Ordination Read online

  The man on foot, the child on the easily trotting palfrey, they followed a pair of obvious wheel-ruts driven deep into ground by the heavily laden wagon the villagers had likely been imprisoned in. The ground was wetter here. The previous day’s rainfall and denser tree cover gave the travelers a slight but welcome respite from the late summer heat. The equally welcome silence, Allystaire suspected, was destined to last but briefly; he was proven right after only a few more moments of plodding along.

  “Can I try ridin’ the big horse again?”

  “No.”

  “He won’t try n’bite me again, m’sure of it.”

  “He did not try the first time. He warned you. If I put you on his back again, he will take a finger.”

  That bought him another few moments of silence. Mol looked around the landscape and at the huge destrier and mule trailing along behind the palfrey she sat upon, but her eyes always seemed to settle on Allystaire.

  “Who’re the Blind Priests?”

  Startled, he looked back over his shoulder, sweaty brow furrowed. “What?”

  “You mentioned Blind Priests earlier. Who’re they?”

  He shrugged, the heavy, stiff leather he wore creaking. “Priests. Serve the god Urdaran.” He blinked. “Has one never come to your village?”

  She shook her head, then immediately followed up with, “Why’re they blind?”

  He shrugged again, looking once more at the road ahead. “Some fool dogma or other. Urdaran urges his followers to ‘look inward’ and eschew—ignore—the world. So his most devoted priests blind themselves.”

  Mol gasped sharply. “That’s horrible! Why would a god demand that?”

  “I have known more than one scholar to waste his life trying to answer that, and lass, I shall not try. I avoid the gods and anyone who pays them more than lip service. I counsel you to do the same.”

  The silence that followed in the wake of Allystaire’s sullen advice was relieved only by plodding hooves, creaking leather, and jingling tack.

  CHAPTER 4

  Bend

  The next day, Allystaire drew them to a halt with the sun blazing hot and bright above them. A voice he knew well spoke up within him, speaking from an instinct he knew well not to ignore. Get some Freezing steel on. In answer, he murmured, “Sound advice, that.” So he led them off the muddy track of a road and pulled a heavy pack free of the mule’s load and set it down on the side of the road.

  As he tugged it open, heavy-looking pieces of dark, oiled metal were revealed. Mol crowded over his shoulder to look; suddenly she pointed excitedly at the breastplate.

  “I knew you were a knight,” she crowed.

  “Quiet!” Allystaire looked back over his shoulder at her while his hands deftly pulled the plates free—front and back, curved to contour around the body to deflect impact, but undecorated. Overlapping segments would protect the sides of the ribs from the waist to the armpit. A great confusion of straps and buckles connected them.

  “Say those words again that loud, and you may bring trouble, girl. I am not a knight, and we do not want anyone in this town thinking I am, understand?” He stood, laying the plates aside, and shrugged his sword off his back and set it down. Mol reached for it, but after a stern look, stepped back and tucked her hands behind her back.

  The heavy boiled leather vest he wore came off, landing in the grass with a muffled thump, but the sleeves stayed in place. Underneath it was a padded shirt, visibly sweat-soaked. Allystaire knelt, giving a muted grunt as his left knee thunked into the ground. Carefully, he slid an arm, then his head, through the tangle of buckles and let the weight begin to settle onto his shoulders. The cuirass remained unbuckled on his left side, so he turned and began fitting leather into metal.

  “Listen lass, and listen well,” he said with a grunt, as he pulled a strap tight against his side. He leaned forward awkwardly, gathered up sword and vest, and stood in one swift movement. “This is vital. When we reach the gate, say nothing. Nothing. Do you understand? Let me talk, and only me. You are my mute, addled niece.” He stuffed the vest into the sack in place of the cuirass he now wore, and resettled the strap of his long scabbard back over his shoulder.

  As he tied the sack back into place, he continued. “Like as not, folk will assume I have brought you here to sell you.” Immediately he shook his head, holding his hand up to forestall her. “Not a word. I have no intention of buying or selling you. Besides,” Allystaire tried on a lopsided grin that didn’t particularly fit his face, “what kind of price could I possibly get for a soft-brained mute, eh?”

