spots here and there, and no one had been able to reach the crawlers or their filmy webs which hung in tatters from the ceiling. There was huge confusion, yells, shrieks, and the excited barking of the spit canines coming from the kitchen, and Robinton was just as happy to be sent to care for the runner-beasts. He just hoped that someone had cleaned up the beasthold.
He saw Fax scowling fiercely, beating his boot with a heavy baton-whip. He saw Lady Gemma, great with child, being lifted off her mount by two of Fax's strongest men. He could see her wincing, although the men were handling her with great care.
Several of the ladies in this very mixed group rushed to her assistance once she was on the ground, supporting her as she waddled up the steps and into the Hold. He felt immense pity for her, and hoped that the quarters she was to inhabit had not been in such bad condition as the one he had tried to clean. Was Fax trying to kill the woman? Probably, if some of Nip's earlier reports bore any truth – and they undoubtedly did.
Robinton was prodded to take several beasts at once, which was awkward, given the infirmities he was affecting. Two of Fax's bullies came along to oversee him and the other hastily organized drudges who were to tend to the mounts. Ruathan-bred, Robinton thought drolly, come back full circle. The two scrawny beasts which had inhabited the Hold were gone. Probably they were what would be offered the Lord Holder tonight, and would be tough as old boots.
He did no more than the others, despite being cuffed and kicked to 'do a proper job of it'. He felt sorry for the tired runner-beasts, though he was almost as tired as they before he and the others were given sickles and sent to cut fresh fodder. His limp and his groans were heartfelt by now. With nothing to eat so far this long day ... and if what he suspected were true, there was unlikely to be enough food in the Hold to feed the visitors, much less the residents. He wondered if the dragonriders had brought their own provisions.
And how was he to reach C'gan if he spent the entire livelong day drudging? It was too bad that he had never established as much of a contact with Tagath as he had had with Simanith.
Although he knew very well that the drudges in the Harper Hall and Fort Hold were well cared for, he had discovered a heretofore unexpected sympathy for those whom life had deprived of the wit or energy to achieve more than such lowly positions.
When the armsmen finally allowed that the beasts had been properly cared for, Robinton followed the other five men back to the Hold. They were muttering about their expectations of food.
Darkness had set in and, as an additional mark of the poverty of the Hold, the glowbaskets gave glum illumination.
'Bread, if we're lucky,' one said, trudging along.
'When's luck got anything' to do wiv us?' another demanded. 'I'd be anywheres but here.'
'Yes, always the gripe, never the go,' the first one said. 'Who're you?' he suddenly asked Robinton, peering up at him.
'Came wiv dem,' the MasterHarper said, jerking a thumb at the soldiers striding along in front of them. He wanted to straighten up, to relieve the ache in his back, but doubted it would help and, besides, he daren't unbend. Even bent, he was still a good head taller than his erstwhile companions.
The first man made an inarticulate sound in his throat that was half snarl. 'Goin' on wiv 'em then?'
'Not going' nowhere but here,' Robinton said in a dour voice.
They made for the kitchen entrance and the first man recoiled, startled at the chaos within, the slamming and clanging of pots and the screams as a drudge was hit. One male voice rose above the others, giving orders, yelling if the response wasn't immediate.
'Shards, it's burned on the one side and raw on the others.' That sentence was bellowed in a tone of fury and frustration. A canine yipped piteously. Robinton could hear slapping and more screams and groans as the cook evidently vented his feelings on his helpless drudges.
'Us'ns'd have it, if it's meat,' the first drudge muttered to himself, wistfully licking lips. He took a deep breath.
'Smell's all we's likely to have,' the other said.
Not that the smell was at all appetizing. But Robinton used their interest in the kitchen activities to cover his movements as he stealthily backed off into the shadows. He had noticed as they passed the main Hold door that there were no guards either at the door or in the Hall. He couldn't enter in his guise of a drudge, but surely he could sneak into the guard barracks and change into something ... more appropriate.
He slipped in just in time to hear one of the underleaders assigning posts for the evening, and he ducked into an alcove as they tramped past him, the dim glowbaskets neatly shadowing him.
Fortunately, many of Fax's soldiers were of a generous size and they had brought several changes of clothes with them. He found the cleanest and, happily shedding his filthy, sweaty rags, put them on. A bit loose at the waist and a bit short in the leg, but he used his own belt and secured the trousers. He took the sleeve of his shirt and scrubbed at his boots, getting the worst of the stable muck off them.
'Where the shards were you.'?' a harsh voice called.
Robinton whirled round to see a guard underleader in the doorway.
'Relieved me'sel,' he muttered, wondering if the sudden pounding of his heart would give him away.
'Up to the Hall, then. Want every one of you up there 'case those sharding dragonriders doan know theys manners.' The grin suggested that the man was aching to teach dragonriders manners.
'Yuss,' Robinton said. He squared his shoulders, which was not easy after a day's crouching, and passed the underleader cautiously, as if expecting a kick on his way. But no kick came. A quick look back told him that the man was bending over his saddlebags, extracting his sword-belt.
Reaching the Hall, Robinton slowed to avoid stepping on the heels of Fax's two underleaders, who were escorting their Lord into the chamber with one of his ladies. The Warder was effusively bowing them in. Robinton slipped along the wall as if he had been in the wake of the latest arrivals and took up a position halfway between the guards already in place. Neither took note of him, their attention focused on the dragonriders seated at one of the trestle tables set up perpendicular to the raised dais which held the head table. With relief, Robinton spotted C'gan's silvery head and then looked along to spot the young rider, F'nor. There was no mistaking his lineage as F'lon's son: it was there in the cocked head and the slight smile. F'nor was watching his half-brother at the head table, talking to one of Fax's ladies, seated beside him. Lady Gemma occupied the seat on the other side. F'lar didn't seem all that happy in such company. Just then a crawler dropped from the ceiling on to the table, and Lady Gemma noticeably winced.
Fax went stamping up the steps to the head table. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma's before he seated himself. Then he pulled the chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the none-too-stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he inspected his goblet and plate.
'A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and roots as are left.' The Warder approached the head table, clearly apprehensive.
'Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested here.'
The Warder's eyes bulged and he gulped. 'Nothing to be sent on,' he stammered. 'Nothing good enough to be sent on. Nothing. Had I but known of your arrival, I could have sent to Crom--'
'Sent to Crom?' roared Fax, slamming the plate he was inspecting on to the table so forcefully that the rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again.
'For decent foodstuffs, my Lord,' he quavered.
Robinton felt a sudden ripple, like an odd push at his mind.
'The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it.'
The Lady Gemma gasped, and Robinton wondered if she had felt the same remarkable ripple he did. As if confirming that, the dragons roared. And Robinton felt the surge of... something.
F'lar felt it too, the MasterHarper thought, for he sought his half-brother's eyes and saw F'nor's almost imperceptible nod ... and those of the other wingriders.
'What's wrong, Dragonman?' snapped Fax.
Robinton admired the way in which F'lar affected no concern, stretching his long legs and assuming an indolent posture in the heavy chair
'Wrong?' He had a voice like F'lon's, a good baritone with flexible intonations. Robinton wondered if the man could sing.
'The dragons!' Fax said.
