The Crown of Dalemark (25 page)

Maewen's head ached, and her stomachache came back. She trailed behind Hildy and Navis, wanting to sit down, while Hildy dragged Navis along by one hand, saying things like, “and this is where hardimers set trethers. Even if you're sailing in grybo, they can make you a comedown for squarks.” She never once bothered to explain. Navis looked increasingly ironic. Maewen thought, Hildy doesn't want us to know what it really means. She's one of those that like to be on the inside knowing things, with everyone else on the outside, not knowing.

Perhaps this was unkind. Maewen knew she was still feeling odd because someone had tried to kill her. She made an effort. She came politely up beside Hildy while they were crossing an enormous courtyard that did not exist in Maewen's day and tried to join in the talk. But after a very short time of politeness, she found herself saying, not altogether kindly, “Why did you treat Mitt like that? He's been looking forward to seeing you.”

“Really?” said Hildy. “How stupid of him. I suppose it comes of being uneducated.”

“
Is
he uneducated?” Maewen said, even less kindly.

“He's practically
illiterate
,” said Hildy. “He can hardly read.” She made it sound like an infectious disease. She added, “He used to
fish
for a living.” Her manner of saying it told Maewen that Hildy was quite aware of Maewen's unkindness, that she had met it often before, and that she expected it and did not care two hoots.

Hmm, thought Maewen, dropping back again. I suppose that says volumes about her early life. She has problems. Well, I suppose unpleasant people
do
have problems, or they wouldn't be unpleasant, but that doesn't mean I have to like her—
or
forgive her! And she went on trailing behind. She ached all through. Some of it seemed to be an ache of the heart about the way Mitt must be feeling.

Been here before, Mitt was thinking. It's only what I'm used to. Only to be expected, really. Hildy's back in the life she was bred for and that's that. But though this stopped his hurting—a little—he was still hurting in other ways he was not used to at all.

He had thought Hildy was his friend. He had not known friendship could be such a fragile thing. Probably Ynen, if they found him, would not want to know Mitt either. And who cares? he said to himself, sauntering behind the mountainous Biffa and the much smaller Moril. The size of Biffa made him grin, hurt as he felt. She was a good few inches taller than he was, and Mitt knew he was around six feet these days.

“My parents keep the mill over in Ansdale,” Biffa was saying to Moril, “and they're both taller than me. If you think I'm big, you should see my brother. Size runs in our family.”

“It's not far to Ansdale,” said Moril.

“Two days,” and Biffa. “That would be four, if one of them came to fetch me. They can't afford the time. But they sent me the horse hire to come home. I don't have to stay all through the recess like Hildy does.”

Mitt wondered what kind of mountainous horse Biffa would have to hire to ride home on, but the sick, choked, hurt feeling kept him from joining in the conversation.

They crossed an echoing cloister and came out into a bright, hot courtyard with steps at both ends. “Climbers,” said Biffa. “There she is.”

A number of hearthmen in Hannart livery were sitting on the steps opposite, indulgently watching Kialan Kerilsson walk about the court talking with a dark-haired girl in Lawschool uniform. Mitt checked a bit at the sight. He had not properly attended to where Moril was going. But of course! he thought bitterly. Kialan comes here to see his fancy, and they let him in early because he's an earl's son, and he probably doesn't even notice he's getting special treatment. There's earls for you. Mitt thought he might go away. Then his misery said, What the hell—I'll give him a rude message to his father. And he walked down the steps with Biffa and Moril.

“Brid,” Moril said sternly.

The girl spun round. She was very pretty, even prettier than Fenna, and not as old as Mitt had expected, probably only his own age.
“Moril!”
she screamed, and unlike the pupils in the sober line, she rushed at Moril and flung her arms around him. The two of them hurtled round and round, both talking at once and laughing, with Kialan throwing remarks at Moril and laughing, too. Mitt stood back, hurting.

“I only came to fetch her back to Hannart,” he heard Kialan say.

