The Sorcerer of the North

17

Tug's hooves rang on the heavy planking of the draw-bridge as Will rode under the portcullis. The hollow sound changed to a sharp clatter as the horses stepped onto the cobbled courtyard. The area was filled with people moving from one place to another, going about their normal day-to-day tasks. Only a few of them looked up at him, looking away almost immediately.

Something was missing, he thought. Then he realized: there was none of the usual buzz of conversation, no sudden bursts of laughter or raised voices as people greeted companions, sharing a joke or a story. The people of Norgate were quiet, moving with their eyes cast down, seemingly disinterested in what was going on around them. It was an unfamiliar experience for him. As a Ranger, he was accustomed to drawing attention-albeit guarded-whenever he arrived in a new place. And in the past weeks as a jongleur, he had experienced the same surge of interest-although for a different reason.

In a remote, isolated place like Macindaw, he had fully expected to be greeted eagerly, if not warmly. He looked about curiously but could find nobody willing to meet or hold his gaze.

It was fear, he realized. People in Norgate were living close to a dangerous border. Their lord had been struck down by a mysterious ailment and there was a distinct belief among them that it was the work of a sorcerer. Small wonder that they would not show interest in or greet a stranger arriving in their midst. He hesitated, uncertain whether or not he should dismount. Then the question was answered for him as a rotund man, with a seneschal's chain and keys and a look of perpetual worry, emerged from the keep. The seneschal-basically the person who managed the day-to-day domestic affairs of the castle for its lord-saw him and moved toward him.

"Jongleur, are you?" he asked. It was an abrupt enough greeting Will thought. But at least it was a greeting. He smiled.

"That's right, Seneschal. Will Barton, from places south, bringing my small measure of pleasure to the castles of the north." It was the sort of florid speech that he had been taught to deliver. The seneschal nodded distractedly. Will guessed that he had a lot to distract him.

"We can use some. There's been precious little to smile about here, I can tell you."

"Really?" Will asked. The seneschal glanced up at him appraisingly.

"You've heard nothing of events here?" he asked. Will realized it would be foolish to try to pretend complete ignorance of events. An entertainer traveling through the country would have heard the local gossip-as indeed he had. He shrugged.

"Rumors, of course. The countryside is always alive with them wherever you go. But I'm used to discounting rumors."

The rotund man sighed heavily. "In this case, you can probably believe most of them," he said. "And add to them as well. You could hardly exaggerate the situation here."

"Then the lord of the castle is truly…" Will hesitated as the other man looked up warningly.

"If you've heard the rumors, you know the situation," he said quickly. "It's a subject that's best not discussed too much."

"Of course," Will replied. He shifted in his saddle. He was tired and he felt that, troubled or not, it was time the seneschal showed him a little of the normal courtesy. The other man saw the movement and gestured for Will to dismount.

"I'm sorry. You'll understand that I'm a little distracted. You can put your horses in the stable. I take it the dog is with you?"

The border shepherd had been lying on the cobbles watching the conversation. Will nodded, smiling, as he swung down from the saddle, stretching his legs and back muscles.

"She assists me in my act," he said.

The seneschal nodded. "Keep her with you then. You're lucky, we're not too crowded at the moment, not that that's a surprise. So you can have a room to yourself."

That was an agreeable development. Will had been expecting to be assigned one of the curtained-off sleeping stalls that lined the annex to most castle great halls. Particularly in winter, when you would normally expect a castle to be crowded.

"Not too many visitors, then?" he asked, and the seneschal shook his head.

"As I said. Not that it's a surprise. We do expect a Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle to be passing through in a week or two-she's traveling to meet her fiance in the next fief but one and sent word requesting lodging until the snow clears from the passes. But apart from her, there are just the normal castle folk. And there are fewer of them than normal," he added darkly.

Will chose not to pursue the matter. He set to work loosening the girth straps on the two horses. The seneschal glanced, around him.

"Forgive me if I leave you to it," he said. "That firewood will never get stacked if I don't see to it myself. Stables are over that way." He gestured to the right of the courtyard. "Once you've got your horses settled, ask in the castle for Mistress Barry-she's the housekeeper. Tell her I said you were to have one of the tower rooms on level three. My name's Agramond, by the way."

Will nodded his thanks. "Mistress Barry," he repeated. The seneschal was already turning away, yelling at two of the castle workers who were slowly stacking cut firewood in one corner.

"Come on, Tug," said Will. "Let's find you a bed."

The Ranger horse's ears pricked at the sound of his name. The packhorse, placid and unimaginative, followed Tug docilely as Will led the way to the stables.

Once the horses were tended to, Will found the housekeeper. Like most women of her calling, she was a stoutly built, capable woman. She was polite enough, he thought, but she had the same air of distraction that he'd noticed in Agramond. She showed him to his room-fairly standard accommodation for a castle of this size. The floors and walls were stone, the ceiling timber. There was a narrow window, fitted with a frame covered in translucent hide that allowed a half-light to filter through. A wooden shutter was available for severe weather. A small fireplace warmed the room and there was a bed in a curtained-off alcove. Several wooden seats and a small floor rug completed the home comforts. A washstand was on a small wooden table against the curved wall. Will hadn't spent a lot of time in tower rooms, and he realized now, looking around, that it could be no easy task finding furniture to fit a room where the greater part of the wall was semicircular.

