Voice for Princess (v1.1) Page 13

  Princess rose and smoothed her gown. Smiling, she blew out her taper. “Brereep,” she said.

  Eight

  a welcome bit of assistance

  The ale was warm and insipid. Kedrigern retained it in his mouth for a moment, uncertain whether to spit it out on the floor or swallow it. Gentilesse won out over inclination. He closed his eyes and gulped it down. It tasted like a distillation of the venial sins of petty-minded men.

  He set his greasy, dented mug down on the undulate surface of the sticky tabletop, made a wry unhappy face, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and wished he were home. He loved his home. He hated travel.

  Home meant comfort and tranquility and the company of Princess; travel meant a noisy, smelly press of strangers.

  Home was cold ale in a silver tankard, not scummed-over ditchwater in a filthy mug. Home was the prompt attentiveness of his faithful house-troll, not the shuffling dereliction of a surly, blotchy tapster. Kedrigern dwelt long on absent pleasures and resolved that once home, he would not soon leave again, not even for Vosconu the Openhanded.

  Thinking further, he wavered. Vosconu had certainly lived up to his name. Forty casks of wine and a purse of gold was munificent payment for lifting one small, amateurish curse from Vosconu’s vineyards.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of reward, Kedrigern sipped his ale without thinking and nearly gagged. His resolution firmed and set. No, never again. Helping Vosconu meant traveling, and traveling meant stopping at verminous sties like Hossel’s Inn. Better one’s own plain ale at home than Vosconu’s finest vintage at such a price.

  A husky man with a tangle of black hair and beard merging to enclose a patch of weather-browned face settled on the bench across from Kedrigern. “What news, traveler?” he said amicably, setting his bow against the table and laying a quiver of arrows on the bench beside him.

  “The world is going to hell on horseback,” said the wizard morosely.

  “That’s no news at all.”

  “It’s the best I can manage. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, traveler. There’s litle enough news these days, good or bad,” said the other. Swiveling in his place, he bawled for ale, then turned to Kedrigern once again. “I’ve got some news, though,” he said with a smug wink.

  Kedrigern raised an eyebrow to suggest a mild interest he did not truly feel. He disliked having strangers intrude upon his privacy, particularly when he was brooding over injustices and pondering suitable retaliation. All the same, he tried to be civil. One never knew what one might learn from a chance remark.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve got news you won’t hear in every tavern,” said the bowman, nodding and giving another wink.

  “How very lucky you are,” Kedrigern observed.

  “Yes. Big news. Of course, I can’t go telling everyone, you understand. Not until I’ve informed the proper authorities.”

  Kedrigern was in no mood to coax the news out of him. He fell silent and resumed his brooding, so it was not until the innkeeper, Hossel himself, brought the fellow’s ale that the bowman, as if surrendering to universal pleading, said, “Oh, I suppose there’s no harm in telling a few honest men.”

  “Telling what, Fletcher?” asked the innkeeper.

  “My news, cousin. My good news.”

  “Oh. What is it now?” Hossel said. His tone suggested that he had heard his share of good news from this man and was not eager to hear more.

  “I’ve slain a dragon,” Fletcher announced in a voice that carried through the entire ground floor of the inn. Two heads popped out of the kitchen, gaped for a moment, then disappeared as Hossel shook his fist at them. The low buzz of conversation at the other table was stilled for a moment, then went on. “Yes, it’s true,” Fletcher said, gratified by the reception. “I’ve slain a dragon.”

  “Where?” Hossel asked.

  “At Belford, on the west road. He had just finished his filthy work there. The place was thick with smoke.” The conversation at the other table died, and three dirty faces turned toward Fletcher. Hossel leaned against a post and folded his thick arms. Kedrigern felt his interest growing.

  “I didn’t notice him right away,” Fletcher went on, after a theatrical pause. “My eyes were on the ground, not the sky. I was alert for barbarians. It looked like their handiwork, you understand. Then I saw it—just a speck, far off to the north, very high. It circled the churchyard once, then dropped to treetop level and came in fast over the town. It was heading right forme.”

