The Burning Bridge Part 4

Will stepped forward into the practice ground. "Can I try it?" he asked eagerly, unsheathing his throwing knife.

"Of course," said Gilan. "You two may as well practice together in the evenings from now on. But not with real weapons. Cut some practice sticks to use."

Horace nodded at the wisdom of this. "That's right, Will," he said. "After all, you're just starting to learn this and I wouldn't want to hurt you." He thought about it, then added with a grin, "Well, not too badly, anyway."

The grin faded as Gilan corrected him. "That's one reason, of course," said the Ranger. "But we also don't have the time for you to be resharpening your sword every night."

He glanced meaningfully down at Horace's blade. The apprentice followed his gaze and let out a low moan. There were two deep nicks in the edge of his blade, obviously from the overhand and underhand cuts that Gilan had blocked. One glance told Horace that he'd spend at least an hour honing and sharpening to get rid of them. He looked questioningly at the saxe knife, hoping to see the same result there. Gilan shook his head cheerfully and brought the heavy blade up for inspection.

"Not a mark," he said, grinning. "Remember, I told you that Ranger knives are specially made."

Ruefully, Horace rummaged in his pack for his sharpening steel and, sitting down on the hard-packed sand, began to draw it along the edge of his sword.

"Gilan," Will said. "I've been thinking..."

Gilan raised his eyebrows to heaven in mock despair. Again, the expression reminded Will forcefully of Halt. "Always a problem," said the Ranger. "And what, pray tell, have you been thinking?"

"Well," began Will slowly, "this double knife business is all well and good. But wouldn't it be better just to shoot the swordsman before he got to close quarters?"

"Yes, Will. It certainly would," Gilan agreed patiently. "But what if you were about to do that and your bowstring broke?"

"I could run and hide," he suggested, but Gilan pressed him.

"What if there were nowhere to run? You're trapped against a sheer cliff. Nowhere to go. Your bowstring just broke and an angry swordsman is coming at you. What then?"

Will shook his head. "I suppose then I'd have to fight," he admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly," Gilan agreed. "We avoid close combat wherever possible. But if the time comes when there's no other choice, it's a good idea to be prepared, isn't it?"

"I guess," Will said. Then Horace chimed in with a question.

"What about an axman?" he said. Gilan looked at him, nonplussed for a moment.

"An axman?" he asked.

"Yes," said Horace, warming to his theme. "What about if you're facing an enemy with a battleax? Do your knives work then?"

Gilan hesitated. "I wouldn't advise anyone to face a battleax with just two knives," he said carefully.

"So what should I do?" Will joined in. Gilan glared from one boy to the other. He had the feeling he was being set up.

"Shoot him," he said shortly. Will shook his head, grinning.

"Can't," he said. "My bowstring's broken."

"Then run and hide," said Gilan, between gritted teeth.

"But there's a cliff," Horace pointed out. "A sheer drop behind him and an angry axman coming at him."

"What do I do?" prompted Will.

Gilan took a deep breath and looked them both in the eye, one after the other.

"Jump off the cliff. It'll be less messy that way."

6.

BARON ARALD SHOVED THE HEAVY PARCHMENT SCROLL TO one side and looked up at Lady Pauline in exasperation.

"Pauline, do you understand what this idiot is getting at?" he asked. The head of Castle Redmont's Diplomatic Corps nodded.

"In principle, I do, my lord," she said. Arald made a frustrated gesture.

"Then in principle, please explain it to me," he said, adding in an undertone, "as if I don't have enough on my plate planning for war without this sort of nonsense."

Lady Pauline suppressed a smile. Arald had a well-known dislike of legal doc.u.ments with their whereifs, wheretofores and notwithstandings.

"Sir Montague of Cobram Keep is obliged to supply a draft of four knights and thirty men-at-arms when called upon," she began.

"And I take it he is refusing to do so?" said the Baron wearily.

"Not exactly, sir," she replied. "He is willing to supply the men. He is unwilling to place them, or himself, under your command."

Arald frowned. There was no trace of his customary good humor evident at that statement.

"But he is under my command," he said. "Cobram Keep is within the boundaries of Redmont Fief and I am his lord. And commander."

Pauline nodded agreement. "Correct, my lord. But he does have a case. A very tenuous one, I must say, but a case nonetheless."

