Читать книгу The Serpentwar Saga - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 15

Tyndal was dead.

Erik still couldn’t believe it. Each time he came into the forge during the last two months he had expected to see the burly smith either asleep on his pallet at the rear of the forge or hard at work. The man’s sense of humor when he wasn’t sober, or his dark moodiness when he was – everything about him was etched in every corner of this place where Erik had learned his craft for the previous six years.

Erik inspected the coals from the previous night’s fire and judged how much wood to add to bring it back to life. A miller’s wagon had lurched into the courtyard the night before with a broken axle, and there would be ample work to fill his day. He still couldn’t get over Tyndal’s not being there.

Two months previously, Erik had climbed down from his loft expecting the events of the morning to be as usual, but one glance at Tyndal’s regular resting place had sent the hairs on Erik’s neck straight up. Erik had seen the smith drunk to a stupor, but this was something else. There was a stillness to the old man that Erik instinctively recognized. He had never seen a dead man before, but he had seen many animals dead in the fields, and there was something eerily familiar in the smith’s attitude. Erik touched Tyndal to assure himself the old blacksmith was truly dead, and when he touched cold skin he jerked his hand away as if from a burn.

The local priest of Killian, who acted as a healer for most of the poor in the town, quickly confirmed that Tyndal had indeed drunk his last bottle of wine. Since he had no family, it was left to Milo to dispose of the corpse, and he arranged a hasty funeral, with a quick pyre. The ashes were scattered, and a prayer was said to the Singer of Green Silence by her priest, though smiths were more correctly considered the province of Tith-Onanka, the god of war. Erik felt that somehow the prayer to Killian, the goddess of the forest and field, was appropriate: Tyndal had repaired perhaps one sword in the six years Erik had been around the forge, but countless plows, tillers, and other implements of farming.

A sound in the distance caught Erik’s ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince’s City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida’s cooking.

As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud ‘Whoa!’ Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pretense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung. But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.

‘Ho, Percy,’ said Erik.

‘Erik!’ replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. ‘Ravensburg, sirs.’

The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. ‘Are you lying over?’ he asked the driver.

‘No,’ answered Percy. ‘We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.’ Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. ‘From there I’m going empty to Darkmoor, so there’s ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I’ll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I’ll have an extra of her best meat pie.’ Percy’s grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.

Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.

‘Sir!’ Erik called, and hurried after.

He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.

And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said, ‘You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.’ He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.

‘Who are you?’ asked Erik.

‘Nathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.’

‘From Krondor? New smith?’ Erik’s expression showed his confusion.

The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. ‘The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.’

‘But it’s my smithy,’ said Erik.

‘It’s a baronial charge, boy,’ said Nathan, his tone turning firm. ‘You might be competent in most things – you might even be talented – but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending the barony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’ draft horses.’

‘War!’ exclaimed Erik. ‘War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!’

The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. ‘I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice –’

‘No.’

The smith’s brows lowered. ‘No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?’

With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, ‘My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that … I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs.’

The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. ‘This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship –’

‘Begin!’ said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. ‘I can match skills with any guild smith –’

Nathan’s expression darkened. ‘That’s not the point!’ he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. ‘That’s not the point,’ he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. ‘You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at the guild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster’s rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin –’

‘I will not apprentice for seven more years!’ said Erik, his temper threatening to get the better of him.

Nathan said, ‘Interrupt me again, boy, and I’ll cease being civil with you.’

Erik’s expression showed he was not in the least bit apologetic, but he stayed silent.

Nathan said, ‘You can go to Krondor or Rillanon and petition the guild. You’ll be tested and evaluated. If you show you know enough, you’ll be allowed to apprentice, or perhaps you’ll even get journeyman’s rank, though I doubt that seriously; even if you’re the best they’ve ever seen, there’s still the politics of it. Few men are willing to grant to another rank without the sweat to have earned it. And there’s always the possibility they’ll call you a presumptuous lout and throw you into the street.’ The last came with a hard tone, and suddenly Erik realized that this man had spent at least seven years as an apprentice and perhaps twice that as a journeyman before gaining his master’s badge – and to him Erik must sound a whining child.

‘Or you can apprentice here, in your hometown with your family and friends, and be patient. If you are indeed as well taught as you claim, I’ll certify you as quickly as I can, so you can petition for a forge of your own.’

Erik looked as if he was again going to object that this was his forge, but he said nothing. Nathan continued, ‘Or you can set out today, on your own, and become an independent smith. With your talent you’ll make a living. But without a guild badge you’ll never set up shop in any but the rudest villages, unless you wish to travel to the frontier. For no noble will trust his horses and armor to any but a guildmaster, and the rich common folk to no less than a guild journeyman. And that means, no matter how gifted you are, you’ll always be nothing more than a common tinker.’

Erik remained silent, and after a moment Nathan said, ‘Thoughtful, is it? That’s good. Now, here’s the choice of it: you can stay and learn and perfect your skills and I’ll count myself a lucky sod for having a second pair of trained hands around, belonging to someone I don’t have to teach every tiny thing. Or you can brood and be resentful, and think you know as much as I, and be useless to us both. There’s only room for one master in this forge, boy, and I am he. So there’s the end of it, and there’s the choice. Do you need time to think on this?’

