The Horse Lord (5 page)

Santon spoke the old phrases in High Alban, the Horse-Lords’ priestly tongue, forgotten save in rituals such as this. It was a language rich, rhythmic and musical, but hard and stern as those who had first pronounced it.

“Behold this blade, black and belt-borne,” the lord intoned slowly. “Honourable it is, pride-protecting, death without dishonour’s darkness. Mark its meaning in your mind with Word of Binding and with blood.” From the corner of one eye Aldric saw servants unroll a length of bandage and shivered slightly.

“Word and blood will bind me. I will bear the blade.” The young
kailin
held out his open left hand, muscles taut to stop the fingers trembling. Lord Santon laid the
tsepan
on the offered skin and cut once with each edge, marking duty to Heaven, to Crown and to Clan.

White-faced and barely breathing, Aldric watched dark blood welling from the parallel wounds until they were covered with white gauze and a fine linen bandage. He felt very slightly sick. The cuts themselves had hurt little, so keen was the fragile dirk, but now a throbbing crawled hotly up his arm. Clenching his fists he bowed, then retired for a while as was his right.

The ceremony was over and his life for the next few years was laid out in orderly fashion. A youth spent in weapon-training had been to prepare him for this: service in some high lord’s garrison before officer rank if he earned it and promotion perhaps to the Guards’ cavalry barrack in Cerdor. Not an appealing prospect, but better at least than the other choice of a lord’s third son— Aldric had never seen himself as a priest. Grinning at the thought, he gathered himself up and went to find something to drink.

Sitting astride his roan gelding at the crest of a small rise, Aldric twisted in the saddle to look back at Dun-rath’s distant bulk. The donjon of the citadel and the loftier fortress turrets gleamed straw-gold in the sunrise, but the rest was still lost in mist and pre-dawn gloom, with only a few firefly specks to show where people were up and about. Aldric hunched deeper into the fur of his travelling cloak, for autumn was drawing to a close and the days were both short and chilly. The horse stamped and shook its mane; it at least was eager to be off, and with a final glance Aldric settled back and let the beast make its own way down the slope, towards the broad army road that led to Radmur.

“Radmur? At this time of year?” Joren had been startled when he first heard Aldric’s plan. He had been inclined to treat it as a joke until he realised his young brother was quite serious. Then he began to grow suspicious. “Why, may I ask, are you so set on going?”

“I’ve told you once—I want to see my friends before winter closes in, because there won’t be time come spring before I go to Leyruz.” Joren cleared his throat. “To
Lord
Leyruz. Sorry.”

“Eight leagues is a fair distance even in summer,” muttered Joren dubiously. “You’d not find me doing it.”

“But then I’m not you, am I?”

“No, praise Heaven!” The big man’s vehemence made Aldric laugh. Joren was right, of course; nobody he knew about was worth a twenty-five-mile social call in the present weather—but it made a good enough excuse… Unlocking a chest, Aldric hauled out clothing, then swore softly and began to dump three months’ accumulated debris from the pockets of his favourite leather jerkin. Something clanked loudly on the bottom of the trunk and he fished out a decrepit, rusty sword-hilt with a broken chain through its pommel. Flakes of corrosion sprinkled his clean clothes, and he muttered something under his breath. Joren stared out of a window, wondering how his little brother had grown up to be such a wise fool. Collecting rubbish, going visiting in such weather… “It wouldn’t be a woman, hmm?” he speculated idly.

If he had not been watching the clouds Joren might have wondered about the glance Aldric shot at him. Then the expression vanished as he realised Joren was only joking. He dropped the sword-hilt and resumed his packing with a careful laugh.

“Wrong again. When I find a lady, she’ll live a damn sight nearer home!”

Now Aldric cantered on, whistling between his teeth. Apart from a peasant or two who gave him “Good day” and respectful bows, the road was deserted and winter unquestionably drawing near. Everything seemed draped in grey—the sky, the hills, the clumps of woodland—and Aldric wondered why he had not stayed at home. Haranil-
arluth
had given him three days—pleasing enough until the old man elaborated. A day to go, a day to stay and a day to return. Aldric had made the mistake of protesting, forgetting he was no longer a child whose whims were humoured. Haranil had simply said, “I am your lord, warrior,” and Aldric had wisely argued no further.