Arald's face, already flushed with annoyance, became a little redder. "How can he have a case?" he demanded. "His castle is within my boundaries. I am the lord of Redmont Fief. He is my tenant. I am his commander. End of story. Ipso facto. Case-o closed-o."

"As he sees it, my lord, the whole thing hinges on a treaty signed by his great-great-granduncle and the present king's great-great-grandfather, when Cobram Keep became part of the Kingdom of Araluen-and the Fief of Redmont. At that time, Cobram Keep was allowed to retain a certain level of independence."

"That's ridiculous! You can't run a kingdom like that! What was Duncan's great-great-whatever-he-was thinking?"

"It was a gesture only, my lord. The said independence would apply only to certain matters of civil administration-the right to perform and register marriages, for example-not military matters."

"Well then!" Arald exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "If that's the case, where is the problem?"

"The intent is obvious, my lord, in context. But this treaty was drawn up by lawyers, so there is a certain ambiguity in the wording."

"Ambiguity is always certain when lawyers are involved," Arald said. His face brightened. He rather liked that piece of wordplay. It struck him as quite droll. He looked hopefully for a smile from Lady Pauline, but in vain. Deciding she must have missed it, he began again.

"You see, you said 'a certain ambiguity' and I said, 'Ambiguity is always certain when'-"

"Yes, yes, my lord. Quite so," Pauline said, cutting him off. Arald looked disappointed. She continued: "Nigel and I have gone through the treaty, and the letter, and Nigel has drafted a reply. He has found seventeen points of law where Montague has grossly misrepresented the intent of the treaty. In short, he has destroyed Montague's case most comprehensively."

"He's good at that," Arald said, smiling once again. This time, Pauline smiled with him.

"None better, my lord," she said.

"So what's our next move?" the Baron asked. Pauline proffered the letter she had mentioned, but he waved it away. If Nigel and Pauline were happy with it, he knew it would be watertight. Pauline nodded. She appreciated the trust he placed in her.

"Very well, my lord. We'll do a final draft and I thought I might have one of my students deliver it."

She replaced the draft letter in a thin leather folder, and withdrew another doc.u.ment, laying it on the table in front of her and smoothing it out so that it lay flat.

"Now, my lord, there is another matter we must discuss..."

She saw the pained expression on the Baron's face. She knew he didn't want to discuss it.

"You're talking about this brouhaha with Halt, I suppose? I really don't have the time," he said, making dismissive gestures at her.

"Nonetheless, my lord, it is a brouhaha that we must make time for." She tapped the doc.u.ment with one forefinger. "This is a summary of the brouhaha in question, my lord."

Arald glanced up at her. She seemed to be quite fond of that word, he thought. Or she was gently making fun of his choice of it in the first place. But Lady Pauline's face gave nothing away. She continued: "If you care to look through it?"

He reached for it reluctantly. Pauline had known that he would try to avoid the subject. It was distasteful for all of them, but unfortunately, it had to be resolved. At that moment, there was a heavy-handed knock at the door to the Baron's office and, grateful for any interruption, he hastily called, "Come in!"

She frowned at the distraction. It was Sir Rodney, head of the Redmont Battleschool. He threw the door open and entered with a little more than his usual energy. He was talking before he had even crossed the threshold.

"My lord, you're simply going to have to do something about Halt!" he said. Then, noticing Lady Pauline, he made a small gesture of apology. "Oh, sorry, Pauline, didn't see you there."

Lady Pauline inclined her head in acknowledgment of the apology. The department heads at Redmont were all good friends. There was no petty jealousy between them, none of the maneuvering for influence and favor that plagued some fiefs.

The Baron sighed deeply. "What has he done now?" he asked.

"Do I sense another brouhaha in the making?" Lady Pauline said innocently and he glanced suspiciously at her. She seemed not to notice.

"Well, one of my fourth-year apprentices was stupid enough to make a remark about Will and Horace being sent off on a soft a.s.signment. Said that's all they were good for."

"Oh, dear," said Lady Pauline. "I do hope he didn't make this remark in Halt's hearing?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said Rodney. "He's not a bad lad. All muscle and bone, mind you, and a good deal of that between his ears. But he was feeling his oats a little and told Halt to mind his own business." He paused, then added, by way of explanation, "Everyone's a little jumpy, what with all the preparations for war."

"So how is the lad?" Arald asked. Rodney shrugged.