Erik paused, then said, ‘No. I need no time to think about it, Master Nathan.’ Sighing, he added, ‘You are correct. There is only one master in a forge. I …’

‘Spit it out, boy.’

I have been responsible around here for so long I feel as if it is my forge, and that I should have been given it by the guild.’

Nathan nodded once. ‘That’s understandable.’

‘But it’s not your fault Tyndal was a slacker and my time here counts for nothing.’

‘None of that, boy –’

‘Erik. My name is Erik.’

‘None of that, Erik,’ said Nathan; then suddenly he swung hard and connected a roundhouse right that knocked Erik onto his backside. ‘And I told you, interrupt me again and I’d cease being civil. I am a man of my word.’

Erik sat rubbing his jaw, astonishment on his face. He knew the smith had pulled the blow, but he could feel the sting of it anyway. After a moment he said, ‘Yes, sir.’

Nathan put out his hand and Erik took it. The smith pulled Erik to his feet. ‘I was about to say that any time spent learning a craft counts. You only lack credentials. If you’re as good as you think you are, you’ll be certified in the minimum seven years. You’ll be older than most journeymen when you seek your own forge, but you’ll be younger than some, trust me on that. There are slower lads that don’t leave their master’s forge until they are in their late twenties. Remember this: you may be coming late to your office, but your learning started four years earlier than most boys’ as well. Knowledge is knowledge, and experience is experience, so you should have a far shorter time of it from journeyman to master. In the end, it will all work out.’

Turning slowly, as if examining the smithy once again, he said, ‘And from what I see here, if you can keep your head right, we’ll get along fine.’

There was an open friendliness in that remark which caused Erik to forget his stinging jaw. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, show me where I sleep.’

Without being told, Erik picked up the smith’s travel bag and cloak, and motioned. ‘Tyndal had no family, so he slept here. There’s a small room around back, and I sleep in the loft up there.’ Erik pointed to the only place he’d called his own for the last six years. ‘I never thought about moving into Tyndal’s room – habit, I guess.’ He led the smith out the rear door and to the shed that Tyndal had used for his bedroom.

‘My former master was drunk most of the time, so I fear this room is likely to be …’ He opened the door.

The smell that greeted them almost made Erik gag. Nathan only stood a moment, then stepped away as he said, ‘I’ve worked with drunkards before, lad, and that’s the smell of sour sickness. Never seek to hide in a wine bottle, Erik. It’s a slow and painful death. Meet your sorrows head on, and after you’ve wrestled with them, put them behind.’

Something in his tone told Erik that Nathan wasn’t simply repeating an aphorism but was speaking from belief. ‘I can put this room right, sir, while you take your ease at the inn.’

‘I’d best make myself known to the innkeeper; he is to be my landlord, after all. And I could use something to eat.’

Erik realized he hadn’t thought of that. The office of guild smith might be granted by the guild and a patent for a town might be exclusive, but otherwise the smith was like any other tradesman, forced to make a profit the best he knew how, and responsible for setting up his own place of business. Erik said, ‘Sir, Tyndal had no family. Who …’

Nathan put his hand on Erik’s shoulder. ‘Who should I be paying for all these tools?’

Erik nodded.

Nathan said, ‘My own tools will be coming by freight hauler any day now. I have no desire to take what is not rightfully mine, Erik.’ He scratched his day’s growth of whiskers as he thought. ‘When you’re ready to leave Ravensburg and begin your own forge, let us assume they go with you. You were his last apprentice, and tradition has it that you are to pay the widow for the tools. As he had no family, there’s no one to pay, is there?’

Erik realized what an incredibly generous offer he was being made. An apprentice was expected somehow to supplement his earnings so that by the time he reached journeyman’s rank he could purchase a complete set of tools, and an anvil, and have the money to pay for the construction of a forge if needed. Most young journeymen were able to begin modestly, but Tyndal, for all his sloth in his last years, had been a master smith for seventeen years and had every conceivable tool of the trade, two and three of some. With proper care and cleaning, Erik would be set up for life!

Erik said, ‘If you would like, I can show you to the kitchen.’

‘I’ll find my way. Just come get me when this room is cleaned up.’

Erik nodded, and as Nathan moved off toward the rear of the inn, the boy held his breath and went into Tyndal’s room. Throwing open the single window didn’t help, and Erik hurried back outside because of the stench. Unpleasant odors bothered Erik, strong as he was in most ways, and he confessed to a weak stomach. Though he was used to the smell of the barn and forge, nevertheless the odor of human illness and waste caused the bile to rise in his gorge, and he had tears in his eyes from the reek by the time he got Tyndal’s bedding outside the hut.

Breathing through his mouth and turning his head away, he hurried to the large iron tub his mother used for washing and threw the filthy linens into it. As he was building up the fire beneath, his mother approached.

‘Who is this man claiming to be the new smith?’ she demanded.

Erik was in no mood to battle his mother, so he calmly said, ‘Not claiming; is. The guild sent him.’

‘Well, did you tell him there already was a smith here?’

