Kings of Clonmel (14 page)

“Very well. If you say so. But can you tell us if there’s an inn anywhere close by? We’ve been on the road for some time.”

There was a slight pause, then the man answered.

“There’s the Green Harper, at Craikennis. It’s west of here, less than a league. Mayhap you’ll find a place there. Follow the road you’re on to the crossroads and you’ll find a sign.”

An inn would tend to denote a larger settlement, Halt thought, a village or even a small town. Such a place might be less likely to turn strangers away. He waved in farewell.

“Thanks for the advice, friend. We’ll bother you no further.” There was no reply. The man remained standing on the cart, his spear in hand, as they turned their horses and began to trot away. After a hundred meters or so, Will twisted around in his saddle.

“Still watching us,” he said.

Halt grunted. “I’m sure he’ll keep doing so till we’re out of sight. And then worry half the night that we might turn back after dark and try to surprise him.” He shook his head sadly.

Horace noticed the action. “ That’s one frightened man,” he said.

Halt looked at him. “Very frightened. And fear is the Outsiders’ most potent ally. I think we’re starting to get an idea of what we’re up against.”

They rode on and came to the road sign directing them to Craikennis. The facts that there was a road sign and that the place actually had a name both pointed to the possibility that it was a larger settlement. Still, Halt wanted to avoid the sort of non-welcome they had just received.

“I think we might split up,” he said. “The sight of three armed men might be a bit daunting for people in this area, and I don’t want to be unceremoniously thrown out before we get in. Will, you’ve got that lute of yours, haven’t you?”

Will had long ago given up trying to tell Halt that his instrument was a mandola. And in any case, Halt’s question was a rhetorical one. Will always carried the instrument with him, and he’d played it around their campfire the night before.

“Yes. Do you want me to become a traveling minstrel?”

Halt nodded. “Yes. For some reason, people tend to trust a minstrel.”

“And of course, this one has such a trustworthy face,” Horace put in with a grin.

“Quite so,” Halt said. “We’ll find a place to camp, then you go in ahead of us and start up some singing. Horace and I will slip in while everyone’s watching you. Book a room at the inn. That’s what you’d usually do, isn’t it?”

Will nodded. “It’s the normal thing for an entertainer to ask for a room—or a bed in the barn if the inn’s full.”

“You do that, then. We’ll have a meal and listen around to see what we can find out. Then we’ll go back to the camp. See if you can get any information from the innkeeper but don’t look too nosy. We’ll compare notes tomorrow morning.”

Will nodded. “Sounds simple enough.” A smile stole over his face. He knew Halt had a total lack of interest in music. “Any requests for tonight?”

His old teacher looked at him for a long moment.

“Anything but ‘Graybeard Halt,’ ” he said.

Horace clicked his tongue in disappointment. “ That’s one of my favorites.”

Halt regarded the two grinning young faces.

“Why do I have the feeling that I’m going to regret agreeing to this Task Group?” he said.

HALT AND HORACE REINED IN AT THE OUTSKIRTS OF Craikennis. There was a makeshift palisade here as well, obviously a recent construction. Outside the barrier, in front of the entrance, a canvas shelter was set by the roadside, with three armed men inside, sheltering from the chill of the night. There was a large iron triangle hanging from a pole, with a hammer hanging beside it. In the event of an attack, one of the men would sound the alarm by clanging the triangle with the hammer.

One of the sentries emerged from the shelter now, took a burning torch from a bracket and advanced on them, holding the light high to see their faces. Halt obligingly shrugged the cowl back from his head.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the man demanded roughly. Horace grimaced. Clonmel wasn’t the friendliest country he’d ever been to, he thought. Then again, there was little wonder, in the light of what they’d seen as they traveled through the countryside.

“We’re travelers,” Halt told him. “On the way to Dun Kilty to buy sheep at the markets there.”

“Do shepherds usually go armed?” the man asked, taking in Halt’s longbow and the sword that hung at Horace’s waist.

Halt gave him a thin smile. “They do if they plan to get their sheep home in one piece,” he said. “Or are you not aware how things are these days?”

The man nodded morosely. “I am that,” he replied. The stranger was right. He might well be a shepherd. He was certainly a nondescript-looking character. His taller companion had a different feel to him—though he was doubtless an armed guard, hired by the shepherd to help safeguard his flock on the return journey.

“We’re looking for a meal and a fire to warm us and then we’ll be on our way. We’re told there’s an inn here in Craikennis?”

