving scabbard stopped him. Thomas’s rapier and dagger gleamed yellow in the flickering light. “I think not.”

The other two men in the clearing shuffled nervously, looking to the big one. George stepped casually out of the woods beside Thomas, using his knife to strip the last twigs from the branch. Eileen stepped out beside him, doing her best to look defiant. George took his time looking over the three rough men before saying, “And what do you think you’re doing disturbing a guest of our village, then?”

“Leave,” Thomas said, “or my friend and I will keep you busy while the young lady runs back to town and fetches the watch.”

The big man sneered. “They’ll not reach here in time.”

“To save your lives?” Thomas asked. “Probably not. Want to find out?”

The man frowned, his face crushing in on itself. His two companions were not at all happy with the idea of a fight, to judge from the way they were shifting their feet. George finished stripping the twigs from the branch and, after examining it a moment, snapped off the thinnest two feet from it, leaving him a four foot club. He swung it experimentally.

The biggest of the men stepped forward and threw his torch at Thomas. Thomas ducked to one side, and when he straightened the man was already running into the woods. His companions followed, dropping their torches on the ground before vanishing into the trees. Thomas grabbed up the torch that the first man had thrown, stomping out the small blazes it had left on the ground. George ran forward and grabbed up the other two.

“City folk,” snorted George as he stomped out the small licks of flame on the ground. “No country man tosses a lit torch to the ground in the woods.”

“Well, they can’t all be smart,” Thomas said. He sheathed his blades, realizing he was grinning like an idiot. Alcohol was said to make men both brave and foolish, and he’d been a prime example of that tonight.

“It worked!” Eileen crowed. “They ran off! I can’t believe it!”

“They weren’t ready for a fight,” Thomas felt breathless. “They just wanted to get at Timothy.”

“You were sure of that, were you?” George asked.

Thomas’s grin grew wider. “No.”

“Fool of a scholar,” said George, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

“Aye.” Thomas took a deep breath, releasing tension he hadn’t known was there as the air came out. “But it worked.”

George walked up to the wagon, examined the axe marks on the door. He whistled. “Nearly got through, there.” He raised a big hand and knocked at the door. “Juggler? Juggler! It’s safe to come out now.”

“Go away!” shouted Timothy.

“It’s all right,” said Eileen, going to stand beside her brother. “They’re gone!”

“Just go!”

Thomas went to the wagon and knocked on the door. “Timothy? It’s Thomas, the scholar. Are you all right?”

“If you’re still scared, we can take you into town,” George offered. “We’ll hook up your horse to the wagon, and move you into our back yard.”

“I don’t want to be in your back yard!” Timothy yelled. “I want to be left alone!”

“At least come to the door so we can see you’re all right,” said Thomas. “After that we’ll leave you alone.”

There was a long silence, then the sound of slow movement inside the wagon. The door opened a crack. Timothy peered out at them then opened the door wide. Even in the dim light of the torches he looked pale and shaky. He leaned against the door frame, his breath ragged.

“Are you all right?” asked Eileen.

“Aye, I am.” He scanned the clearing before stepping out of the wagon. “I can’t say as I’m liking your village folk too much, though.”

“They weren’t from our village,” said George. “I’d have recognized them.”

“Maybe they were bandits,” suggested Eileen. “Though there’s not been a bandit around here for twenty years.”

“Maybe they’re with the bishop,” said Thomas. “They said they were going to take you to ‘his Grace.’ ”

“The bishop has no reason to want the likes of me.” Timothy’s words spilled out in a rush. He waved the idea away with a quick, jerky gesture. “No reason at all. They must have wanted me for something else.”

Timothy moved slowly into the clearing, head swivelling back and forth, eyes darting in all directions. He was obviously shaken up and scared and Thomas didn’t press him with any questions. Thankfully, neither did Eileen or George. If Timothy didn’t want to speak, Thomas wasn’t going to try to make him. The little man reached the centre of the clearing and turned in a slow circle. Thomas watched a bit longer, then turned to his friends.

“Well,” Thomas said. “We’ll go.”

George and Eileen muttered assent and started for the woods.