Erik got the fire under the tub going and stood up. As calmly as he could manage, he said, ‘No. This is a guild forge. And I have no standing with the guild.’ Thinking of Tyndal’s tools, he added, ‘Nathan’s being very generous and is keeping me on. He’ll apprentice me to the guild and …’

Erik expected an argument, but instead his mother only nodded once and left without further comment. Puzzled by her lack of outburst, Erik stood a moment until the crackling of the fire under the tub reminded him he had a still-unfinished task. He took one of the hard cakes of soap used to wash the inn’s bedding and broke it in half. Tossing the hard soap into the tub, he began stirring with a paddle. As the water turned a deep brown, he thought: why no argument from his mother? There was an air of resignation from her that he had never seen before.

Leaving the sheets to simmer in the tub, Erik hurried back to the smith’s room, grabbing some rags and a mineral oil cleaner he used on especially filthy tack and tools. He removed the balance of Tyndal’s possessions, a single large chest and a sack of personal items. A rickety wooden wardrobe he left inside, in case Nathan choose to hang his cloaks and shirts there; he could always haul it away later if the new smith didn’t care for it.

When he had the last of Tyndal’s possessions outside, Erik regarded the meager pile. ‘Not a lot to show for a lifetime,’ he muttered. He picked up the chest and hauled it over to one corner of the small yard behind the barn, and picked up the sack and placed it on top. He’d go through them later to see what Tyndal had left that might be of use. There were always poor farmers on the outskirts of the vineyards who grew other than grapes, and they always could use serviceable clothing.

Then Erik took the rags and cleaner and began scrubbing years of accumulated grime off the walls.

Erik entered the kitchen to find Milo sitting at the big table, staring across at Nathan, who was finishing a large bowl of stew. Milo was nodding at something the smith had just said, while Freida and Rosalyn both made busy preparing vegetables for the evening meal.

Erik glanced at his mother, who stood expressionless at the sink, listening to the men speak. Rosalyn inclined her head toward Erik’s mother, indicating concern. Erik nodded briefly, then moved beside his mother, indicating he wished to wash up. She nodded curtly and moved toward the oven, where the bread purchased that morning from the baker was being kept warm.

Nathan continued what he had been saying when Erik entered. ‘While I have the knack with iron, I’m indifferent with horses, truth to tell, above the legs. I can adjust a shoe to balance a lameness, or to compensate for some other problem, but when it comes to the rest, I’m as simple as anyone.’

‘Then you’ve chosen wisely to keep Erik on,’ said Milo, showing an almost fatherly pride. He’s a wonder with horses.’

Rosalyn asked, ‘Master Smith, from what you’ve said, you could have had any number of large baronial forges, or even a ducal charge. Why did you pick our small town?’

Nathan pushed away the bowl of stew he had finished, and smiled. ‘I’m a lover of wine, truth to tell, and this is a great change from my former home.’

Freida turned and blurted, ‘We’re scant weeks past burying one smith for the love of too much wine, and now we’ve another! The gods must hate Ravensburg indeed!’

Nathan looked at Freida and spoke. His tone was measured, but it was clear he was not far from anger. ‘Good woman, I love the wine, but I’m no mean drunkard. I was a father and husband who took care of his own for many years. If I drink more than a glass in a day, it’s a festival. I’ll thank you to pass no judgment on matters you know nothing about. Smiths are no more cut from the same bolt of cloth as all men of any other trade are alike in all ways.’

Freida turned away, her color rising slightly, but she said nothing save, ‘The fire is too warm. This bread will be dry before supper.’ She made a show of turning the coals, though everyone knew it was unnecessary.

Erik watched his mother for a moment, then turned toward Nathan. ‘The room is clean, sir.’

Freida snapped, ‘Will you all be sharing that one tiny room?’

Nathan rose, picking up his cloak and leaning over to retrieve his bag. As he hoisted his possessions, he said, ‘All?’

‘These children and your wife you spoke so tenderly of?’

Nathan’s tone was calm when he replied, ‘All dead. Killed by raiders in the sacking of the Far Coast. I was senior journeyman to Baron Tolburt’s Master Smith at Tulan.’ The room was still as he continued. ‘I was asleep, but the sound of fighting woke me. I told my Martha to see to the children as I ran to the forge. I took no more than two steps out the door of the servants’ quarters when I was struck twice by arrows’ – he touched his shoulder, then his left thigh – ‘here and here. I fainted. Another man fell on top of me, I think. Anyway, my wife and children were already dead when I awoke the next day.’ He glanced around the room. ‘We had four children, three boys and a girl.’ He sighed. ‘Little Sarah was special.’ He fell silent for a long moment, and his face took on a reflective expression. Then he said, ‘Damn me. It’s nearly twenty-five years now.’ Without another word he rose, and nodded his head once to Milo, then moved to the door.

Freida looked as if she had been struck. She turned toward Nathan, her eyes brimming with moisture, and looked as if she were about to speak, but as the smith left the kitchen she was unable to find the words.

Erik looked after the departing smith, and then back toward his mother. For the first time in his life he felt embarrassed for her and he found the feeling unpleasant. He glanced around the kitchen and noticed Rosalyn looking at Freida with an expression of irritation and regret. Milo made a show of ignoring everyone as he rose from the table to move to the tap room.