The smooth sad wail of a wolf floated down from the woods beyond the ridge, and Aldric resisted the temptation to jam in his heels. He had not forgotten the strange events after the boar-hunt, nor Duergar Vathach’s enigmatic remark at the feast. Strange man, he thought idly. Spends all day wandering about the woods, never minds the weather, seldom gets back till after dark. Weird… his musing was interrupted by the raindrop which hit him in the eye. With a shower coming on, he shook the gelding to a gallop and reached a way-house just in time to watch the downpour from beside a roaring log fire.

He and the horse were both tired when at last he reined in and looked at the walled city of Radmur. Stiff and saddle-sore, he stood in his stirrups as the beast trotted towards the gates where already lights were glowing yellow, newly lit and smelling of oil and resin. Exchanging a brief greeting with the guards, more polite than usual when they saw his hair, he handed his steed over to one of the city ostlers. As in other Alban cities, horses were forbidden beyond the perimeter roads, and as his aching thighs complained he toyed with the idea of a palanquin or chair. Then he reminded himself that he was still only twenty and not fat, and walked.

Tewal’s inn was much as he had last seen it, dim and snug under adzed oak beams. At this time of night it smelt mouthwatering, with various things cooking in the kitchen, and in the common room a fire like a forge and bowls of salted dainties—both deliberate, to encourage thirst and deep drinking. Aldric didn’t care about that. Hitching his sword’s crossbelt so that the scabbard hung comfortably across his back, he took a handful of beef slivers and began munching. Unmannerly, but then he was hungry.

Tewal himself was not long in appearing, summoned by one of the serving wenches. Short, fat and cheerful, he emerged red-faced from the kitchen where by his smudged nose he had been blowing life into a brazier. “Well now, my lord. I thought I’d seen the last of you till spring,” he said, and slapped Aldric on the shoulder, warrior-rank or no. Aldric winced—the little man had big, broad hands—and grinned at him.

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said. Tewal tugged his ginger beard and shook his head.

“Oh, no, dear me no, not like that at all, my lord. I was only saying to Egyth, Egyth my dear, I said, that young lord Talvalin—” Aldric held up one hand for silence. Tewal always made him feel out of breath.

“Tewal,” he said firmly, “I’m tired and hungry. Feed me and then you can tell me everything you’ve said to everybody this week. But please, not just now, eh?”

The tavern slowly filled with other customers as the evening drew on and Aldric, never fond of crowds, retreated to a quiet corner with his wine and carried on a sporadic conversation with the innkeeper’s wife. They had been swapping scraps of gossip for perhaps half an hour when Aldric’s flow of speech faltered and an odd expression crossed his face. Not because of the drink—his head was harder than that—but he had the feeling that someone was watching him.

Setting down his tankard, the
kailin
swept a quick glance across the smoky taproom. Merchants with long-stemmed pipes—a curious habit Tewal also affected now—mingled with off-duty guards and their ladies of the moment. Otherwise there was nothing out of the ordinary—until his gaze reached the doorway.

Her name was Hen; that was all she had admitted and he had not pressed her for more. Their relationship was a complicated one, since she was the lady of a good friend of one of Aldric’s good friends and he was reluctant to do anything which would break these longstanding ties. The young man had absolutely no previous experience of women to guide him; Joren had guarded his morals with the same energy as he had taught him to fight, and at the age of twenty Aldric was shy, frustrated, obsessively honourable and nervously virginal. His visit to Radmur was intended to rectify this uncomfortable situation, since at their last meeting—at somebody else’s birthday feast—Hen’s friendship had shown signs of becoming something more intimate.

As Hen crossed the room Aldric half-rose and bowed with as much grace as his apprehension allowed. He was downright scared of doing something which might appear foolish or awkward in the girl’s eyes, and was consequently becoming reluctant even to move. Then he did move, very smoothly and with a speed even Joren would have applauded.

Hen had come too close to the table where three soldiers just off punishment drill were drowning their sorrows, and one had made a grab at her. His fingers had closed around the girl’s slender wrist and he was hauling her closer with as much finesse as a fisherman landing herrings. The man’s drunkenness was some excuse—but in Aldric’s opinion, not much. “Let her alone, friend,” he said harshly, tugging the guardsman’s shoulder and relying on his rank to gain obedience.