  Fletcher glanced around the room. He had them now. The trio at the other table sat open-mouthed.

  Heads were poked out of the kitchen once again, and Hossel showed no sign of objecting. Even Kedrigern was listening attentively.

  “I admit it, friends… I was frightened, A dragon is no ordinary beast. But I nocked an arrow and concealed myself behind the ruin of a wall. And as the dragon passed overhead” —here Fletcher sprang up and pantomimed his deed—”I loosed my arrow and took the monster in its heart!”

  One of the men at the other table cheered. Fletcher nodded to him graciously, and the man and his companions raised their mugs in a salute.

  “How big was it, Fletcher?” Hossel asked.

  “The body was about the size of a hay wain. Wingtip to wingtip was… oh, just a bit over the length of the inn.”

  “Must have made a terrible crash when it fell,” said the man who had cheered.

  “Ah, but it didn’t fall. Wavered a little, but didn’t fall. They never do, you know,” said Fletcher knowingly.

  “They don’t?”

  “Of course not. You’ve never heard of anyone coming across a dragon’s carcass, have you?” Fletcher allowed his litle audience an interval to reflect on that fact, then went on, “Once they’ve taken a death-wound, they fly north. Up there, beyond the Last Forest and the Glass Mountains, there’s a valley where all the dragons go to die. No man has ever laid eyes on it.”

  “How do you know about it, then, cousin?” Hossel asked.

  Fletcher turned a cool gaze on him. “I heard it from Bess, the Wood-witch. She saw it in a vision.”

  The others exchanged significant glances and nodded solemnly to one another. They had heard Authority cited, and accepted the word without question. Kedrigern, who was acquainted with Bess, was unimpressed. Considering the stuff she brewed in her cauldron, it was no wonder she had visions. He had once drunk a small bowlful, on a professional visit to her hovel, and been unsteady on his feet for much of the following week. Vision, indeed.

  Fletcher left him, to join the more appreciative trio at the next table, and Kedrigern returned to his ruminations.

  Nothing remained but to decide on Hossel’s punishment, and he would then be on his way. He ran through the customary plagues— rats, mice, fleas, mildew, bad smells—and rejected them one by one. In Hossel’s Inn, such things were part of the ambience. A poltergeist would serve nicely, but poltergeists were troublesome to deal with; Kedrigern’s own workroom was still a mess from Rupert’s visitation. Besides, all these measures would bother the guests as much as the innkeeper, and Hossel’s guests were subjected to enough suffering merely by being here.

  Kedrigern was not one to punish the innocent with the guilty if it could be helped. A plague of boils seemed to be the only workable solution. Unimaginative, and rather crude, but under the circumstances as good as one could manage.

  Something had to be done, for the sake of future travelers.

  He worked the spell, settled his bill, and went to the stable for his horse. A ragged, dirty boy helped him mount, and looked admiringly at the shaggy black steed.

  “That’s a fine horse, sir,” the boy said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Looks like a barbarian’s horse to me, sir.”

  “You’re very astute, my boy. As a matter of fact, I did get him from a barbarian.” Kedrigern thought of Buroc, now no more than a scattering of gravel in a desolate valley. “He had no further use for horses.”

  Th
e stable boy looked around cautiously, and with lowered voice asked, “Are you a wizard, sir?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Why, sir, you look like a wizard. You have the way of a wizard.”

  The boy was perceptive, Kedrigern thought. “What makes you so sure I’m not a scholar? Or an alchemist?”

  “Oh, you look too bold for a scholar, sir. And too honest for an alchemist,” the boy said promptly.

  An amazing lad, Kedrigern marveled. Much too clever to be a stable boy. “What do you know of alchemists?” he asked.

  “They stop here now and then, sir. A nasty lot they are, too.”

  A boy of excelent discernment. Reassuring, to find such a bright young lad in these dul and blundering times, when the alchemists seemed to have deceived everyone with their jabber and jargon. “Absolutely right, my boy. Never trust an alchemist,” said Kedrigern.