Erik said at last, ‘I’d better see if he’s settled in. Then I’ll be seeing to the horses.’

Erik left and Rosalyn moved around the kitchen in silence, trying to spare Freida any more embarrassment. After a moment she realized the older woman was silently weeping. Caught in an impasse as to what to do, she hesitated, then at last said, ‘Freida?’

The older woman turned toward the younger, her cheeks damp from her tears. Her face was a mask of conflict, as if she wished to vent some deeply buried pain but couldn’t let it surface past a sharp retort. Rosalyn said, ‘Can I do anything?’

Freida remained motionless for long seconds, then said, ‘The berries need washing.’ Her tone was hoarse, and she spoke softly. Rosalyn moved toward the sink and began working the hand pump her father and Erik had installed only the year before so she and Freida wouldn’t have to carry water from the well behind the inn anymore. As cold water filled the wooden sink, Freida said, ‘And stay the sweet child you are, Rosalyn. There’s too much pain in the world already.’

The older woman hurried from the kitchen on some imagined errand, and Rosalyn knew she just wished to be alone for a while. The exchange with the new smith had released something Freida had buried and Rosalyn didn’t understand, but in her sixteen years the girl had never seen Erik’s mother cry. As she cleaned the fruit for the evening’s pies, she wondered if this was a good thing or not.

The evening was quiet, with only a few locals calling in at the Pintail for a quick drink, and only one seeking a meal. Erik finished cleaning the kettle as a favor to Rosalyn, and hauled it back to the hook over the fire, now low-glowing embers.

He waved good night to Rosalyn, who was carrying four flagons of ale to a table occupied by four of the town’s more eligible young journeymen, all of whom were flirting with the innkeeper’s daughter, more to keep some sort of status with one another than out of any real interest in the young girl.

Passing through the kitchen, Erik found his mother standing by the door, looking at the night sky, ablaze with stars. All three moons were down this night, a rare occurrence, and the display was always worth a moment to observe.

‘Mother,’ said Erik quietly as he started to move away.

‘Stay awhile,’ she said softly, a request and not an order. ‘It was a night like this I met your father.’

Erik had heard the story before but knew his mother was struggling with something that had occurred while she spoke to the smith. He still didn’t fully understand what had happened in his mother, but he knew she needed to speak. He sat down on the steps beside where his mother stood.

‘Otto had come to Ravensburg for the first time as Baron, after his father’s death two years before. He had attended the Vintners’ and Growers’ reception for him, and after drinking with the town leaders, he had gone for a walk to clear his head. He was brash and quick to dispense with protocol, and had ordered his servants and guards to leave him alone.’

She stared into the night, calling up memories. ‘I had come down to the fountain with the other girls, to flirt with the boys.’ Erik recalled his own last visit to the fountain with Roo and realized the practice was long established. ‘The Baron came into the lantern light and suddenly we were a bunch of awkward children.’ Then Erik saw a spark in his mother’s eyes, and heard an echo of the spirit that had captivated men’s hearts before he was born. ‘I was as awed as the rest, but I was too proud to show it,’ she said with a rueful smile, and years dropped away from her. Erik could imagine the impact such a sight after an evening spent drinking must have had on the Baron as he spied the beautiful Freida at the fountain.

‘He had court manners, and rank, and riches, and yet there was something honest in him, Erik: a little boy who was as afraid of being sent away as any other boy. He was twenty-five, and young for that age. But he swept me off my feet, with sweet words and a wicked humor in them. Less than an hour later he had bedded me under a tree in an apple orchard.’ She sighed, and again Erik was put in mind of a young girl, not this woman of iron he had known all his life.

‘I had a terrible reputation, but I had never known another man. He had known other women, for he was sure, but he was also tender and gentle and loving.’ She glanced at her son. ‘In the dark, under the stars, he spoke of love, but the next day I thought I’d never see him again and counted myself just another foolish girl taken in by a nobleman’s charms.

‘But against any hope of mine, he came to me a month later, in the late afternoon, alone, astride a horse flecked with foam from a hard ride from his castle. Hidden by a large cloak, he had slipped into the inn as we were readying for the night’s trade, and there he sought me out and revealed himself. To my astonishment, he professed love and asked for my hand.’ She gave a bittersweet laugh. ‘I called him mad and ran from the inn.

‘Later that night, I returned to find him waiting at this very spot, like a common farmhand. He again told of his love for me, and again I told him he was bereft of sense.’ Tears gathered in her eyes. ‘He laughed and said he knew it seemed that way, but after taking my hand and gazing into my eyes, he kissed me once and convinced me. This time I knew why I had gone with him first time – not because of his rank and station, but because I loved him as well.

‘He cautioned me that none must know of our love for each other until he had journeyed to Rillanon to petition King Lyam for my hand, for tradition bound him to his liege lord’s pleasure. But to seal our love, and to provide me with a claim, we spoke our vows in a small chapel used during the harvest, with an itinerant monk who had been in town less than a day, conducting the ceremony. The monk made a pledge not to speak of the vows until Otto gave him leave, and left us alone, for the next morning Otto planned to leave to see the King.’

