Cart and Cwidder (13 page)

Then the most dreadful part began. He could not bear being shut between walls. He was hot. He was trapped. The room seemed to get smaller every second and the ceiling seemed to be moving down on him. He thought he would have to scream. He nearly did scream, when a fortunate stain on the wall opposite caught his attention. It was almost the shape of the mountains between Dropwater and Hannart.

Moril thankfully escaped into a dream. He imagined snow-capped mountains and forgot he was too hot. He imagined wide valleys and the sky overhead, and the small room became easier to bear. He thought of the old green roads of the North and of Osfameron and the Adon walking along them. He became Osfameron himself. He and his friend the Adon made their way to imaginary Hannart. On the mountain, they were ambushed by enemies and fought their way clear. Then they went down into Hannart and strolled under the rowan trees outside the old gray castle, composing a song of victory together.

The door opened, and another man told Moril to come along now, quickly.

Moril came back to the present with a jump. He was scared and vibrating and small. He was aware of every stone and stain in that oppressive room, of the grain in the wood of the door, and the dirt in the fingernails of the man's hand holding it open. He even knew there were six hairs in the mole on the man's nose. As he got up, he suddenly remembered Clennen by the lake, saying, “You're in two halves at present.” And he wondered if this was what Clennen had meant.

The man ushered him into a large, imposing room, with a heavy old table at one end. An elderly man sat behind the table, with a younger one who was taking notes. Moril could see by the gold chain round the elderly one's neck that he was a justice.

“Stand in front of the table and answer clearly,” said the younger man, pausing in his writing and pointing his pen at Moril.

Moril did as he was told, still vibrating. He knew every bulge in the rather pointless carving on the wall above the justice. He could tell how many wrinkles there were in the forehead of the justice—fifteen yellowish folds.

The justice wrinkled these folds up and looked at Moril. “Full name?”

“Osfameron Tanamoril Clennensson,” said Moril. “I'd like to see my brother, please.”

“Quite a mouthful,” remarked the Justice, while the other man wrote it down. “Osfameron?”

“He's my ancestor,” said Moril. Seeing that the yellow folds of the justice were lifted toward him with slight interest, he explained, “I was called after him. And could I see Dagner, please?” The yellow folds drew closer together. “My brother,” Moril said patiently.

“Your brother?” said the justice. The other man passed him a sheaf of papers, and he drew the folds of his forehead together over them until it looked like smocking. “Some other mouthful down here,” he said.

Moril, with a little wobble to his stomach, realized the papers must be Dagner's answers to the questions they had asked him. He wondered what Dagner had said and wished he knew. For if he gave different answers from Dagner's, the justice might well convict Dagner of all sorts of things he had never done. “We call him Dagner for short,” he explained carefully. “And I'd like to see him, please.”

“You can see him presently, if you answer my questions truthfully,” said the justice. “You come of a family of singers, is that true?”

“Yes,” said Moril.

“And you traveled with your father, giving shows?”

“Yes,” said Moril.

“How long have you been doing that?”

“All my life,” said Moril.

“Which is how long?”

“Eleven years,” said Moril.

The younger man leaned over. “The elder boy said ten years.”

The justice smocked his forehead at Moril, calculating how old he was. He looked weary and shrewd, and Moril was just a doubtful fact to him. Moril saw that to follow Brid's advice and talk of being related to the Earl and to Ganner would do no good, simply no good at all. He knew Brid would have done it. But he was not going to try.

“I was a baby when we started,” he explained.

“From Hannart?” said the justice sharply.

“Yes, but I don't remember,” Moril said, knowing well enough that if he admitted to his true feelings about Hannart here, he could convict both himself and Dagner. “My father said he had a quarrel with Earl Keril.”

They checked that off against Dagner's answers, and it seemed to be right, to Moril's relief. But they seemed dissatisfied, and they became more dissatisfied as the questions went on.

“Where did you last perform before Neathdale?”

Moril thought. It seemed very long ago. Fledden? Yes, because that was the last place before they were in the Markind lordship and stopped performing. That was where Lenina had mended Kialan's coat. “Fledden,” he said.

“Who did your brother talk to in Fledden?”

“Nobody,” said Moril. He remembered particularly, because no girls had come up to Dagner for once, and he had talked to Dagner himself.

“But you weren't with him every moment you were in Fledden, were you?” said the younger man.