  Chuckling at his own gibe, he didn’t see Mol’s hand dart to the ground; there was no warning, only a thump as the stone, cunningly thrown, connected with his shoulder. “Aghh! Peace, lass,” he said, reaching to rub the spot with his opposite hand. “Peace. It was meant in jest.” He pulled himself into the saddle of the destrier, and indicated that she should do the same on the palfrey. Gathering the leads of both other animals, he began trotting them the last two miles towards the timber-walled town he saw rising in the distance.

  A haze of smoke sat heavily above it in the afternoon air, and Allystaire could smell the place before he could see it clearly. Brackish water dominated, but the air carried notes of sweat, piss, wet burnt wood, and moldering garbage.

  When they neared, Allystaire felt his stomach clench as a pair of men in leather, carrying poleaxes, with fluttering cloth badges pinned to their chests, stepped into the road. From his belt, he plucked a pair of heavy leather gloves with iron studs along the knuckles, and slipped them on. Could just leave her and go.

  “Remember, say nothing,” he whispered without turning around, as they neared the outermost earshot of the guards.

  The sight of three animals and two riders had certainly drawn the attention of the guards, as they stood on either side of the road with their spears held out, blocking the path beyond. About twenty yards beyond them stood a crude gate made of tree trunks lashed together that a few men working together could draw closed, against a similarly constructed timber palisade. Allystaire was taken aback by the gate, having expected a miserable clutch of tents and shacks. And while tents crowded up against both sides of the wall, beyond was a hotchpotch of buildings built on no plan, and far more of them than there should’ve been. While hides strung on poles predominated in the front, driftwood and wattle-and-daub hovels seemed to spring from them.

  Beyond those, buildings of better timber and many of stone stood crowded together, practically touching, above muddy streets. In the distance, Allystaire thought he could descry some buildings of brick.

  Great deal bigger than I had ever imagined, Allystaire thought. This must have been growing since I was a boy. Then, with a faint sneer, he thought, Could probably raze it with two-score and ten good men. He reined to a stop in front of the guards.

  “Down off the ‘orse, yer lordship,” sneered the nearer spear-bearer. A thick brown beard covered his cheeks, and a leather cap ringed with iron sat atop his head. His clothing and equipment were as mismatched as the town he guarded: a studded leather jerkin, sailor’s pantaloons tucked into tough hobnailed boots, and an archer’s buckler strapped to his left arm. The badges pinned to their chests appeared crudely sewn, some kind of blue blotch on white. “’Afore yer enterin’ Bend, yer packs need t’be searched and anything yer sellin’ valued for, ah, excise duty.” The man pronounced the last two words with extreme precision.

  “I am not selling anything,” Allystaire said, carefully. Leather creaked as the fingers of one hand curled slightly. “And I doubt the baron would be very happy to hear that someone else is claiming taxes in his lands.”

  “Well yer can ask him yerself, Lord Broke-beak,” the other spearman piped in, chortling nasally at his own wit. This one was younger, thinner, with pockmarked cheeks barely covered with hair. “Baron Windspar o’ Bend don’t hold no court but sure’n a lordly
one such as yerself can knock on his door and tell him all about his duties n’taxes n’like, no?”

  With a sigh, Allystaire turned and fixed his dark-eyed stare on the younger man, leaning one hand on the pommel of his saddle. The destrier under him snorted, stamped one hoof on the rock-strewn road. “Baron Windspar? Must not have been in the most recent books of lineage.” His eyes narrowed, bored intently on the younger man, who returned the glare, if only for a moment. Only the older one’s a threat. See the rust on the boy’s spearhead? See how he has three daggers all lined up on a baldric on his chest, where they do him no earthly good? Kill the old one first.

  Finally, Allystaire smiled atop his horse and reached to the purse tied securely to his hip. He tugged it open, and, with glove-thickened finger tips, carefully extracted a round circle of gold. He held it up where the afternoon sunlight glinted brilliantly off of it for a moment, let them see the sky through it as he twisted and turned the bright metal loop in the air.