Freida was silent a moment; then her tone took on a familiar bitterness. ‘Otto never returned. He sent a messenger, your friend Owen Greylock, with news that the King had denied his petition and had instructed him to wed the daughter of the Duke of Ran. “For the good of the Kingdom,” Greylock said. Then he said the King had ordered the Great Temple of Dala in Rillanon to declare the wedding annulled, and had the order placed under Royal Seal, so as not to embarrass Mathilda or any sons she might bear. I was advised to find a good man and forget Otto.’ Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, ‘What a shock good Master Greylock got then when I told him I was with child.’

She sighed and reached over and gripped her son’s arm. ‘As my time neared, rumors circulated about who was your father, this merchant or that grower. But when you were born, and quickly became the image of your father in his youth, no one denied you were Otto’s boy. Not even your father will deny it publicly.’

Erik had heard the story a dozen times before, but never told quite this way. Never before had he thought of his mother as a young girl in love or of the bitter rejection she must have felt when news of Otto’s marriage to Mathilda had come. Still, there was no profit in living for yesterday. ‘But he never acknowledged me, either,’ said Erik.

‘True,’ agreed his mother. ‘Yet he left you this much: you have a name, von Darkmoor. You may use it with pride, and should any man challenge your right you may look him in the eye and say, “Not even Otto, Baron von Darkmoor, denies me my right to this name.”’

Erik reached up and awkwardly took his mother’s hand. She glanced at him and smiled her stiff, unforgiving smile, but there was a hint of warmth in it as she squeezed his huge hand, then released it. ‘This Nathan: I think he may be a good man. Learn what you can from him, for you’ll never have your birth-right.’

Erik said, ‘That was your dream, Mother. I know little of politics, but what I have heard in the taproom leads me to believe that should you have had the High Priest of Dala himself as witness in the chapel that night, it would count for little. The King, for reasons known best to him, wished my father married to the daughter of the Duke of Ran, and thus it was, and thus it would always have been.’

Erik stood. ‘I will need to spend some extra time with Nathan, letting him know what I can do, and finding out what he wishes me to do. I think you’re right: he’s a good man. He could have sent me packing, but he’s trying to do right by me, I think.’

Impulsively, Freida threw her arms around her son’s neck, hugging him closely. ‘I love you, my son,’ she whispered.

Erik stood motionless, uncertain how to respond. She spared him the need by letting go and turning quickly into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Erik stood a moment, then slowly turned and moved toward the barn.

As the months passed, things fell into a routine at the Inn of the Pintail. Nathan blended in quickly, and after a while it was hard to recall what the inn had been like with Tyndal as smith. Erik found his new master a fount of information, as much of what Tyndal had taught him had been basic, solid smithing but Nathan knew much that made the work above-average, even exceptional. His knowledge of the different requirements for weapons and armor opened a new area for Erik, for Nathan had been the Baron Tolburt’s own armorer in Tulan at one time.

One day the sound of hooves upon cobbles caused Erik to look up from where he held a hot plow blade Nathan was hammering for a local farmer. The slender figure of Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, appeared as he rode his mount around the barn from the rear court of the inn.

Nathan took away the blade and plunged it into water, then set it aside as Erik came to stand next to the horse, holding her bridle as Greylock dismounted.

‘Swordmaster!’ said Erik. ‘She’s not lame again, is she?’

‘No,’ said Owen, indicating that Erik should see for himself.

Erik ran his hand along the horse’s left foreleg as Nathan approached, then motioned the youngster to stand aside. Nathan examined the horse’s leg. ‘This is the horse you told me of?’

Erik nodded.

‘You say it was this suspensor tendon, was it?’

Greylock looked on with approval as Erik said, ‘Yes, Master Smith. She had pulled it slightly.’

‘Slightly!’ said Greylock. He had an angular face, made even more stern by a severe hairstyle – high bangs, with most of the rest cut straight around the nape of his neck – which split into a smile, serving to make him even more unattractive, for his teeth were uneven and yellowing. ‘Totally blown, I should say, Master Smith. Puffed up to the size of my thigh, and the mare could barely stand to put weight on it. I thought I’d have to send for the knackers, for certain. But Erik had a way, and I’d seen his work before, so I gave him the chance and he didn’t disappoint.’ Shaking his head in mock astonishment, he said, ‘“Slightly.” The lad’s too modest for his own good.’

‘What did you do?’ Nathan asked Erik.

‘I wrapped her leg in hot compresses at first. There’s a drawing salve the healing priest at the Temple of Killian makes that makes your skin feel hot. I used that on her leg. I hand-walked her and wouldn’t let her pull again, even if she got rammy. She’s spirited and wanted to bolt more than once, but I put a stud chain over her nose and let her know I’d have none of it.’ Erik reached over and patted the mare on the nose. ‘We became pretty fair friends.’

Nathan stood and shook his head, obviously impressed. ‘For the four months I’ve been here, Swordmaster, I’ve been hearing of this lad’s skill with horses. Some of it I took to be local pride felt by his friends.’ Turning to Erik, he smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t say this lightly, lad. Perhaps you should put aside your apprenticeship as a smith and turn your hand to healing horses. I am self-admitted indifferent in healing animals, though I will put my shoeing work up against any man’s, but even I can see this horse is completely sound, as if she had never been injured.’

