They need so very badly to see the musician in you. Show them fairness they can trust. Give to them. They’ll respond, I promise, and become as fine a backbone for this realm as any king could ask.’
‘Well, why come here and trouble me? You seem to understand everything perfectly!’ Arithon visibly resisted an urge to hammer his fist against a shanty wall. ‘You’ve stated my fears to a faretheewell, that this city will ingratiate itself to become my indispensable right hand.’
‘What in Athera can be wrong with that?’ Whipped on by Arithon’s expert touch at provocation, Lysaer lost to exasperation.
This!’ Arithon gestured at the mildewed planks that enclosed the back of the knacker’s shacks. ‘You socialize amid the glitter of the powerful, but how well do any of us know this city: Did Diegan’s lovely sister tell you the guilds here steal children and lock them in warehouses for forced labour? Can I,
Lysaer stared down at the dirty rings that crawled up his gold-sewn boots. ‘Forgive me.’ He allowed his contrition to show, for after all, he had been presumptuous. ‘I didn’t know.’
Arithon’s sorrow subsided to a gentleness surprisingly sincere. ‘You shouldn’t want to know. Go back. I appreciate your help with the diplomacy, but this problem is mine. When I’m ready, never doubt, I’ll give it my best effort.’
Dusk thickened the shadows over the forested roadway that led southward out of Ward. This stretch of highway, that snaked like a chalk scar over the frost-bleak hills toward Tal’s Crossing, was the dread of every Etarran merchant. Caravans passed between the northern principalities of Rathain heavily armed, or they failed to reach their destinations. Yet a raid by marauding barbarians seemed not to concern the solitary old man who guided his ponycart over the cracked flagstones laid down by the decree of long dead s’Ffalenn kings.
His conveyance was open, low-slung and in sorry need of fresh paint: the beast between the shafts, a glossy buckskin with a tail like black wire and a feisty dislike of boy grooms. He carried his ears cocked back as if listening for excuse to flatten them down in displeasure.
By contrast, the driver was ascetically thin. He sat atop his jolting board seat with a slouch that gave with the bumps; if his narrow face was creased by eight decades of life, the fingers laced through the reins were clean, supple and sure. He whistled between widely-spaced front teeth and his jaunty melody carried over the creak of harness and cartwheel to a pair of barbarian children lying flat in the brush above the verge.
Twelve years of age and bold as coin brass, Jieret puffed a rust-coloured tangle of hair from his lips. He frowned in stormy concentration. Bored with long feasting, impatient since the returned sunlight had disrupted the passage of caravans to raid, he elbowed his younger companion. ‘Ready, Idrien?’
The other boy shifted a sweaty grip on the stick he had sharpened for a javelin. Sneaking out of camp had been Jieret’s idea. When their play at scouting had surprisingly turned up a victim, the excitement of plunder and ransom somehow lost their dashing appeal. A touch scared, Idrien wished himself back at the feast, tossing out nuts to the squirrels. ‘You know, his relatives might not be so rich.’
Jieret grinned through another unruly red curl. ‘You saw the topaz brooch that fastens his cloak. Are you chickening out on me?’
Wide-eyed, Idrien shook his head.
‘Well, come on, then.’ Jieret wormed from the thicket, too brash to care if he snapped twigs.
Idrien followed, cautious in his uncertainty. Appearances could deceive: the man’s jewel might only be glass. Yet already Jieret scrambled to his feet and charged full-tilt down the hillside. Clan honour demanded that his companion not shirk him support.
Jieret slithered into the open roadway, hampered by a bouncing fall of stones. His jerkin had torn and slipped over one shoulder and his javelin wavered despite his determination to threaten the elder in the cart. ‘Halt, as you value your life!’ He shrugged up his deerskin to unburden his throwing arm, then fought for balance and decorum as Idrien plunged down the bank and crash landed into his back.
The whistled melody ceased. Under threat of two sharpened sticks, capable hands tightened on the reins. The buckskin bared teeth and rolled eyes as it sidled and stopped between the shafts. Keeping tight hold on its mouth, the raid victim bent his light, startled gaze upon the dirty, briar-scraped pair of boys. His lips pulled crooked in a smile and silver-tipped brows twitched up underneath his hood.
‘Get out of the cart and disarm. Slowly!’ Jieret elbowed Idrien to take the pony’s bridle.
The old man hesitated. Then he released the reins and stepped down carefully, the gold silk lining of his cloak a fitful gleam in failing light. As if ready for Idrien’s howl as the buckskin snaked its head down to nip, he shot out a fist and hammered the pony with an expert blow at the juncture of shoulder and neck. The creature grunted in curbed belligerence and sullenly shook out its mane. Its master, nonplussed, removed an ornamental dagger from his belt, turned the blade and offered the handle to Jieret. He stood quietly while Idrien’s grubby fingers rifled his rich clothing in a vain search for concealed weapons.
At length, threatened by his own knife as well as the brace of whittled sticks, he offered up ringless hands. ‘Whose captivity have I the honour of accepting?’ His voice was pleasantly pitched, unmarred by the quaver that characterized the very old.
Jieret scowled. Hostages ought to show fear, not make genial greetings. Since the pony was demonstrably nasty-tempered, he settled for binding its owner’s hands with the reins, then made him lead the miserable beast. He and Idrien clambered onto the buckboard and directed their mismatched draft team to haul the cart off the road.
The boys punched each other’s sides, intoxicated by their success. A man taken for ransom; the clanlords would surely praise their prowess! The stranger might fetch the price of a sword, or better, a horse. Then, in consternation, the raiders recalled they had neglected to choose cover beforehand.
‘Stupid,’ Jieret whispered, crestfallen at the lapse. ‘We can’t drag a cart through the forest.’
Idrien sucked his lower lip. ‘Drive to the dell and unhitch?’
‘Maybe.’ Jieret nicked bark off his stick in serious thought. ‘Wind smells of rain. Our booty could get a good
