The Crowded Shadows (7 page)

They had been following a rutted donkey track through the deep and cavernous pines for most of the day. There wasn’t room to ride three abreast, so Christopher was slightly ahead of Wynter on the trail, Razi bringing up the rear.

Christopher was very quiet, perhaps feeling guilty for having suggested this in the first place. Wynter watched him forge doggedly ahead, slouched in the saddle, a haze of black insects all around him. Flies swarmed on his shoulders and knapsack, crawled drowsily across his back. His horse’s tail swatted the bedroll on its rump and thwacked irritably against the saddlebags. Wynter knew she was probably in the same state and her shoulder blades twitched at the thought. Christopher shifted slightly in the saddle, his travel belt settling around his hips, and he adjusted his knife to a more comfortable position.

Wynter tilted her head.
Huh
, she thought,
I didn’t notice that before
.

“It just struck me, gentlemen,” she said aloud, “you’re both travelling very light compared to when you left the palace. Where are all your possessions?”

Christopher squinted back at her. “I left all my things with that al-Attar fellow from town,” he said. “He met me in the forest and took them from me. Razi? He
will
take care of them, won’t he? He won’t leave my father’s trunk in the damp or aught?” Razi must have gestured reassuringly because Christopher lifted his chin in an unconvinced response, and turned forward again.

“What Attar fellow?” asked Wynter. “Jahm? Does he mean Jahm al-Attar?” She twisted back to look at Razi who nodded and swiped at the flies that swarmed his half-covered face.

“Aye,” he said.

Wynter frowned uncertainly. Jahm al-Attar was the palace apothecary. He had been a great friend to Razi’s mentor, St James, and both Lorcan and Razi considered him a noble fellow. Still, she was surprised that Razi had trusted anyone enough to let them in on his plan.

“Meanwhile,” continued Razi, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Shuqayr ibn-Jahm is making sure that my blue robes get to Padua without too many rips or stains.”

It took a moment for Wynter to understand, then she jerked her horse to a halt and turned to stare her friend in the face. Grinning, Razi brought his horse to a dancing stop. Wynter heard Christopher sigh as he halted on the track ahead.

Shuqayr! The apothecary’s eldest son! Now that Wynter came to think of it, Razi’s age, Razi’s equal in height, Razi’s lanky build.

“Oh, Razi,” she said, appalled at the risks everyone was taking. “You were not even on your horse that day, were you? It was Shuqayr, wearing your clothes.”

Razi nodded his head, laughing. “I walked out the palace gates on my own two feet with Umm-Shuqayr Muhayya, her daughters and other sons. I used Shuqayr’s papers, then just strolled into the forest without a care in the world.” Razi’s eyes lost their joy, his delight stolen from him by worry. “I hope that Simon keeps him safe,” he said quietly. “It is a long journey. What if…?”

“Razi, how in God’s holy name do you expect Shuqayr to fool Simon all the way to—? Oh,” she said, as cold understanding dawned. “Simon knows.”

Razi nodded again and Wynter was suddenly irritated at how many people he had trusted with this plan, while leaving herself and Lorcan in the dark. “
Simon
, Razi?” she exclaimed. “You trusted Simon De Rochelle, yet you did not trust…?”

She bit her lip and looked up into the sky for a moment. No. She would not begin that argument. There were far too many fingers that could be pointed at her in return. She took a deep breath and counted slowly backwards from ten. Razi’s deep voice cut across her attempts at self-restraint, and he at least had the decency to sound ashamed of himself.

“I
know
he seems an unlikely ally, sis. But I assure you, Simon no more wants the Kingdom in chaos than you or I.” Razi wryly spread his hands. “After all, it is not to his economic or political advantage.”

Wynter tutted bitterly, but she had to admit, it was a brilliant ruse. Once outside the palace environs, any tall, brown man could easily pass for Razi, particularly with a cadre of knights bowing and calling him
My Lord
. As far as anyone was now concerned, His Highness, the Royal Prince Razi—poisoner, usurper and black-hearted pretender to the throne—was wending his way to Padua and safely out of the picture for the next month or more. Palace life had at least a chance of getting back to normal, and Razi himself was free to slip around behind the scenes and try to find out the truth about the terrible rift between his father and the real heir to his throne.