As he sorted out his legs from those of an upturned table and wiped blood from his lip, Aldric realised such reliance had been a little optimistic. Scrambling upright, he intercepted a tray of tankards and helped himself to one, then moved in on the little group of soldiers— rather more carefully this time. They were trying to kiss Hen and laughing heartily as she tried to flinch away. Aldric’s teeth showed briefly and he tapped the nearest man on the back. The soldier swung round, blearily looking for trouble, and found it in the shape of a tankard smacking him very hard under the chin. Not surprisingly he fell down with a crash that took his comrades’ table and their drinks down with him.

In the ensuing silence Aldric extended one hand to lien. “Let us leave, now,” he suggested calmly, and there was a clattering as several of the more timid customers took his advice, just before somebody grabbed his queue from behind with an excessively vicious jerk.

Nobody did that to a
kailin-eir
! Without looking, Aldric slammed elbow backwards at mouth level and felt the crunch of a good square impact shoot down his arm. The “somebody” let go of his hair and tried to yell, a sound muffled by several displaced teeth. It gave Aldric the chance to roll sideways under the shelter of a friendly table, where he could watch the developing fight in relative peace and quiet.

Something heavy hit the ground behind him and he found himself no longer alone. Not that his visitor was anyone he could talk to—the spice seller had been on the wrong end of a bottle, brandy by the smell, and was in no fit state for conversation. Judging by the rising uproar, things were getting out of hand and Aldric guessed that
kailin-eir
or not he had best not be around when the Watch came calling. Radmur’s Prefect of Police doubtless remembered the last time well enough.

One of the chairs by his table shot straight up out of sight, followed by loud noises and a rain of splintered wood. Drawing his sword was out of the question, of course; this was only a friendly fight and while brawling was one thing, bladeplay was quite another. As two squealing wenches ran for the door Aldric stood up and followed them, oozing innocence.

This fooled nobody, as three swinging fists made quite clear. By the time he had sorted out that problem— easily enough, since he was sober and his attackers were not—someone else had departed noisily through the window and Aldric hastened his own exit. The sound of breaking glass drew Radmur’s City Watch like wasps to syrup, and Tewal’s big front window had held enough panes to attract the deafest constable.

Then, despite the risk of being jumped on, he stopped. Hen had been backed into a corner by her drunken acquaintance of earlier on, and by the look on the man’s ugly face he was after more than a kiss this time. There was a small knife in Hen’s hand, but the guard was in no mood to sweet-talk her out of using it. Instead he drew a dagger from his boot and advanced with a nasty grin.

When Aldric shouted he looked round—having learnt nothing from the fate of his colleague—and then lunged. The young
kailin
dodged, grabbed the knife-hand’s wrist and used it to hurl the soldier over his shoulder and headlong into a handy pile of chairs. “All a matter of balance,” he said dryly, then led Hen out into the dark, cool peace and quiet of the street.

Opening his mouth to make some comment, Aldric shut it again as his mental alarm sounded for the first time that evening. He spun, one hand flying to his sword-hilt—then lowered it as a halberd prodded his stomach.

“So, my lord Aldric,” said the Prefect of Police with a gentle smile. “At least there is nothing in the canal this time. Yet.”

Heavy flakes of snow wavered to the ground as Aldric galloped fast for Dunrath. The fall had begun just after he left Radmur and was making the paved road treacherous, but he was in no mood for caution. The magistrates had taken two days to decide who was responsible for the riot in Tewal’s inn, and though they had finally given Aldric an honourable discharge they had taken too long over it. The damage was already beyond repair; it would now seem to
Haranil-arluth
that he had been deliberately misunderstood. And deliberate disobedience was one thing the old man had never tolerated. He would be in just the right frame of mind to hear the real reason for the delay; Aldric’s stomach went cold at the thought.

He stopped perforce at the way-station, not to feed himself but to rest his lathered horse before the beast dropped under him. Not all the stamping up and down nor the rapping of quirt on boot could hurry the weary animal’s recovery and at last Aldric gave up trying. He went inside and stared in grim silence at the fire.