“Yes, I was,” said Moril. “We were all in the cart, you see. Father always made us stay in the cart together in towns.”

“Always?” said the justice, smocking his folds severely. “You don't mean to tell me your brother never went off on his own.”

Moril realized he could convict Dagner of poaching rabbits unless he was careful. “No, never,” he said. “Dagner's not interested in anything much except making up songs.” And to divert attention from the idea of poaching, he added, “Dagner hasn't done anything you could arrest him for—and our license is in order, honestly.”

The justice sighed irritably. “I'm not concerned with
your license, boy. Your brother has been arrested for passing illegal information—”

“What!”
said Moril.

“—and I want to know where he got it,” said the justice. “That surprises you?”

“I should just say it does!” said Moril. “He couldn't have done! You must have made a mistake.”

“Our agents are very reliable,” said the justice. “What makes you think it's a mistake?”

“Because Dagner wouldn't. He's just not interested. He's only interested in making songs. Besides, there's nowhere he
could
have got information,” Moril said frantically.

“That sort of assertion is not at all helpful,” said the justice. “I fancy both you brothers are concealing something. You say you last performed in Fledden. That must have been a week ago. Where have you been since?”

“Markind,” said Moril, wondering why on earth Dagner had not mentioned it. “Then we came here by Cindow.”

The justice and the younger man looked at one another, and seemed incredulous. It was clear that they thought Markind the last place where anyone could obtain illegal information. Moril took heart a little. “Why Markind?” snapped the younger man.

“My father was killed,” Moril explained, his voice wobbling a little.

“We know. At Medmere. Why did you go to Markind?” said the younger man.

“My mother went to marry Ganner,” said Moril.

“Ganner!”
they both exclaimed, and both looked at Moril in flat disbelief. “Ganner is Lord of Markind,” the justice said, as if he thought Moril did not know.

“I know,” said Moril. “Mother was betrothed to him before she married Father, and she went back there.”

“Very likely,” the justice said cynically. “In that case, why did you and your brother leave?”

Angry tears came into Moril's eyes. “Because I saw one of the men who killed Father there, if you must know! And if you don't believe me, ask Ganner!”

“I most certainly shall,” said the justice. The other man murmured something to him and they looked at one another, the wrinkles of the justice smocked into a tight yellow bunch. Moril saw Brid had been right after all to tell him to mention Ganner. But like Brid, the justice had jumped to the conclusion that Ganner had had Clennen killed, and the younger man was wagging his eyebrows at him to warn him that Ganner was far too important to be accused. The justice showed himself neither very nice nor very just by giving a cynical little laugh, smiling and shrugging. Moril supposed he should be glad, if, as Kialan had said, Ganner really had nothing to do with Clennen's death. Then the justice turned to Moril again and Moril saw, sadly and rather bitterly, that there was one law for Ganner and quite another for himself and Dagner. “Did your brother talk to any strangers in Markind?”

“No,” said Moril. “Only Ganner's household.”

“Then who did he talk to between Markind and here?”

“Only us,” said Moril.

“Listen, my boy,” said the justice, “you're not being very helpful, are you? Perhaps it will jog your memory if I remind you that your brother's crime is one for which he will be hanged in due course. Therefore, I can put you in prison for withholding information.”

Moril felt sick. “I
am
being helpful,” he said. “I've
told
you it's a mistake. But if you're only going to believe me if I tell you Dagner's guilty, then it's no use asking me questions. Because he didn't do it!”

The younger man half stood up, looking savage. Moril blinked and waited for them to hit him, or clap him in a cell, or both. But they did neither. The younger man, after a dreadful pause, told Moril coldly to go and sit down at the other end of the long room. Moril did so. He sat on a hard shiny stool near the door and watched the two conferring together in low voices. There were footsteps beyond the door, so that he was unable to hear anything that was said, though he thought he caught Ganner's name more than once. Then they called him back to the table.

“We're going to let you go, boy,” said the younger one. “We've come to the conclusion you know nothing about this matter.”

“Thank you,” said Moril. “Can I see my brother now?”

The younger man glared at him and was obviously going to refuse. But the justice said irritably, “Oh, very well, very well. I said you should if you answered my questions. I wouldn't like you to go away thinking we're unjust here.”

Moril thought Brid would have made the obvious answer to this. He held his tongue, with a bit of an effort.

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