Christopher chuckled. “He’s a devious fellow, our Raz, ain’t he? No wonder I can’t beat him in a game of chess.” Wynter turned to him and they traded a smile through the cloud of flies that danced between them.

Razi’s horse neighed suddenly and the man himself gave a loud growl of frustration. “Oh Good
God
!” he yelled. “Let us get away from these God-cursed insects before they suck us dry!”

They worked their way up through the trees, the donkey track getting rougher and the flies more invasive with each mile. Wynter was just wondering if they’d ever get there, when Christopher came to a crest in the hill and pulled his horse to a halt.

Dwarfed by the massive pines on either side of the road, he was silhouetted sharply against the open sky at the curve of the road, and Wynter saw him look down as though into a valley.

“Good Frith,” he said, pulling the scarf from his face. “That is unexpected.”

Wynter and Razi brought their horses crowding up to join him. As soon as they crested the hill, they felt the refreshing effects of a breeze that swept up from the valley, and the flies disappeared like a conjurer’s trick. They removed their scarves and wiped the sweat from their faces as they took in the landscape. Wynter whistled in surprise.

A wide area of cleared land spread out before them, at least forty acres, neatly divided into paddocks and fields, a bright ribbon of stream running straight through the middle. At the very heart of the farm land, nestled into a couple of acres of mixed orchard, sat a large, neatly maintained complex of outhouses and stables, fronted by a handsome log building that must be the inn.

The smell of wood smoke and cooking came up to them on the breeze, and Wynter heard the men’s stomachs growl just before hers did.

“Hot mutton and gravy,” groaned Christopher.

“A bath,” sighed Wynter.

There was a moment’s silence from Razi as he surveyed the complex of buildings. “Stay sharp, you two,” he said finally. “And keep your knives handy. This place is mighty rich looking for a peasants’ haunt.” Then he clucked his horse forward and led the way down the steep slope into the heart of the valley.

“Shall we unsaddle the horses?” Wynter asked as they approached the inn. They were still elevated and could see down into the yard. A long line of mules stood patiently at the hitch, all weighed down with full barrels of tar. Two saddled horses were also at the hitch, and a small goods-cart, fully laden, stood against the yard wall. Dogs were getting to their feet and padding to the gate, looking up the hill towards them.

Razi scanned the area uncertainly. “Not at first,” he said, “we’ll carry everything of value in with us; get the lay of the land inside. If we feel comfortable, we can order a lad to tend the horses.”

The dogs began to bark, advancing and retreating and milling around each other in their excitement. A man came to the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth. He yelled at the dogs to
settle down
, then looked up the hill and raised his hand in casual greeting. Christopher raised his in return, and the man went back into the inn, leaving the door open. Two more men came to the door, peered curiously up at them and went back in.

Wynter shifted nervously in the saddle and wondered what the three of them would do if this turned out to be a nest of bandits.

A man and a boy came out from what looked like the stables, and stood watching them as they rode into the yard. They were Arabs, unmistakably father and son, but when the man spoke, it was with a broad local accent. “Would ye like us ter take the horses?”

“Not yet, thank you,” said Christopher, dismounting and stretching his saddle-weary body as he looked around him.

Wynter dismounted and bent to vigorously rub the cramp from her calves.

“Perhaps you could supply them with water and a feedbag each?” suggested Razi. “And we can call on you to rub them down should we decide to stay.”

The man nodded suspiciously, thrown by Razi’s well-bred accent. His eyes swept to take in the abundance of well-made weaponry, the saddle-bags, the heavily loaded travel belts. He turned to appraise Wynter, realised that she was a woman, and respectfully averted his gaze, but not before he checked her finger for a wedding band.

“Perhaps,” said Christopher, tucking his hands casually behind his back. “I could examine the feed?”