  “No, sir. Please, sir…” The lad looked up with wide imploring eyes.

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “Please, sir, would you let me come with you and be your apprentice?”

  Kedrigern studied him closely. His clothes were tattered and absolutely filthy. He reeked of the stable. He was very young, and probably had no manners at all. On the other hand, he had a keen mind and was an excelent judge of character. His eyes were clear and bright, his features more refined than those of the locals, all of whom resembled turnips.

  “Please, sir.”

  “I’m considering, boy.”

  An apprentice would be helpful. Not that the burden of work was so great, but wizardry could be a lonely business, and an apprentice would be someone with whom he could talk shop. Princess—quite understandably—was still chary of things magical, and Spot, while useful, was hopeless as a professional associate. It would be handy to have someone who could reach the upper shelves and speak in complete sentences. Too, a fresh, young outlook might liven up the house, and make things a bit more cheerful for Princess when he was taken up with business. And there was something about this eager, intelligent lad that reminded Kedrigern of himself a century and a half ago. He could not turn the boy away. All right. If your master agrees, you can come along.”

  “Hossel’s not my master, sir. He lets me sleep in the straw and eat from the kitchen slops, that’s all, sir.”

  “How very egalitarian Hossel is: he treats you exactly as he treats his guests. Very well, then. Get your things and follow me.”

  Kedrigern kept the slowest pace he could, but by midday the boy had fallen far behind. Kedrigern dismounted and sat on a log to wait for him.

  “Sorry, master,” the boy said, panting, when he caught up.

  “It’s all right. Sit down. We’ll eat something, and rest awhile.”

  When it was time to continue, Kedrigern looked down on the ragged, pinched little figure and was moved to pity.

  He thought of himself comfortable on horseback while the lad hurried along the rough road, and felt a twinge of guilt, “I think you ought to ride awhile,” he said.

  “Oh, no, master! I could never ride while my master walks!”

  “You must learn to do as I say, boy. If I tell you to ride, you must ride,” said Kedrigern sternly.

  “If you say so, master,” the boy said, springing eagerly into the saddle.

  “And what’s your name? I can’t keep calling you ‘boy.’”

  “It’s Jum, master.”

  “Jum. That’s a muddy sort of name. Well, let’s move on…Jum.”

  With Kedrigern leading, they headed west, to the junction of the great highway, and then turned north, toward the mountains.

  They proceeded in silence. Jum was lost in wonder at his new surroundings, craning and swiveling his neck to stare at each unfamiliar sight. He had no breath left for speech, and Kedrigern savored the spectacle of the boy’s excitement.

  Kedrigern felt more benevolent with each step. He had saved a bright lad from a lifetime of malodorous drudgery in Hossel’s stables, and won a promising recruit for the wizard’s calling. Jum badly needed a scrubbing and a few weeks of healthy food, but he was good raw material. He would require a new name, too; something a bit more dignified. Jum would do for a stable boy, or a jester, or an alchemist—perfect name for an alchemist, he thought—but never a wizard.

  They went on, Jum gawking and Kedrigern ruminating and neither one saying a word, and the landscape around them became gradually more barren and bleak. Here stood the blackened ruin of a crofter’s hovel, there the wild tangle of a long abandoned wheat field. The bleakness soon turned to menace. When he saw a blasted maple hung with a score of corpses in various stages of decomposition, Kedrigern worked a quick early warning spell. He could not be sure who had done all this, but he wanted to know if they were nearby.

  “Is that the doing of barbarians, master?” Jum asked in a subdued voice.

  “It probably is. But whether it’s the work of invaders from the east or our local talent, I can’t say. It might also be the outcome of a holy war, or a persecution. Or perhaps a family feud. Or the penalty for tax evasion. They all seem to come out the same in the end,” Kedrigern said, sighing.

  “Rotten barbarians… ought to skin them all alive!” Jum said with great vehemence.

  Kedrigern was about to reprimand the boy, but he checked his tongue. Jum was young, and had plenty of time to learn restraint.