  “Surely a gold link will more than pay Baron Windspar’s excise tax, eh?” Then, making sure both men had time to see the glint, he casually flicked his wrist toward the younger guard, tossing the link off the road into the weeds, a yard away from him.

  The older man was faster to react. He dropped his spear and bulled his way across the road toward the tall growth. Only a tug on the reins kept Allystaire’s horse from lunging with its teeth for the man as he passed so near. Soon enough the younger one got the gist and dove for the link. Allystaire nudged his destrier’s flank and gently whistled; all three animals started up again in unison and stepped past the gate, and the palisade wall.

  Behind them were some muted curses, some thumps as blows were exchanged. Allystaire paid them no mind and, as soon as they were well within the timber wall, slid down off his horse. As he gathered the reins in his left hand, he used his right to pull the warhammer out of its loop on the saddle, and clutched it with the head pressed against his hand.

  With Mol obeying—for now at least—the instructions to keep silent, Allystaire led them into the city, such as it was. The streets were unplanned, unpaved, and teeming with locals.

  They were a mix of folk: rivermen, laborers, miserable types Allystaire guessed were refugees from the borders with Innadan, Oyrwyn, or the coast that Islandmen were known to raid. Some might have trickled down out of Vyndamere, long since given over to the same raiding Islandmen.

  Many were armed, and he saw more than one wearing armor or livery with telltale fading framing a place where badges, devices, and rank sigils had been ripped away. They stank, and they glared at him, but most gave him a wide berth, and a circle began to form around him and his animals; the destrier, disliking the crowding, snapped and stamped at anyone who stepped too near. The circle around them widened.

  Tracking down an inn didn’t take long, as what passed for streets seemed to be organized mostly by what could be bought or sold there. When they came across a row of tents over which hung the unmistakable miasma of fermenting beer, Allystaire turned down it. Tents became huts, built long with low, sloping thatched roofs and holes in the middle to let out smoke.

  A two-storey building of stone caught his eye as soon as they made their way round the tents and the huts, and he guided them towards it. Looping the reins casually around the post outside, he strode up to the door and nudged it open with the head of his hammer.

  “Innkeep!” His voice rolled into the room and could be heard several yards into the street, pitched to carry without bellowing. “I need a groom to show me to your stables.” Letting the door close, he strolled back to the street and quickly dug again into his purse; two circles of silver, looped together, dangled from the fingers of his left hand. A wiry, cross-looking man in a grease-spattered apron threw open the door and opened his mouth to speak.

  Whatever words the innkeep had been about to say died on his lips when he caught the glint of silver. “Right this way m’lord,” he murmured.

  Allystaire turned and offered a quick grin towards Mol, tucking the silver links into his clenched fist. The stables stood behind the inn and, while not large, appeared more sturdily built than most of the surrounding dwellings.

  “No need for any titles. Call me Allystaire.” The horses followed and Allystaire backed up to help Mol dismount. “How long have you been here, goodman?”

  “Two years less a score, m’lord. Sign o’ the Stone Wall was the first inn to open in Bend.”

  “The town has been here that long?”

  “Aye, though it was a fort and a watchtower or two first,” the innkeep replied. He led them on a well-tamped path around the side of his building to a small wooden outbuilding with a sagging roof. “Most o’the stones that make the place up were part o’the outer wall.”

  The man pushed open doors that swung easily on their hinges, a sign Allystaire took well.

  Stinks, Allystaire thought, for indeed it did, as the stables were small and the day hot, but at least it’s an honest stench.

  “Now, that’ll be three stalls, half a silver link each a day, and I’ll throw in hay and waterin’ free. Rooms, well if yer wantin’ to throw a roll down on a floor, be two lead bobs a head. Private room with a proper bed, ‘ave to be a silver link.” His lips parted in a stump-filled, hungry smile.

  “Your prices do not worry me, goodman, but it will not be three stalls. One will do; all three of my animals stay together. Surely you have stalls for oxen, aye?”