Erik said, ‘It’s a useful skill, and I like to see the horses healthy, but there’s no guild …’

Nathan was forced to agree. ‘True enough. A guild is a mighty fortress and can shelter you when no amount of skill can save you from’ – he suddenly remembered the Baron’s Swordmaster was standing a few feet away – ‘many unexpected ends.’

Erik smiled. He knew what the smith had been about to say had to do with the long-standing rivalry between the nobility and the guilds. Started as a means to certify workmen and guarantee a certain minimum standard of skill, the guilds had become a political force in the Kingdom over the last century, to the point of having their own courts to adjudicate matters within each guild, much to the irritation of the King’s courts and the courts of the other nobles. But the nobles were too dependent upon the quality assurance of the many guilds to do more than grumble about flouting authority. But often one of the craft guilds had saved a member from some injustice at the hands of a noble. Despite a long tradition of responsible nobility in the Kingdom, there were always one or two minor earls or barons who thought they could simply ignore a debt. Having a patent of arms from the King did not ensure wealth, and more than one noble had attempted to use rank and position rather than coin of the realm to settle his debts.

Erik distracted Greylock. ‘Swordmaster, what cause brings you to Ravensburg this day?’

The usually serious Swordmaster’s face returned to its usual dour expression. ‘You, Erik. Your father rides to Krondor on state business. He’ll be here this evening. I came early to see if …’

‘If I could prevail upon my mother to let him alone?’

Greylock nodded. ‘He’s not well, Erik. He shouldn’t be making the journey and …’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ He knew promising was vain should his mother take it into her head to repeat her performance of the last time Otto came through the town. ‘She may have finally gotten over making me the next Baron.’

Greylock made a sour face. ‘I would be out of place to comment on that.’ Then he softened his expression. ‘Trust me on this. If you can, stand by the corner of the town road where the sheep meadow ends and the first vineyard begins, on the east side of the town, before sunset.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t say, but it’s important.’

‘If my father is so ill, Owen, what cause has he to ride to Krondor?’

Greylock mounted his horse. ‘Ill news, I’m afraid. The Prince is dead. It will be announced to the populace by royal messenger later this week.’

Erik said, ‘Arutha is dead?’

Greylock nodded. ‘He fell and broke his hip, I’ve been told, and died of complications. He was an aging man, nearly eighty if I have it right.’

Prince Arutha had been a fixture in Krondor all of Erik’s life and his mother’s before him. Father to the King, Borric, who had succeeded Arutha’s brother Lyam only five years earlier, he had been the man most responsible for peace in the Kingdom, by all accounts.

To Erik he was a distant figure; certainly, Erik had never seen the Prince, but he felt a small stab of regret. By anyone’s measure he was a good ruler and a hero in his youth. As Greylock turned the mare around, Erik said, ‘Tell my father I will stand where he asked.’

Greylock saluted and lightly touched spurs to the mare’s flanks, and she trotted out of the inn courtyard.

Nathan, who had come to understand a great deal of Erik’s history in the months he had been living at the Pintail, said, ‘You’ll want some extra time to clean up.’

Erik said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to leave at suppertime.’

It was late spring, and sunset came close to an hour after supper. Erik would need most of the hour to make it to the other side of Ravensburg, and through the vineyards to the sheep meadow, but only if he went in his dirty clothing.

Nathan playfully hit Erik on the back of the head with his open hand. ‘Dolt. Get yourself cleaned up. Sounds important.’

Erik thanked Nathan and hurried to the forge. Below the pallet in the loft where he slept, behind the ladder, sat a trunk with all of Erik’s belongings. He took out his one good shirt and carried it over to the washbasin. Removing his dirty shirt, he took the harsh soap and some clean rags and worked feverishly to rid himself of as much dirt as possible. At last he felt presentable and put on his good shirt.

He hurried out of the barn and went to the kitchen, where food was being placed upon the table as he entered. Sitting down, he drew a suspicious look from his mother. ‘Why are you wearing your good shirt?’ she asked.

Not willing to share his father’s request for a meeting with his mother, lest she demand to accompany him and force a confrontation, he muttered, ‘I’m meeting someone after supper,’ then started noisily eating the stew placed before him.

Milo, who was sitting at the head of the table, laughed. ‘One of the town girls, is it?’

This brought an alarmed look from Rosalyn, the color rising in her cheeks as Erik said, ‘Something like that.’

Erik continued to eat in silence, while Milo and Nathan spoke of the day’s events, and the women joined Erik in silence.

Nathan had a dry sense of humor that made it difficult at first to know if he was being mocking or merely amusing. This had resulted in Freida and Milo both treating him with some coolness at first.

But his warm nature and clear appreciation of life’s little moments had won over even Erik’s mother, who could often be seen trying to fight back a smile at some quip of Nathan’s. Erik had once asked him how he kept so even a disposition, and the answer had surprised him. ‘When you lose everything,’ Nathan had said, ‘you’ve nothing left to lose. You’ve got two choices then: either kill yourself or start building a new life. When I started this new life, without my family, I decided the only sensible thing in it was to live for the small rewards: a job well done, a beautiful sunrise, the sound of children laughing at play, a good cup of wine. Makes it easy to deal with the harsher side of life.

