The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (10 page)

            'She
says the end of the month this year.'

            'And
how long is that?'

            'Another
two weeks.'

            'How
far to the Cathedral at Kus?'

            'Well,
the plains is a three day ride, taking it easy.'

            'And
to Ulbridge?'

            'From
the Cathedral? Perhaps another three days.'

            Roskel
weighed it up in his mind. Six days altogether, if things went smoothly. If he
beat the snows to Ulbridge he had a place he could winter there. Then with the
first flush of spring, ride hard north along the plains road then onto the
Great North Road once he’d reached the river Larna…

            But
there was a debt, here. Of that he had no doubt. He wouldn’t gain much by
leaving today.

            'What
lies around here? Is there a place to stop on the way to the Cathedral?'

            'There’s
a town on the western road from here, Waybridge, and one on the border of the
plains, Irris Downs, but…'

            'Yes?'

            'Well,
if I were after a man, that’s where I’d wait. There’s plenty of tree cover, and
fine places for a man to be unseen…but there is another road, more of a trail,
that leads through the hills to the north, goes past Waybridge and leads out to
the downs. There’s a friend of mine, Larny Cole, lives on a farm out by the end
of the trail. Drives his cattle to a market town past this village toward the
east…a man on a horse could cover it in say two days…It’d mean sleeping rough,
though…but if a man wanted to make his way without fear of bandits and the
like…'

            Roskel
laughed. 'It sounds like a fine road to me. I could do without a conversation
with an impolite man on the road. Very well. It will save me a day, so I have a
day to spare…here is my plan…'

*

Chapter Twenty-One

Roskel
sat on a stool at the front of the common room, far from the fire as he didn’t
need the heat. He was sweating already, although he only wore his trousers and
a fine shirt that he had kept for this occasion should he need it. He hadn’t
planned on using it except in an emergency, but the people wanted to see a
showman. They expected some grandeur. His hair had been cleaned, he was freshly
shaven apart from a moustache which he had begun growing. He felt it added a
sense of the courtly about him. People wanted to see someone set apart…the
moustache certainly did that. Beards were common…a moustache took care. It
spoke of a man willing to spend time on his appearance and appearance was just
as important as the words a bard spoke and sang.

            There
were better than thirty people all crowded into the common room. There were not
enough chairs for everybody to sit, but the villagers didn’t seem to mind. Sam
Durnborn was beaming behind his bar. People were drinking, and some were
eating. A farmer’s daughter from the outskirts of the village was helping to
serve stew, and although Sam didn’t have enough mugs and bowls people had been
more than happy to bring their own.

            Roskel
took a few steadying breaths. People weren’t looking at him yet. As happy as he
was for that to stay the same, he knew it was him they had come to see, and
that he owed the innkeeper a debt of gratitude, and perhaps his good health.
His breath was still raspy, but for that he was thankful. It was a good excuse
not to sing.

            There
was no putting it off. There was a steady murmur in the inn, but his voice
carried over it easily.

            'Lords
and Ladies of Winslow!' he spoke from his belly, as he had been taught. It was
the same as singing, but a bard needed to send his voice with power and depth
if he was to reach the back of any room, even one as small as this.

            The
babble quieted, and faces turned toward him. Silence fell and with it the roar
of expectation in Roskel’s ears.

            Gods,
he hoped he didn’t pass out from fear. His legs were trembling, even though he
sat.

            'My
thanks to Sam Durnborn for this evening…I have a tale to tell, of bravery, and
fear…a tale for a dark autumn night to set you on your way…I fear I cannot sing
tonight, for as you know I have been sick…'

            And
so, in booming tones, he began the tale of his journey, embellishing wildly as
he had been taught. A story grew in the telling, and so did the stature of the
protagonists.

            It
was all well and good sticking to the old tales, but Roskel felt something
special was needed for this night. If all went well, Sam Durnborn would be a
hero by the end of the night and Roskel would be over his fear.

            'My
sickness began on the road. I had been fleeing from a band of marauding giant
men from the northlands, come down from as far as Thaxamalan’s Saw.'

            People
liked to hear tales of distant lands. They could imagine the unimaginable if it
came from strange places. After all, who would believe of a giant in the south?
The north was strange, Thaxamalan’s Saw a legend…

            And
so he spun his tale. His lute that he carried became a princess’ lute, magical
in her hands. His adventures expanded until the town of Wraith’s Guard had
tried to kill him and the pursuing giants both, but one giant had escaped the
spirits wrath and hunted him across the lands. Roskel had lulled the giant to
sleep by using the lute’s mystical powers, for if he played it in a certain way
he could send anyone to sleep…but oh, he didn’t want to play that way tonight,
for he did not want his crowd nodding off during his performance! And they
laughed, and sat enthralled by the tales of his cunning and daring, his amazing
escape from the clutches of the giants who wanted to steal the magical lute and
the frightful, vengeful spirits of the mystical town of Wraith’s Guard, built
on the ruins of an old ones’ castle that hid dormant in ground waiting for their
rise…

            The
tale grew in the telling, until the giant’s sorcerer sent a curse after him,
which Durnborn had saved him from with his cunning and his kindness. Sam
Durnborn became his saviour, a man in on great secrets and Roskel’s great
quest. The old mother was a wise woman who knew the cure to such a powerful
curse.

            Durnborn
was left with a trust…only he knew the secret of the princess’ true location.
That little fact ensured that people would ask Durnborn to tell them his secret
for many weeks to come…and Durnborn would say that he couldn’t tell them…but
instead of the object of a curse he would become a man of mystery, one that
knew secrets untold and that had helped a hero upon the road.