  His outburst might well be the fruit of some personal tragedy—he would not be the first young wizard’s apprentice to suffer at the hands of marauders—and it would be cruel to silence him. Time would do the teaching.

  A league farther on, they passed another small farm, burned to stubble, and two leagues beyond that, the smoking remains of an inn. Kedrigern felt a warning tingle in the back of his neck and looked all around. It was Jum who spotted the danger. Kedrigern heard his cry, followed his pointing finger, and saw a dot in the sky, approaching them at great speed.

  He drew out his medallion and raised it, to peer through the Aperture of True Vision. He saw a dragon. It was not the size of a hay wain, and its wingspan was not the length of Hossel’s Inn, and it was getting on in centuries, but it was a dragon, all the same. It was, in fact, a very angry dragon. An arrow had transfixed its left foreclaw, causing considerable discomfort but no loss of mobility or power.

  “So much for Fletcher the dragon-slayer,” said Kedrigern, replacing the medallion and rubbing his eyes.

  “Is it a dragon, master?” Jum cried.

  “It is, Jum. Don’t worry. We have protection.”

  “Kill it, master! Kill the dragon!”

  “That’s not my line of work, Jum.”

  “But it’s a dragon, master! Dragons exist only to be slain!”

  “That will be enough, Jum,” said Kedrigern firmly.

  The boy fell silent. Kedrigern worked a short, simple spell against flame and smoke, and then, stepping back and laying a calming hand on the horse’s neck, he awaited the arrival of the dragon.

  It came straight for them, dropping to just above head-height as it closed, and when it was within range, it spewed forth a burst of flame. Jum cried out in fear, but the flames rolled to either side without singeing a hair of their heads or a thread of their garments.

  The dragon soared sharply, made a tight banking turn, and came at their flank. Again its flame was rendered harmless to the stationary figures, although it devastated what little of the inn was still standing. After the failure of its second aerial pass, the dragon landed gingerly a short distance away, wincing as its injured claw touched down.

  Inhaling deeply, it poured out a rolling ribbon of flame that completely encircled them. Jum howled; the horse whinneyed; Kedrigern stood firm; they were unscathed. The dragon took one look at them and drooped. Laying its head on the charred ground, it began to cry.

  Kedrigern stepped forward and halted a few paces from the dragon’s head. His command of dragon was limited, so he spoke in his own language, low and reassuring, as one would address a large st
range dog. “It’s all right, old fellow. I’m not an enemy.”

  The dragon raised its head slightly, blinked, and studied him. At that moment, Jum cried, “Kill it, master! Kill it!”

  Kedrigern snapped, “Shut up, Jum!” and the dragon burst out weeping afresh.

  “I really mean it. I’m not your enemy,” Kedrigern said.

  The dragon rumbled mournfully:

  “False-speaker to Fingard

  In mendacious man-language!

  Villainy of varlet

  Has injured by arrow-point—

  Now stranger comes stalking

  To deal dastardly deathblow.”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing, as a rule. I’m a wizard, not a dragon-slayer,” Kedrigern said.

  Fingard raised its brassy head. “Wizard?”

  “Kedrigern of Silent Thunder Mountain. I’m sure you’ve heard the name. Then again, you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

  “Fingard the far-faring

  Misses misty mountaintops,

  Glittering of glaciers,

  Blustering of blizzards.”

  “Yes, I could tell you’re a northern dragon. The alliteration is a dead giveaway.”

  Fingard raised its head still higher, until its slitted golden-green eyes were level with Kedrigern’s. The wizard returned the chiling gaze steadfastly, one hand behind his back, ready to work a quick supporting spell if the need arose. The dragon again addressed him.

  “Is wizard all word-skill,

  Proud without proof,

  Or can he help heal arrow-hurt.

  Fix Fingard’s foreclaw?”

  Kedrigern folded his arms and adopted a stern expression. “I’ll want some assurances first, Fingard. I’m not going to heal you so you can go about igniting homes and farms,” he said.

  The dragon raised its injured claw and placed it on its heart. Holding its head high, it intoned:

  “Fingard the falsely accused