The Icebound Land

12

T HERE WAS SO MUCH TO SEE AND HEAR, H ORACE DIDN'T KNOW which way to turn his head first. All around him, the port city of La Rivage seethed with life. The docks were crowded with ships: simple fishing smacks and two-masted traders moored side by side and creating a forest of masts and halyards that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. His ears buzzed with the shriek of gulls as they fought one another for the scraps hurled into the harbor by fishermen cleaning their catch. The ships, large and small, rose and fell and rocked with the slight swell inside the harbor, never actually still for a moment.

Underlying the gulls' shrill voices was the constant creaking and groaning of hundreds of wickerwork fenders protecting the hulls from their neighbors.

His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke and the aroma of food cooking-but a different aroma to the plain, country fare prepared at Castle Redmont. Here, there was something extra to the smell: something exotic and exciting and foreign.

Which was only to be expected, he thought, as he was setting foot in a truly foreign country for the first time in his young life. He'd traveled to Celtica, of course, but that didn't count. It was really just an extension of Araluen. This was so different. Around him, voices were raised in anger or amusement, calling to one another, insulting one another, laughing with one another. And not a word of the outlandish tongue could he understand.

He stood by the quay where they had landed, holding the bridles of the three horses while Halt paid off the master of the tubby little freighter that had transported them across the Narrow Sea-along with a reeking cargo of hides bound for the tanneries here in Gallica. After four days in close proximity to the stiff piles of animal skin, Horace found himself wondering if he could ever wear anything made of leather again.

A hand tugged at his belt and he turned, startled.

A bent and withered old crone was smiling at him, showing her toothless gums and holding her hand out.

Her clothes were rags and her head was bound in a bandanna that might have once been colorful but was now so dirty that it was impossible to be sure. She said something in the local language and all he could do was shrug. He had no money anyway and obviously the woman was a beggar.

Her obsequious smile faded to a dark scowl and she spat a phrase at him. Even without any knowledge of the language, he knew it wasn't a compliment. Then she turned and hobbled away, making a strange, crisscross gesture in the air between them. Horace shook his head helplessly.

A peal of laughter distracted him and he turned to see a trio of young girls, perhaps a few years older than himself, who had witnessed the exchange between him and the old lady. He gaped. He couldn't help himself. The girls, all of them extremely attractive, it seemed to him, were dressed in outfits that could only be described as excessively skimpy. One wore a skirt so short that it ended well above her knees.

Now the girls gestured at him again, aping his openmouthed stare.

Hastily, he snapped his mouth shut and they laughed all the louder.

One of them called something to him, beckoning him. He couldn't understand a word she said, and feeling ignorant and foreign, he realized his cheeks were flushing deep red.

All of which set the girls to laughing even louder. They raised their hands to their own cheeks, mimicking his blushing, and chattering to one another in their own strange tongue.

"You seem to be making friends already," Halt said behind him, and he turned, guiltily. The Ranger-Horace could never think of Halt as anything else-was regarding him and the three girls with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"You speak this language, Halt?" he asked. Strangely, he realized, he wasn't surprised by the fact. He had always assumed that Rangers had a wide variety of arcane skills at their disposal and, so far, events had proved him to be right. His companion nodded.

"Enough to get by," he replied evenly, and Horace gestured, as inconspicuously as he could manage, to the three girls.

"What are they saying?" he asked. The Ranger assumed the blank expression that Horace was beginning to know so well.

"Perhaps it's better that you don't know," he replied eventually.

Horace nodded, not really understanding, but not wishing to look sillier than he felt.

"Perhaps so," he agreed. Halt was swinging easily up into Abelard's saddle and Horace followed suit, mounting Kicker, his battlehorse. The movement drew an admiring chorus of exclamations from the girls. He felt the flush mounting to his cheeks once again. Halt looked at him with something that might have been pity, mixed with a little amusement. Shaking his head, he led the way down the crowded, narrow waterfront street, away from the quay.

Mounted, Horace felt the usual surge of confidence that came from being on horseback. And with it came a feeling of equality with these squabbling, hurrying foreigners. Now, it seemed to him, nobody was rushing to make fun of him, or beg from him or spit insults at him.

There was a natural deference from people on foot for mounted and armed men. It had always been that way in Araluen, but here in Gallica there seemed to be an extra edge to it. People here moved with greater alacrity to clear a path for the two horsemen and the sturdy little packhorse that followed them.

It occurred to him that perhaps the rule of law in Gallica was not quite so evenhanded as in his home country. In Araluen, people on foot deferred to mounted men as a matter of common sense. Here they seemed apprehensive, even fearful. He was about to ask Halt about the difference, and had actually drawn breath to ask the question, when he stopped himself. Halt was constantly chiding him for his questions and he was determined to curb his curiosity. He decided he would ask Halt about his suspicions when they stopped for the noon meal.

Pleased with his resolution, he nodded to himself. Then another thought occurred, and before he could stop himself, he had begun the prelude to yet another question.