Mistress Barry glanced at the mandola case as he set it down.

"Play the lute, do you?" she asked.

"It's a mandola, actually," he replied. "A lute has ten str-"

"Whatever. I imagine you'll be playing tonight?"

"Why not?" he said expansively. "It's a fine night for music and laughter, after all."

"Precious little laughter you'll find here," she said dourly. "Although I daresay we could use some music."

And on that cheery note, she moved to the door. "If you need anything, ask one of the serving girls. And keep your hands to yourself. I know what jongleurs are like," she added darkly.

You must have a long memory then, Will thought to himself as she left the room. He imagined many years must have passed since a jongleur had chosen to pinch that ample backside. He grimaced at the dog, lying on the floor near the fireplace and watching him intently.

"Friendly place, eh, girl?" he said. She thumped her tail at the sound of his voice.

The evening meal in the dining hall of the castle was a somber affair, presided over by Lord Syron's son, Orman.

He was a man of medium height, perhaps thirty years of age, ill thought-although his receding hairline made it difficult to judge. He was dressed in a dark gray scholar's robe and his mood seemed to match the color of his clothes. He was sallow-faced, and looked as though he spent the greater part of his time indoors. Altogether not the sort of man to inspire confidence in a community living in the shadow of fear, as Macindaw was.

He made no acknowledgment of Will's presence as he took his place at the head table in the dining hall. As was the usual custom, the tables were arranged in the form of a T, with Lord Orman and his companions, including Agramond, at the crosspiece. Will noted that there were several empty places at the head table.

The rest of the diners were seated at the table that made up the stem of the T, in descending order of importance. Will was placed a little more than halfway up the stem. As a Ranger, he would normally be accorded a seat at the head table-he'd had to resist the automatic urge to move toward it. Mistress Barry, supervising the serving of the meal, indicated his place at the table and he found himself seated with several of the lower-ranking Craftmasters and their wives. No one spoke to him. But then, he realized, they didn't speak to one another either, other than muttered requests for condiments and dishes to be passed.

As usual, Will silently cursed the flamboyant jongleur's outfit he wore, with its wide, flowing sleeves. More than once he managed to trail them in the gravy of passing dishes.

The standard of food served matched the overall atmosphere-a plain mutton stew, with a rather chewy venison roast and platters of stringy boiled vegetables that seemed to have come from long storage in the cellars.

The meal, without conversation or diversion of any kind, was soon finished. Then Agramond left his seat and spoke quietly into Orman's ear. The temporary lord of the castle listened, grimaced slightly, then looked down the table until he picked out Will.

"I believe we are privileged to have an entertainer with us," he said.

If he felt privileged, the tone of his voice certainly didn't betray it There was a weary acceptance of the inevitable and an unmistakable air of disinterest in his words. Will, however, chose to ignore the insulting delivery of the introduction. He stood and moved slightly away from the table to deliver an ornate bow, deep and accompanied with much flourish. Then he smiled widely at Orman.

"If it pleases my lord," he said, "I am a humble jongleur with songs of love, laughter and adventure to share with you."

Orman sighed deeply. "I very much doubt that it will please me in any way," he said. His voice was nasal and high-pitched. Altogether, he was a most unimpressive specimen, Will thought, with not one saving grace evident.

"I suppose you have the usual repertoire of country jigs, folk songs and doggerel to put before us?" he continued. Will thought the best answer was to bow once more.

"My lord," he said, grinding his teeth as he kept his eyes down, and wanting to step up to the head table and throttle the sallow-faced man.

"No faint chance that you might know something of the classics? Some of the greater music?" Orman asked, his tone making it obvious that he knew the answer would be in the negative. Will smiled again, wishing that he had the skill to suddenly burst into the first movement of Saprival's Summer Odes and Interpretations.

"I regret, my lord, that I am not classically trained," he said, around the fixed smile. Orman waved a dismissive hand.

"As do I," he said heavily. "Well, then, I suppose we must endure the inevitable. Perhaps my people will find some enjoyment in your performance."

Not likely after that introduction, thought Will, as he passed the strap of the mandola over his head. He hesitated, looking around the room, taking in the stolid expressions of all present. I think I am about to learn what it is to die on stage, he thought to himself, as he struck up the opening bars of Katy Come and Find Me, a lively reel from Hibernia. It was a safe song for him, one of the first he had ever learned, and the opening instrumental passage was simple but stirring.

And of course, still seething with anger at Orman's attitude, he managed to botch it totally, playing in such a ham-fisted manner that he had to abandon the melody line and strum the chords instead. His ears burned with embarrassment as he plowed doggedly through the song, mistake building on mistake, missed note following missed note. He finished with a thwarted note on the bass string that summed up the ineptitude of the total performance.

Stony silence greeted him for what seemed like minutes. Then, from the back of the hall came the sound of ringing applause.