The man nodded and Christopher followed him into the stables while Wynter and Razi took the saddlebags and weaponry from the horses. Christopher soon returned, apparently satisfied with the quality of oats and grain on offer. He took his saddlebag from Razi, slung his crossbow over the rucksack on his back and the three of them headed into the unknown territory of the inn.

It was a dim room, low ceilinged, smelling of wood-smoke, roasted meat and tobacco. A big fireplace dominated the wall to their right, and the wall directly ahead of them was entirely given over to a rough serving counter. Two greasy looking women were eyeing them from the kitchen, which was visible through an arched doorway behind the serving counter. All the occupants of the room seemed to have been waiting for their entrance and they were silently taken stock of as they crossed the threshold.

The long table under the window was occupied by three middle-aged men and a youth. They were obviously tarmen, grimy and pickled with smoke, their hands and faces black from work. The older men were thoroughly occupied in eating their dinner, and they raised their eyes to take in the strangers without ceasing shovelling their food. The youth, however, stopped eating and leant artlessly from his seat to watch Wynter’s arse as she passed by. She gave him a cold stare and he made a shockingly lewd gesture at her with his tongue.

Thankfully, Razi’s attention was on a trio of rough looking men sitting at a centre table, so he did not react. Christopher, however, put his hand protectively on the small of Wynter’s back and sucked his teeth in a sharp and unmistakably aggressive manner. Wynter was surprised to see his hand fall to his knife.

“Keep your eyes to yerseln’, lad,” growled the older of the boy’s companions, and the young man dropped his gaze back to his bowl.

The men at the centre table had turned from their conversation and were openly staring at the new arrivals. They were grimy and patched looking, well armed and sly-eyed. The skin on Wynter’s back did a slow crawl as the men watched the three of them get settled. As she set her saddlebags down on the floor behind her, she glanced at the only other customer. He sat by the cold fireplace, seemingly absorbed in mending a harness. There was a tankard of cider by his elbow and an unfinished game of chess sat on a stool between him and the empty chair on the other side of the fireplace. Another tankard sat in the ashes of the hearthstone, with a half-eaten trencher-bread of stewed meat going soggy by its side. Wynter scanned the room for the man’s missing companion, but there was no sign of him.

She had just finished divesting herself of her rucksack when the landlord, his cloth still in hand, came trotting from a back hall. Unsmiling, he approached their table. He took them in very quickly, their pile of belongings, their weighty travel belts, their weapons. He made the usual check of Wynter’s finger for a ring, before dismissing her as unimportant.

“How do, travellers?” he said. “Not seen your faces afore. You lost?”

“We know where we’re headed, thanks,” said Christopher amiably, settling his crossbow against the wall.

“We were hoping for some hot food, and perhaps
…”
Razi stalled at the expression on the landlord’s face.

Christopher turned back from securing his weapon and his eyes shuttered as he caught the landlord staring at his mutilated hands. The landlord slowly raised his gaze and they locked eyes for a moment. Then Christopher’s mouth curved, his dimples flashed and he tilted his head in what Wynter recognised as the precursor to a joke. The landlord spoke first.

“Well, lad,” he said softly. “Some greasy magistrate had a field day with you, didn’t he?” Christopher opened his mouth to deny that he was a criminal, but the landlord turned and called into the kitchen. “Minnie! Some cider fer our friends.” He looked back down at them, still not smiling. “First one’s free. After that ye pay fer everythin’ according to the table of charges.” He jerked a meaty thumb to the chalked slate leaning against the counter. “Can ye read that?”

They nodded, a little dazed. As soon as the landlord had called for the free cider, the tarmen all pointedly concentrated on their food. The three men at the centre table craned to see Christopher’s hands, then turned back to their conversation. The man at the fireplace settled back in his chair, the tension gone from his posture.

It was obvious, now, what kind of trade was normal in this establishment. This was a bandits’ haunt all right, perhaps not exclusively so, considering the tarmen, but criminals were welcome, they were made to feel safe; and the three of them were now accepted as being part of that dubious brotherhood.