  “No m’lord, that won’t do. I’ve no stalls large enough…”

  He trailed off as Allystaire smiled at him and raised his hammer speculatively; he reached out to tap a nearby stall door with its thick, scarred head. “I can fix that. Or you can manage somehow.”

  It was all the man could do not to tug a forelock. “Aye, m’lord. There’s a stall that’ll do but it’ll be close quarters, it will.”

  “All well and good. Two silver links a day while we stay, and this as a token of my appreciation.” Allystaire tossed the two links he’d already held out at the man; they glinted in the air, catching a beam of sun that poked through a warped roof slat. The innkeep’s hand flashed out and caught them like a hawk striking a rabbit, and they disappeared before his hand was back by his side.

  “Very well m’lord, I’ll have me sons out to deal with the horses. Will yer, ah, daughter be in the same room?” The innkeep swallowed delicately as he flicked his eyes to the silent, wide-eyed Mol, who had drifted closer to Allystaire.

  “My niece. She will. I am not a lord. Tell your groom to be careful of the big grey. Very careful.” Allystaire and the innkeep led the mule, then the palfrey, and finally the destrier into a stall. Quickly Allystaire pulled the saddlebags off both horses and slung them over his shoulders, then took up the heavy bags from the packhorse, tossing two of the lighter sacks into Mol’s waiting arms.

  * * *

  “Why’d ya make ‘em stable all three animals together,” Mol asked around a mouthful of bread that, while not fresh from an oven, was at least not as dry as what they’d had on the road.

  Allystaire tore a piece of bread off the loaf and dragged it forcefully through the bowl of butter, leaving the white surface pebbled with crumbs, then shoved it into his mouth. He half-swallowed and answered, “If anyone has a mind to steal them, the grey will show a right nasty temper—bite, rear, kick. He does not care much for people.”

  “He likes you.”

  Allystaire snorted, swallowed the rest of his butter and bread. “He knows that I do not care much for people either. And besides, he is used to my hand and my weight, so he tolerates me.”

  “He likes you. Trust me,” Mol insisted, thumping a fist down on the table and rattling crockery. “And that’s a lie, you not carin’,” the girl added in a mumble, before lifting a bowl of barley in broth and drinking from it noisily. A rivulet of the brown broth left a small grease streak down the side of her chin. When she s
et down the bowl, she mumbled again. “Horse has a name, y’know.”

  “Enough with that.” Allystaire stood up and once more paced around the room. It didn’t take long: two short steps from the fireplace to the bedding, currently occupied by the armor he’d happily traded for the leather vest; turn, one step ‘til the slanting roof forced him to hunch over the table that held a fired clay basin half-full of water, a small chest for more bedding beneath it.

  “Why d’ya keep doin’ that?”

  “Thinking. Now that we have got here, what do we do next?” He pulled his gloves from where he’d tucked them in his belt and slapped them against his palm. “Thinking that I do not want to leave you alone here, but I need to be able to move about the place unhindered.”

  “Why d’ya do that? Talkin’ as though I’m not here? D’ya often talk to yerself? Nuncle Tim says that’s a sign of madness,” Mol said, and resumed slurping from the broth bowl.

  “I talk to myself because…” He stopped, slapped his thigh with the gloves. “I simply do. It helps me reason things out.” Another few paces and his booted toe rebounded off his saddlebags where they were piled against the wall. He stared at them for a moment. “I could hire a guard.” Allystaire knelt, pulled open a flap, and started digging in the bag.

  “Wi’ what? Sugar? Is yer purse endless?”

  Without lifting his head, Allystaire slowly turned to fix his eyes, dark, upon her. “No. But I have enough that may do for now.” Turning back to the saddlebag, he pulled free another purse, much like the one he wore on his belt, but fatter. He tugged it open and dug a finger in, pulling free a chain of gold links that trailed back into the purse. He dropped it back in, pulled the leather tightly closed, and raised a finger toward the girl. “Not a word. Now, come down with me to the taproom. You will sit with me quietly, silently, no matter what it is that I do.”