he couldn't run-unless he dropped the entire load, he was effectively hobbled. And if he dropped the packages, they'd know he was going to run.
They finished their purchases and returned to the wagon. The youngster handed his packages up to Rune to be stowed away, and looked-longingly, Talaysen thought-at the pony-mules.
Gwyna looked the boy up and down, critically. 'You'll never fit Master Wren's clothes, nor mine,' she said. 'Rune, do you have a pair of breeches and a shirt I can borrow? His clothing won't be fit to wear without a lot of cleaning, and maybe not then.'
'If you don't mind that they're not that far from the rag-bin themselves,' Rune replied, doubtfully.
Gwyna snorted. 'It's better than what he's wearing now.'
Talaysen thought he detected a flush-of embarrassment?-under the layer of dirt coating the young man's face.
He still hasn't spoken a word . . . I wonder why?
With clean clothes in one hand and the boy in the other, Gwyna marched him off to the stream that had been serving for their bathing pool. He'd either bathe, or Gwyna would hold him down and wash him herself. Talaysen knew that look. He wouldn't have bet on the Master of the Bardic Guild against Gwyna when she wore that look.
And maybe this young man will give her something to think about besides her fear. For a little while, anyway.
Despite Gwyna's determination, Talaysen wasn't entirely certain that they'd see the lad again. On the other hand, he hadn't been acting as if he was going to run off. So Talaysen led the horses and wagon to their old campsite and waited for Gwyna to reappear, with her charge, or without him.
She returned with him-and cleaned up, he looked a great deal better than Talaysen had expected. Some of the sullenness proved to be nothing more than dirt.
'Here, lad,' the Bard said. 'We've got time to eat before we go, I think.' He cut the boy a chunk of bread and cheese, and poured him a mug of water, presenting him with both as soon as the pair reached the wagon.
The boy didn't snatch at the food as Talaysen would have expected from his starved appearance. Instead he took it politely, with a little bow, and ate it slowly and carefully rather than bolting it. Which was something of a relief; in Talaysen's experience, food bolted by someone in the boy's condition tended to come right back up again.
'All right,' Talaysen said, as the young man finished the last crumb of his meal. 'The ladies here seem to have taken a liking to you. I suspect they want me to invite you to come along with us for a bit. On the other hand, you did try to lift my purse. So what do you have to say for yourself?'
'I'm s-s-s-sorry, s-s-s-sir,' the young man stammered. 'I was s-s-s-starving. I d-d-d-didn't kn-kn-know wh- wh-what else t-t-t-t-to d-d-do.'
The stutter, severe as it was, seemed to be something habitual rather than feigned or out of fear. The youngster was obviously forcing the words out, and having a hard time of it. He was red with effort and embarrassment by the time he'd completed the simple sentence.
Talaysen wanted to ask him more, but he was at a loss of how to get any information from the youngster without a similar struggle. Then he noticed that the lad's attention wasn't on him, but on something in the wagon.
He turned to see what it was-but the only thing in sight was Gwyna's three-octave harp, the one she could only play while seated. She rarely took it out unless they were somewhere that it wouldn't be moved much. She'd been about to cover it for the trip in its oiled-canvas case, but during the packing it had been wedged between the side bunk and their packs for safekeeping.
'Do you play, lad?' Talaysen asked. The young man nodded vigorously. Without prompting, Gwyna climbed up into the wagon and handed the harp down.
He sat right down on a stone with it cradled in his arms; placed it reverently on the ground, and began to play.
Talaysen had heard many Masters play in his time, but this young man was as good on the harp as Rune was on her fiddle. And this was an original composition; it had to be. Talaysen knew most of the harp repertory, and this piece wasn't in it.
So, the boy could compose as well as play. . . .
The young man's face relaxed as he lost himself in the music, and his expression took on the other-worldly quality seen in statues of angels. In repose he was as gently attractive as he had been sullenly unattractive when Talaysen caught him.
Talaysen felt something else, as well; the undercurrent of melody he associated with magic. The young man made no effort to match it, but it harmonized with what he was playing, and Talaysen found himself being lulled into a meditative trance. Perhaps he hasn't learned to match it because he doesn't know he can-but the power is there, and so is the heart.
Oh yes, the power was there indeed. He shook off the lulling effect of the music to glance over at Rune-just in time to intercept her glance at him. He inclined his head toward the young man; she nodded.
She hears it too.
Insofar as music went, this boy was a Bard in everything but name.
Now who is he, where is he from, and how in heaven's name did he get that way?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Talaysen reflected that it was a good thing that the wagon slept four. They looked to have acquired a second 'apprentice.'
After hearing the young man play, there was no way that Talaysen was going to let him wander off on his own again. Even if he hadn't been determined in that direction, the ladies were. So they packed everything down for travel, and he and the boy went into the back while Gwyna handled the reins and Rune watched and learned.
'Remember, speak slowly,' he told the lad-no, not 'the lad.' The youngster had a name. Jonny Brede. He was going to have to remember that. A personable lad; thin and wiry, with a heart-shaped face and an unruly tangle of wavy brown hair. His eyes were the most attractive feature he had, probably because he tried to do most of his speaking with them rather than expose himself to ridicule. That stutter-the youngster must have gotten a lot of cruel teasing over it. 'Speak very slowly. Take your time. I'm in no hurry, and neither are you, so take all the time you need.'
Strange, lying here at ease on a bed, instead of trudging down the dusty road. Very strange, but obviously much more comfortable. Though he knew why he hadn't done this long ago, and it had nothing to do with money. He knew very little about the care of horses and nothing about harnessing or driving-all of his knowledge was of riding and hunting. That didn't serve to tell him what to do with these stout little draft-beasts. How often should they be rested, for instance? And how on Earth did one manage two sets of reins? What did one do if they didn't want to get between the shafts of the wagon?
Rune and Gwyna took up the bench seat in front, with their backs to the interior, although they could hear everything he and Jonny said. Rune evidently knew enough about mules from her days at the inn that she was a logical candidate for secondary driver. He and Jonny took their ease back in the wagon itself.
'Tell me the earliest thing you remember,' he said, staring at the bottom of a cupboard just over his head. Like the rest of the interior of the wagon, it was of brown wood polished to a high gloss.
Jonny shook his head, his hands knotting and un-knotting in his lap.
'Don't you remember being very small?' Talaysen prompted. 'Do you recall schoolmates? Siblings? Tutors or Priests? A birthday party, perhaps?'
Jonny shook his head even harder. 'N-n-no,' he replied. 'N-n-nothing like that. Jus-just being sick, for a long, l-long time, and m-m-my M-M-Master.'
'Start with that, then,' Talaysen told him. 'Slowly. Don't force the words out. Think of speech as a song; you wouldn't rush the cadence.'
'I was r-r-real sick,' Jonny said thoughtfully. 'Fever; I w-w-was hot all the time. I was seeing things t-t-too. Men f-f-f-fighting, buildings b-b-burning. P-p-people yelling.' He bit his lip. 'Th-th-then I was at K-K-Kingsford, and M-M-Master was taking care of me.'
'Master who?'
'M-M-Master D-D-Darian,' the young man replied promptly.