Brid's voice rose in a Singer's soprano, with a good strong edge to it. “Of
course
I'm not throwing away Singer heritage, Moril,
or
law learning! But it's
my
life, and I decide it!”

“So she'll be here for three more years,” Kialan said ruefully. “Satisfied, Moril?” He probably was in love with Brid, Mitt thought. See the way he looked at her. His chest gave a wrench at the thought.

Out of a further babble of talk, Moril asked, “Is your father here?”

Kialan shook his frizzy head. “No, I came over alone. Why?”

Alone except for twenty hearthmen, Mitt thought, and was taken by surprise when Moril said, “Good. Then you can meet my friend Mitt.”

Mitt's chest gave another wrench, that Moril called him a friend, and then a sort of hop at the eager way Kialan instantly swung round and stared, with his head up so that his nose made him look like a questing eagle. “Mitt?” Kialan said. “From Aberath? Really?” Mitt nodded warily. “What are you doing here?” Kialan asked, no less eagerly.

Mitt intended a laugh. It came out as a hacking sort of caw. “Visiting on Hildy Navissdaughter.”

Kialan's mouth bunched like a prune. “That white-faced little sow. She'll be worse than Earl Hadd before she's through; she's the image of him already! Her brother Ynen's worth ten of her.”

Mitt's chest did odd things again. He was not sure what he felt, but he somehow made no protest when Kialan signaled to Brid to keep talking to Moril and seized Mitt's arm and walked him out of their hearing. It was a lordly thing to do. Mitt found he hardly cared. The way he was feeling showed him that Kialan was a lordly type who would have acted like this if he'd been born a fisherman's heir. It was a strange discovery. He faced Kialan, pricking with odd new sensitivity.

“Am I glad to meet you at last!” Kialan said. Mitt knew he meant it. “I was looking for you all over when I was in Aberath. Did you really sail north with the Undying?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mitt said as they walked up the steps together. “It was Ynen's boat, but I helped bring Old Ammet aboard.”

“I want to hear you tell it,” Kialan said, “but that'll have to wait.” He stopped halfway up the steps and again pulled Mitt round to face him. They were near enough of a height to look into one another's faces, but Kialan was chunkier. Kialan said, slowly and carefully, “It was lucky I didn't run into you in Aberath. I'd have blurted out all sorts of jolly messages from Ynen—or I would have until that evening. My father spoke to me before supper then and told me you weren't supposed to know where Ynen is. And of course I couldn't go against my father.”

Mitt looked into Kialan's light-colored eyes, a good many shades bluer than his own, and realized that Kialan was telling him all the same. His chest did strange things again. “When did you last speak to Ynen?” he asked, testing the situation.

“This lady—Noreth—is she riding the green roads?” Kialan asked, testing Mitt in return.

“Alive and kicking,” Mitt said. “She's around the school somewhere if you want to meet her.”

For a second Kialan looked as if he would dearly have loved to meet Noreth. Then he shook his curly head regretfully. “My father would be furious. In answer to your question, I spoke to Ynen this morning before I set off to come here. He wasn't allowed to send his love to his sister—” He looked questioningly at Mitt.

“All right,” Mitt said. “I'll tell her.”

“Thanks,” said Kialan. “I'd promised Ynen. And you're riding with this Noreth Onesdaughter?”

“Down to Kernsburgh,” said Mitt. “I suppose.”

“I'll join you there,” said Kialan. “With Ynen. Wait for us if we're not there first. It's going to take a bit of planning.” He swung Mitt round again, and they strolled back down the steps. “So where did you make landfall?” he asked loudly, for the benefit of the hearthmen across the courtyard.

“Holy Isles,” said Mitt. “And right weird they were.”

“I've heard they are,” Kialan agreed. “Where then?”

“Blown north again to Aberath,” Mitt said. “We never saw the coast till then. We'd no idea we'd come that far.”

“Amazing,” said Kialan. “Well, thanks for telling me.” He let go of Mitt's arm.

“You're welcome,” Mitt said, backing away. “Tell Moril I'll be with Navis when he wants us.”