            Eventually,
Roskel told them he had to leave in the morning, on his great quest once again.
To come would be dragons and fell beasts from the earth and naiad from the
rivers to entice him, but he would deliver the lute.

            They
were enthralled. The tale was just bold enough and outlandish enough that they
didn’t believe it, but they suspended their disbelief for he was a cunning liar,
and left enough doubt that Sam and he could be heroes. They wanted to believe.
Their lives were ordinary. Mystery was attractive and spellbinding.

            'One
day, I will reach the end of my quest, and this lute will reach its rightful
owner. Come that day my lady will know that this man saved my life on the road.
His song will be sung loud. And so ends my tale, believe it or not, though I
swear that it is the truth…'

            And
they believed.

            Applause
rounded the commons until a young girl cried out, 'Minstrel, will you not set
us on with a song?'

            Roskel
cursed under his breath, but forced a smile onto his face.

            'I
must not play this lute, but sing along if you will…the chorus is the same…'

            And
so he sung the tale of the Groat, a song of his own making, to the tune of the
Whistler’s March.

            And
at the second rendition of the chorus, the people joined in with good cheer.             'And
after me!'

           
'Woa!
An old groat is a poor man’s filly,

            For
he knows it’s been down a lady’s frilly,

            Woah!
Even a poor man gloats,

            For
a filly’s hand’s a-been around his groat!'

            When
they eventually left, they were in good cheer and even the young ones were
singing the Tale of the Groat. He’d started something he wasn’t sure the adults
would be happy about, but then that was a bard’s duty as he saw it.

            When
the last of the crowd had left the commons, Sam came and shook Roskel’s hand.

            'That
went well! You certainly are better than you look!'

            'Well,
thank you, I think,' said Roskel with a laugh. 'They did seem to enjoy
themselves, didn’t they?'

            'I
think you’ve started something there.'

            'I
hope so, you deserve a turn of good luck. I imagine they’ll be back now. People
are apt to forget old news when they’ve something better to gossip about.'

            'I
hope you’re right, but if not I thank you still. I feel better than I have in
ages. And I hope I’ll have a customer or two in nights to come to keep me
company.'

            'I’m
sure you will,' said Roskel.

            'It’s
a shame you have to move on, you’d be a fine draw.'

            'That’s
the trouble with bards, their stories get old quick. That’s why they travel. To
find new tales, and to give people the chance to mull over what they’ve been
told.'

            'I
can see a bard has considerable power to change things. The way you turned that
around…well, that’s almost divine.'

            Roskel
laughed and shook his head. 'I don’t know about divine, but it was certainly
fun.'

            'Will
you join me for an ale or two before you head to bed?'

            'I
think I will,' said the thief, and let Sam pour him a mug. The two men sat in
their comfortable chairs before the fire, and talked late into the night.

            Roskel
was pleased to see the man in fine cheer.

            The
moons were high when he went to bed to get some rest. He felt refreshed and in
good cheer himself, ready to face the road and what that might bring.

            Once
more he was looking forward to adventure with optimism and a sense of freedom.

*

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dawn
broke with a glorious rose light, blushing fire filling the sky. The day was
full of birdsong, those that hadn’t already fled for the summer. It was
autumn’s last fling, before the land slumbered once more for the long, hard
winter. A fresh breeze from the east carried with it a hint of the sea. Roskel
took a deep breath and revelled in the easy way his lungs sang with the crisp
air. No longer did breathing feel like drowning. He had much to give thanks
for, to the man that stood watching him with a wry smile on his face, and the
old widow both. He had tried to find the old widow but she was not at home and
he could wait no longer. He had left a note for her. He had wanted to do more,
but Sam forbade him leaving money. He said the debt was his; business between
the two of them that had nothing to do with the thief.

            But
he had a debt to pay the innkeeper. He had left silver for the extra day. The
man stubbornly refused to take more, so Roskel left gold in his room under the
bed while he wasn’t looking. It was worth it, just for the fun of sneaking once
again. It was a kind of reverse burglary, but the fun was always in going
undetected, especially now that he had no need of extra funds - being the
Steward of Sturma paid plenty.

            Minstrel
snickered impatiently and he quieted the mare with a soft, gloved hand on her
nose.

            'So,
my friend,' he said to the innkeeper. 'I have had more adventures than I had
bargained for already. Here’s hoping the rest of my journey is entirely boring
and uneventful. I’m not used to the excitement anymore.'

            'Somehow
I don’t believe you. You have the look of a man who’s been through a few
scrapes in his time.'

            'More
than enough to last me, I think.' Roskel stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
'If they come looking for me again…'

            'I
know what to tell them. Now, I think it's time to get you gone. Thank you,
bard. It has been a pleasure to know you.'

            'And
my thanks to you, Sam. The pleasure is all mine.'

            He
mounted with a confident leap. Minstrel responded by pawing at the ground like
a bull about to charge. 'Easy, Minstrel. When I’m ready.'

            'An
apt name for the horse,' noted the innkeeper.

            'Alas,
I didn’t name her. But she’s trusty and stout. As fine a mount as I’ve ever
had.'

            'May
she see you to journey’s end,' said the innkeeper, using an old timer’s
blessing that Roskel hadn’t heard in an age. It made him smile and remember the
old master thief that had taught him the way of locks. He had said the same
thing when they had parted about an old lockpick that had been lost years ago.
But the lockpick had seen him through a few larks and served him well. So, too,
had the mare.

            'A
good blessing. And time, I think, for me to go.'

            'Then
hie on. I can’t stand around all morning. I’ve got an inn to keep.'

            Roskel
laughed. 'So you have.'

            Without
further word he heeled the mare forward and set off toward the back road and,
beyond that, to the Cathedral on the Plain.

*