‘Kings and marshals can look back and relive their triumphs, their great victories. We common folk must take what pleasure we can from life’s little victories.’

Erik hardly touched his food, and at last bade everyone excuse him as he almost jumped up from the table and hurried out through the common room, Milo’s laughter following after. He almost ran through the door of the inn and barely avoided knocking Roo down as the youngster was about to enter the inn.

‘Wait a minute!’ cried Roo as he fell in beside his larger friend.

‘Can’t. I have to meet someone.’

Roo grabbed the larger youth by the arm and was almost dragged along a step or two before Erik stopped. ‘What?’ he asked Roo impatiently.

‘Did your father send for you?’

Erik had long since stopped being amazed at the town gossip Roo was able to ferret out, but this had him stunned. ‘Why do you ask that?’

Because since late yesterday the road has been thick with Kingdom Post riders, sometimes as many as three in a bunch, and a company of the Baron’s horse, followed by two companies of foot soldiers, passed by the eastern boundary of the town this morning, heading south, and the Baron’s own personal guards showed up an hour ago at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. That’s what I was coming to tell you. And you’re wearing your best shirt.’

Not wishing to have Roo along, Erik said, ‘The Prince of Krondor is dead. That’s why …’ He was about to say that was why his father was coming to the town, on his way to Krondor, but instead said, ‘all the fuss.’

Roo said, ‘So those soldiers are heading south to support the garrisons along the Keshian border, in case the Emperor gets ambitious now that Arutha’s dead.’ Now suddenly an expert in military matters, Roo was left standing by Erik, who had resumed his hurried march.

Seeing he was suddenly alone, Roo yelled, ‘Hey!’ and chased after his friend, catching up with him as Erik left the street of the Pintail and entered the main square of the town.

‘Where are you going?’

Erik stopped. ‘I have to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘It’s not a girl, or you’d be heading north to the fountain, not east toward the baronial road.’ Roo’s eyes widened. ‘You are meeting your father! I was just joking before.’

Erik said, ‘I don’t want anyone to say anything, especially not to my mother.’

‘I’ll keep this to myself.’

‘Good,’ said Erik, turning Roo around with two large and powerful hands on narrow shoulders. ‘Go find something amusing to do, and not too illegal, and I’ll talk to you later tonight. Meet me at the inn.’

Roo frowned, but sauntered off as if he had intended to leave Erik alone anyway. Erik resumed his journey.

He hurried through the businesses clustered around the town square, two- and three-story edifices overhanging the narrow streets, then moved between the modest homes owned by the higher-ranking members of the various crafts and guilds, then the ramshackle houses used by workers, married apprentices, and traders without storefronts.

Leaving the town proper, he hurried along the east road, past small vegetable gardens where pushcart traders grew their wares to sell in the town market, and the large eastern vineyards. Reaching the point where the baronial road leading to Darkmoor intercepted the main east – west road through Ravensburg, he waited.

He mulled over what possible reason he could have been asked to meet his father at this relatively remote location, dismissing the most fanciful of all, that his mother’s dream would somehow be realized and his father would acknowledge him.

His musing was interrupted by the sound of an approaching company of horsemen. Soon he could see them crest a distant hill, a company of riders appearing out of the evening’s gloom to the northeast. As they neared, he could see they were the Baron’s own, leading the same carriage Erik had seen the last time the Baron had paid the town a visit. He felt a tightening in his chest as they neared, and no small apprehension, for his two half brothers could be seen riding beside the carriage. The first riders hurried past, but Stefan and Manfred reined in.

Stefan shouted, ‘What! You again?’

He made a threatening gesture as if to draw his sword, but his younger brother shouted, ‘Stefan! Keep up! Leave him alone!’

The younger brother set heels to his mount and moved to keep up with the vanguard, but his older brother hesitated.

As more soldiers rode past, Stefan shouted, ‘I warn you now, brother: when I ascend to the Baron’s office, I’ll be nowhere near as tolerant as our father. If I catch a glimpse of you or your mother at any public function, I’ll have you arrested so quickly your shadow will have to search to find you.’ Without waiting for a reply, he viciously dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, causing the high-spirited gelding to leap forward into a fast canter, then a gallop, so he could overtake his younger brother.

Then the main detachment of soldiers approached, followed by the Baron’s carriage. As they passed, the riders moved at a steady canter, but the carriage slowed. When it was almost upon Erik, the curtain of the carriage closest to him was pulled back, and he could glimpse a white face peering through the gloom at him. For a moment, father and son locked gazes, and Erik felt a sudden rush of confused feelings. Then all too suddenly the instant passed, and the carriage rolled away, the driver using the reins to urge his team of four ahead, to overtake the escort.

Erik stood puzzled and angered as the following troop of soldiers approached. He had expected to speak at last to his father, not merely share a momentary glimpse.

As he turned to leave, the last rider reined in and said, ‘Erik!’

He turned to see Owen Greylock dismounting. Forgetting courtesy, Erik vented his anger. ‘I thought we were friends, Master Greylock, at least as much as rank permitted. But you had me traipse through the town to this place so that Stefan could insult and threaten me, and my father peek out from his warm carriage at me!’

Greylock said, ‘Erik, it was your father’s request.’