“Right,” said Kialan, strolling back toward the others. Brid waved and called out something happy to both of them.

Mitt could not face happy scenes. He went the other way, back up the steps with long, busy strides, pretending he had something important to do. His mind was all over the place. He needed to be alone to think. But there were people everywhere, in happy, chatting groups. Back and forth went Mitt, looking as busy as he knew how, through gardens, under arches, across a wide paved court, into buildings again. And always there were people. Until at last he came out into a gravel court where there was a small separate building, a funny domed place that looked older than all the rest. Nobody seemed to be about here. Mitt went cautiously in through its arched doorway. Inside, it seemed to be a stone summerhouse with a stone table up some steps at one end. Mitt sat on one of the stone benches that curved round the walls, between bundles of twisted greenstone pillars, and gave himself thankfully up to thought.

So Ynen was in Hannart, then, right under Keril's eye. It made sense. Even Navis would hardly try to get Ynen out of there. But Kialan could. Who would have thought it? Mistrustfully Mitt tried to tell himself that Kialan had not meant a word of what he seemed to mean. He was just acting for his father, getting Mitt to betray himself. “And I did—didn't I just!” Mitt said aloud. But as the words echoed round the domed room, he knew that Kialan had been entirely straight with him. Kialan was all right. The bitter, disillusioned feeling that made Mitt not want to trust anyone was about Hildy, not Kialan. He knew very well how Kialan came to think so differently from his father. Mitt had only to recall that glimpse he had had, of Kialan shuffling through Holand, a prisoner of Navis's father, to know it. Over a year ago it had been now, but Mitt remembered it as fresh as if it were yesterday. No doubt Kialan remembered even better. Kialan knew all about how it felt to be in the power of an earl.

All the same, Kialan had no call to say Hildy was like Earl Hadd. Mitt decided he hated Kialan for that—all the more because he suspected Kialan might be right.

“Damned
earls
and their families!” Mitt said out loud, clenching both hands on the edge of the stone seat. His eyes glared ahead at the stone table and the lopsided metal cup on it. Hildy and Kialan between them had mixed his mind up properly.

His eyes suddenly told him what they were seeing. That stone table was an altar. There was an image in a niche above it of an old man lifting up a mountain. The One. That meant that the lopsided cup had to be the one Noreth wanted—the Adon's cup.

Mitt clutched the stone bench even harder. It was the perfect opportunity. All he had to do was walk over, pick the thing up, and stuff it down the front of his jacket. Noreth would rejoice. And with the school swarming with people, if somebody did notice the cup was gone and raise a shout, how were they to know which of the crowd had taken it? If Mitt took it and went
now
, through the valley and up to the green road, he could be gone before anyone could do anything. So why was he sitting here like an idiot, clinging to a stone seat until his fingers hurt?

Because it was stealing. Because he had made that promise to Alk. Because he had spoken words to Old Ammet and to Libby Beer—who had been around yesterday and today, perhaps to remind Mitt of those words. Mitt grinned, a bent, unfunny smile. Funny the way it was never enough to swear and promise just the
once
. You seemed to have to rethink and repromise every time the subject came up. Mitt's smile narrowed away. This time he would be stealing from the One, and even sane, level Alk was cautious with the One. On the other hand, Noreth was the One's own daughter, and the One wanted her to have the cup. And now, after Hildy and Kialan had mixed Mitt's mind up, he felt like doing something bad. It would be a waste not to, really.

Mitt unclenched his fists from the bench and stood up. He listened. All the voices and footsteps he could hear were off in the distance. What he could see of the gravel court through the doorway was empty. So. Get it over with.

Mitt took three long strides to the altar. There he flinched and froze. He could have sworn a shadow, like an old man with a long nose, had swung through the room as he took the third step. As if someone had flitted across the doorway. But he stood and he waited and he listened and no feet crunched on the gravel outside. The new view he had of the court from here was empty. He stretched out a cautious hand and grasped the cup round its wide, uneven stem.