“Don’t!” Timothy’s voice was loud and frightened. He stopped and looked at his feet. A moment later, he breathed deep and straightened up. He smiled, the expression slightly forced, but with real pleasure behind it. “Such a night of adventures!” he said, the showman’s tone back in his voice. “I think it calls for a drink, don’t you?” Timothy turned to George. “Build up the fire, lad, and I’ll get a bottle and some mugs. We’ll toast your victory over the forces of darkness.” He stopped, and some of the confidence was gone from his voice when he said, “You will join me, won’t you?”

Thomas looked to his friends. George nodded first then Eileen, a little hesitantly, a moment later. “Gladly,” said Thomas.

Timothy moved lightly back across the clearing and into the wagon. George tossed the two torches into the fire-pit, then started adding kindling and branches from the pile Timothy had beside the pit. Thomas tossed his torch in beside the other two. Timothy came back moments later with a bottle and mugs in one hand, a lute in the other, and blankets over his arms.

“Take these, would you, Scholar?” he said, waving the bottle. “We may as well be comfortable as not.”

Thomas relieved him of the drink, while Eileen took the blankets. The fire began to blaze up. George fed several larger logs into the pit, then sat back to watch the results.

“That’s it,” said Timothy, looking at the fire. “Well done! Now, one blanket for the lassie, one for each of you, and one for me. And mugs all around. Be careful pouring, Scholar; that’s a strong whiskey. Just the thing to end a night of adventures.”

In short order everyone was seated on a blanket and all were sipping at the whiskey. Timothy tuned the lute then began strumming gently. Only the faint shaking of his hands betrayed his state of mind, and the tremor quickly stilled as he expertly ran through chord changes and finger exercises.

“Here’s to you three,” he said after a time, taking one hand from the lute and using it to raise his mug. “Without you, I’d probably be beaten and robbed and my wagon burnt down around me.” He drank deeply. Thomas followed his example, as did George. Eileen did the same and nearly choked, making George grin. She stuck her tongue out at her brother once she got her breath back, then sipped at the whiskey.

“Tell me,” said Timothy, looking at the three young people, “not that I’m not grateful, but what in the names of the Four are you doing out on a night like this?” “Taking Thomas to our house for the night,” said George. “I saw the lights and Thomas heard the shouting. So we came to have a look.”

“And thank the Blessed Daughter, Granter of Wishes, for that,” Timothy took another drink of the whiskey. “Why were you taking the scholar to your house?” He looked at Thomas. “Thought you’d just come home, lad. Don’t your parents want you?”

“Not tonight, they don’t,” said Thomas. He took another swallow, shuddered, and changed the subject with, “By the Four above, did you make this yourself?”

“Nay, got it two years ago from a seller of spirits in exchange for a song.” “A song?” Eileen leaned forward. “What sort of song?” “Oh, it’s a depressing one,” warned Timothy. “He lost his love while he was

serving in the king’s fleet and wanted a song about her. Not a great one for late nights by the fire.” “I’d like to hear it,” said Eileen. “I’ve never heard a song played by the person

who made it.” Timothy shrugged. “Well, if the lads have no objection.” “None.” “None at all.” “Then I’ll sing it.” His voice was a light baritone, and his fingers roved

skilfully over the lute as he worked his way through the lyrics:

“Alas, my love has gone away, And I must wait here many a day. Love, I cannot follow your way Until in the ground I lie.

“I was to sail across the sea She begged, ‘Sir, come back to me. For you know I will love only thee Until in the ground I lie.’

“As my love watched and cried, I sailed off to see the world so wide, And my poor love fell sick and died, And now in the ground she’ll lie.

“So sleep, my love, do not despair, For the Mother I know keeps you fair, And soon my love I will join you there, And in the ground I will lie.”

“He must miss her terribly,” whispered Eileen as the lute’s notes carried them through the last chords of the song.

“I heard that played in one of the taverns in the city,” Thomas said. “I never knew where it came from.”

Timothy grinned. “How could you, lad? I hadn’t told you.” He shifted his fingers on the lute and began playing a jig. “Here, let’s lighten up our moods before we all get depressed. And refill those glasses!”

He made the strings dance as he played, and soon his small audience was clapping and singing along with him in the choruses as he went from one dance tune to another. He played until he claimed to be tired then took to telling stories for a while. They listened, enraptured, until the lateness of the hour and the strength of the whiskey began to claim them. George, who’d been imbibing rather freely at the tavern before, ended up stretched out on his blanket, snoring. Eileen fell asleep as well, and Thomas rolled up his own blanket to act as a cushion for her head.