Erik put hands on hips and took a deep breath. ‘So it was his idea to have Stefan as much as tell me to leave the barony?’

Greylock led his treasured mare to where Erik stood, and put his hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘No, that was Stefan’s impromptu performance. Your father wished to see you one last time. He’s dying.’

Erik felt unexpected emotions break to the surface, panic and regret, all viewed somehow at a distance, as if the warring emotions were taking place within someone else’s breast. ‘Dying?’

‘His chirurgeon warned against this, but with the Prince’s death, he felt the need to attempt the journey. Borric has named his youngest brother, Nicholas, to succeed his father, until his own son, Patrick, is of an age to rule the Western Realm. Nicholas is an unknown; everyone expected Erland to take the post. It could be a fair political bloodbath in Krondor this week.’

Erik knew the names: Borric, the King, and Erland, his younger twin brother. Patrick was the King’s eldest son, and by tradition one of the two should have taken the office of Prince of Krondor, but the intrigues of the court meant little to Erik.

‘He asked me here so he could catch a glimpse of me as his carriage sped by?’

Greylock squeezed Erik’s arm for emphasis. ‘His last glimpse of you.’ He removed something from his tunic. ‘And to give you this.’

Erik beheld a folded parchment being handed him by Greylock. He took it and noticed it was free of any stamp or seal. He unfolded it and began to read. ‘“My son –”’

Greylock interrupted. ‘No one is to know the contents but you, and once you are done, I am to burn this. I will stand away while you read this to yourself.’

He led the horse away, while Erik read:

My son, If I am not yet dead when you read this, I soon shall be. I know you have many questions, and no doubt your mother has answered some. I am sorry to say that I can give you little more than that, and less satisfaction.

When we are young, we feel passions that are but faint memories when we are not very many years older. I think I did love your mother, when I was very young. But if so, then that love, like memories, faded.

If I have any regrets, it is that I could not know you. You were innocent of your mother’s and my indulgences, but I have responsibilities that cannot be set aside because of my regret over a youthful indiscretion. I hope you understand and realize that whatever life we might have imagined as father and son was an impossible illusion. I hope you are a good man, for I am proud of the blood that flows in both our veins, and would hope you honor it as well. I have never publicly denied your mother, because at least I can allow you a name. But beyond this I can do little else.

Your brother Stefan will be set against you in every way. My wife fears any threat to her son’s patrimony, and if it is any comfort to you, I have paid a price for remaining silent before your mother’s accusations. I have shielded you and your mother more than you might know, but once I am gone, that protection will vanish. I urge you to take your mother from the barony. There is a growing frontier along the Far Coast and in the Sunset Islands, and opportunities for a young man of ability. You could make something of yourself there.

Leave Ravensburg and Darkmoor, and make yourself known to one Sebastian Lender, a solicitor and litigator with an office at Barret’s Coffee House, on Regal Street in Krondor. He will have something there for you.

I can do no more. Life is often unfair, and while we might wish for justice, it is usually an illusion. For what it is worth, you have my blessing and my wish for a happy life.

Your Father

Erik held it in his hands a few moments after he had finished, and at last he held it out to Greylock. Owen took the parchment and produced one of the elegant flint and spring-loaded igniters that were all the rage among those who smoked tabac. He struck a series of sparks until one lodged in the parchment, and blew it to a flame. Holding the parchment by the edge, he let the flame grow until it engulfed the document. Just before his fingers would be burned, he let the parchment float away, rising on its own heat as it was consumed.

Erik felt empty. He now realized that whatever he had expected when summoned to this lonely spot, it had been something more than this. His attention returned to Greylock as the Baron’s Swordmaster mounted. ‘Was there anything else?’

Owen said, ‘Only this: he urged you to count the threat as dire and take the warning with the most gravity.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘Not by his words, Erik, but I’d be a fool not to guess. It might be considered a wise thing if you were on your way to a new home when we return from Krondor. Stefan has a temper that blinds him and a dangerous nature.’

‘Owen?’ Erik said as Greylock made ready to ride on.

‘What?’

‘Do you think he ever really loved my mother?’

Greylock looked startled by the question. He paused, then said, ‘To that I cannot speak. Your father was a man to hide much within. But this I can tell you: whatever you read in that missive take to heart and count an honest telling, for there is no deceit in the man’s nature.’

He rode off, and Erik found himself alone. Then he began to laugh. Everything in his life had stemmed from a deceit. Either Greylock was a poor judge of his lord’s nature, or Otto had reformed his ways after deceiving Erik’s mother. But to Erik it was of little significance which was the case.

Unsure of his own feelings, he began the trek home. But one thing he knew: Greylock would not take the time to underscore his father’s warning if it wasn’t real and deadly. For the first time in his life, Erik considered leaving Ravensburg. He laughed again at the irony of no more than a month’s having passed since word returned from the guild that it had approved Nathan’s registration of Erik as apprentice.

A bitter taste of tin filled Erik’s mouth, and his stomach knotted as he moved through the twilight. His desires were few and his needs simple, yet it seemed fate had decreed them to be impossible.

Not knowing what he could possibly say to his mother, he walked like a man three times his age, each step slow and deliberate, his shoulders bent under an incredible weight.