"The infirmary says there's no lasting damage. He'll be back on duty in a few days' time. But the point is, I can't have Halt going around damaging my apprentices. I'm going to need them soon."

Arald toyed with one of the quill pens on his desk. "He's definitely been difficult these past few days," he said. "It's like having a bear with a sore head around the castle. In fact, I think I might prefer a bear with a sore head. It would be less disruptive."

"We were about to discuss Halt's behavior as you arrived," Lady Pauline said, taking the opportunity to return the conversation to the case in hand. "There's been a complaint about him from Sir Digby of Barga."

"Digby?" Rodney said, a frown touching his face. "Didn't he try to shortchange us on his draft of men?"

"Exactly," said the Baron. "We're having a lot of that going on at the moment. So I sent Halt to straighten matters out. Thought it might be a good idea to give him something to keep him busy."

"So what's Digby got to complain about?" Rodney asked. It was obvious from his tone that he felt no sympathy for the recalcitrant commander of Barga Hold.

The Baron gestured for Lady Pauline to explain.

"Apparently," she said, "Halt threw him into the moat."

7.

"WHERE THE DEVIL IS EVERYONE?" GILAN BROUGHT BLAZE to a halt and looked around the deserted border post. There was a small guardhouse by the side of the road, barely large enough to keep two or three men sheltered from the wind. Further back was a slightly larger garrison house. Normally, at a small, remote border post like this, there would be a garrison of half a dozen men, who would live in the larger building and take s.h.i.+fts at the guardhouse by the road.

Like the majority of buildings in Celtica, both structures were built in the gray sintered stone of the region, flat river stones that had been split lengthwise, with roof tiles of the same material. Wood was scarce in Celtica. Even fires for heating used coal or peat whenever possible. Whatever timber was available was needed for shoring up the tunnels and galleries of Celtica's iron and coal mines.

Will looked around him uneasily, peering into the scrubby heather that covered the windswept hills as if expecting a sudden horde of Celts to rise up from it. There was something unnerving about the near silence of the spot-there was no sound but the quiet sighing of the wind through the hills and heather.

"Perhaps they're between s.h.i.+fts?" he suggested, his voice seeming unnaturally loud.

Gilan shook his head. "It's a border post. It should be garrisoned at all times."

He swung down from the saddle, making a motion for Will and Horace to stay mounted. Tug, sensing Will's uneasiness, sidestepped nervously in the road. Will calmed him with a gentle pat on the neck. The little horse's ears went up at his master's touch and he shook his head, as if to deny that he was in any way edgy.

"Could they have been attacked and driven off?" Horace asked. His mindset always worked toward fighting, which Will supposed was only natural in a Battleschool apprentice.

Gilan shrugged as he pushed open the door of the guardhouse and peered inside.

"Maybe," he said, looking around the interior. "But there doesn't seem to be any sign of fighting."

He leaned against the doorway, frowning. The guardhouse was a single-roomed building, with minimal furnis.h.i.+ng of a few benches and a table. There was nothing here to give him any clue as to where the occupants had gone.

"It's only a minor post," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps the Celts have simply stopped manning it. After all, there's been a truce between Araluen and Celtica for over thirty years now." He pushed himself away from the doorway and jerked a thumb toward the garrison house. "Maybe we'll find something down there," he said.

The two boys dismounted. Horace tethered his horse and the pack pony to the counterweighted bar that could swing down to close the road. Will simply let Tug's reins fall to the ground. The Ranger horse was trained not to stray. He took his bow from the leather bow scabbard behind the saddle and slung it across his shoulders. Naturally, it was already strung. Rangers always traveled with their bows ready for use. Horace, noticing the gesture, loosened his sword slightly in its scabbard and they set off after Gilan for the garrison house.

The small stone building was neat, clean and deserted. But here at least there were signs that the occupants had left in a hurry. There were a few plates on a table, bearing the dried-out remains of food, and several closet doors hung open. Items of clothing were scattered on the floor in the dormitory, as if their owners had hurriedly crammed a few belongings into packs before leaving. Several of the bunks were missing blankets.

Gilan ran a forefinger along the edge of the dining room table, leaving a wavy line in the layer of dust that had gathered there. He inspected the tip of his finger and pursed his lips.

"They didn't leave recently," he said.

Horace, who had been peering into the small supply room under the stairs, started at the sound of the Ranger's voice, b.u.mping his head on the low doorsill.