"Halt?" he said diffidently. He heard a deep sigh from the short, slightly built man riding beside him. Mentally, he kicked himself.

"I thought you must be coming down with some illness for a moment there," Halt said, straight-faced. "It must be two or three minutes since you've asked me a question." Committed now, Horace continued.

"One of those girls," he began, and immediately felt the Ranger's eyes on him. "She was wearing a very short skirt."

There was the slightest pause.

"Yes?" Halt prompted, not sure where this conversation was leading. Horace shrugged uncomfortably. The memory of the girl, and her shapely legs, was causing his cheeks to burn with embarrassment again.

"Well," he said uncertainly, "I just wondered if that was normal over here, that's all." Halt considered the serious young face beside him. He cleared his throat several times.

"I believe that sometimes Gallican girls take jobs as couriers," he said.

Horace frowned slightly. "Couriers?"

"Couriers. They carry messages from one person to another. Or from one business to another, in the towns and cities." Halt checked to see if Horace seemed to be believing him so far. There seemed no reason to think otherwise, so he added: "Urgent messages."

"Urgent messages," Horace repeated, still not seeing the connection. But he seemed inclined to believe what Halt was saying, so the older man continued.

"And I suppose for a really urgent message, one would have to run."

Now he saw a glimmer of understanding in the boy's eyes. Horace nodded several times as he made the connection.

"So, the short skirts:they'd be to help them run more easily?" he suggested. Halt nodded in his turn.

"It would certainly be a more sensible form of dress than long skirts, if you wanted to do a lot of running." He shot a quick look at Horace to see if his gentle teasing was not being turned back on himself-to see if, in fact, the boy realized Halt was talking nonsense and was simply leading him on. Horace's face, however, was open and believing.

"I suppose so," Horace replied finally, then added, in a softer voice, "They certainly look a lot better that way too."

Again, Halt shot him a look. But Horace seemed to be content with the answer. For a moment, Halt regretted his deception, feeling a slight pang of guilt. Horace was, after all, totally trusting and it was so easy to tease him like this. Then the Ranger looked at those clear blue eyes and the contented, honest face of the warrior apprentice and any sense of regret was stifled. Horace had plenty of time to learn about the seamier side of life, he thought. He could retain his innocence for a little while longer.

They left La Rivage by its northern gate and headed into the farm country surrounding it. Horace's curiosity remained as strong as ever, and he peered from side to side as the road took them past fields and crops and farmhouses. The countryside was different from Araluen.

There were more varieties of trees and, as a result, there were more shades of green. Some of the crops were unfamiliar too: large, broad leaves on stalks that stood as high as a man's head were left to dry and seemingly to wither on the stalk before they were gathered. In several places, Horace saw those same leaves hanging in large, open-ended sheds, drying out even more. He wondered what sort of crop it might be. But, as before, he decided to ration his questions.

There was another difference, more subtle. For some time, Horace wasn't even aware that it was there at all. Then he realized what it was. There was a general air of unkemptness about the fields and the crops. They were tended, obviously, and some of the fields were plowed. But they seemed to lack the loving, fastidious care that one saw in fields and crops at home. One could sense a lack of attention from the farmers, and in some crops weeds were clearly visible.

Halt sighed. "It's the land that suffers when men fight," he said softly. Horace glanced at him. It was unusual for the grizzled Ranger to break the silence himself.

"Who's fighting?" he asked, his interest piqued.

Halt scratched at his beard. "The Gallicans. There's no strong central law here. There are dozens of minor nobles and barons-warlords if you like. They're constantly raiding each other and fighting among themselves. That's why the fields are so sloppily tended. Half the farmers have been conscripted to one army or another."

Horace looked around the fields that bounded the road on either side. There was no sign of battle here. Only neglect. A thought struck him.

"Is that why people seemed a little:nervous of us?" he asked, and Halt nodded approvingly at him.

"You picked up on that, did you? Good boy. There may be hope for you yet. Yes," he continued, answering Horace's question, "armed and mounted men in this country are seen as a potential threat-not as peacekeepers."

In Araluen, the farmworkers looked to the soldiers to protect them and their fields from the threat of potential invaders. Here, Horace realized, the soldiers themselves were the threat.

"The country is in absolute turmoil," Halt continued. "King Henri is weak and has no real power. So the barons fight and squabble and kill each other. Mind you, that's no great loss. But it gets damned unfair when they kill the poor innocent farm folk as well-simply because they get in the way. It could be something of a problem for us, but we'll just have to:oh, damn."

The last two words were said quietly, but were no less heart-felt for that fact. Horace, following Halt's gaze, looked ahead along the road.

They were coming down a small hill, with the road bounded on either side by close-growing trees. At the foot of the hill, a small stream ran through the fields and between the trees, crossed by a stone bridge. It was a peaceful scene, normal enough, and quite pretty in its own way.

But it wasn't the trees, or the bridge, or the stream that had drawn the quiet expletive from Halt's lips. It was the armored, mounted warrior who sat his horse in the middle of the road, barring their way.