The watchman nodded, satisfied that the two men offered no real threat to the security of the village. He glanced out into the darkness, making sure they had no companions lurking in the shadows. But there was no sign of movement on the road. He stepped back.

“Very well. But don’t cause any trouble. You’ll have us and a dozen others to reckon with if you do.”

“You’ll see no trouble from us, friend,” Halt told him. “Where do we find this inn of yours?”

The sentry pointed down the single main street of the village.

“The Green Harper, it’s called. Just fifty meters that way.”

He stepped out of the road to let them pass, and they rode on into Craikennis village.

The Green Harper stood at the midpoint of the main street. The village itself was a substantial establishment, with fifty or sixty houses grouped around the central street and a network of lanes and lesser streets that ran off it. They were all single-story, of mud-brick and thatched-roof construction. They looked smaller than the houses Halt and Horace were used to—lower. Horace guessed that if he were to enter one, he would have to stoop to avoid the door frame. The inn was the largest building in the village, as would be expected. It was also the only two-story building, with narrow dormer windows in the upper story suggesting that there might be three or four bedrooms provided for guests.

The Green Harper’s identifying sign swung, creaking noisily in the wind. It was a weathered board showing the faded remnants of a dwarflike figure dressed all in green, plucking the strings of a small harp. As Horace studied the sign, he noted that the face was twisted in a rather unpleasant leer.

“Not a friendly type, is he?” he said.

Halt looked at the sign. “He’s a
laechonnachie
,” he replied. Sensing Horace’s inquiring look, he added, “A Little Person.”

“I can see that,” Horace said, but Halt shook his head.

“The Little People are the subject of a great deal of superstition in this country. They’re enchanted figures, faerie folk if you like. Good people to avoid. They have a nasty sense of humor, and they tend to be spiteful.”

There was a burst of noise from the inn as a score of voices rose in song, joining in the chorus to one of Will’s numbers. He had ridden into Craikennis an hour ahead of Horace and Halt. Apparently, from the noise and the burst of applause they now heard, he had been roundly welcomed by the locals.

“Sounds as if he’s bringing down the house,” Horace observed.

Halt glanced up at the building, noticing the way none of the walls were true and the upper story seemed to lean and teeter over the narrow main street of the village.

“That wouldn’t take a lot of doing,” he muttered.“Come on. Let’s get inside while it’s still standing.”

He led the way to the tethering rail outside the inn. There was one other animal tethered there, a disinterested pony harnessed to a small cart that had seats for two passengers, set on either side of the cart and facing outward.

“Quaint,” Horace said as he tethered Kicker to the rail. Halt, of course, merely dropped Abelard’s rein over the rail. There was no need to tether a Ranger horse.

Horace glanced around. “Where’s Tug, do you think?”

Halt jerked a thumb at a side alley leading to the rear of the inn. “I imagine he’ll be nice and warm in a stall in the stables,” he said. “If Will’s taken a room, he wouldn’t leave Tug out in the street.”

“True enough,” Horace said. “Let’s get on with it, Halt. I’m famished.”

“Are you ever not famished?” Halt asked, but Horace was already heading for the inn. He led the way to the door, but before he could push it open, Halt stopped him with a hand on his arm. Horace looked at him enquiringly, and the Ranger explained.

“Wait until Will’s started again and we’ll slip in while everyone’s attention is on him. Remember, keep your ears open and your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.”

Horace nodded agreement. He’d noticed during the day that Halt’s accent, which usually showed only the slightest trace of a Hibernian brogue, had been thickening and broadening whenever he spoke. Halt was obviously working to recapture the accent of his youth.

“No need to let everyone know we’re foreigners,” he had said when Horace had commented on the fact.

They paused now, hearing Will’s voice raised in song, and the rippling accompaniment of his mandola. Then the noise redoubled as the entire room joined in on the chorus.

Halt nodded to Horace.

They slipped into the room, hesitating briefly as the wave of heat from the open fire and thirty or forty bodies hit them. Will stood in a well-lit space by the fireplace, leading the company in song—not that they needed much encouragement, Halt thought wryly. Hibernians loved music and singing, and Will had a good repertoire of jigs and reels. As the two Araluens paused in the doorway, two of the spectators in front of Will, a man and a woman, leapt to their feet and began dancing and heel-and-toeing in time to his driving rhythm. The rest of the room roared encouragement, clapping in time to urge the dancers on. Halt and Horace exchanged a glance, then Halt nodded his head toward a table at the rear of the room. They moved to it. Will, of course, ignored their entry. Only one or two of the people in the room seemed to notice them. The rest were engrossed in the music and the dancing.

But the innkeeper noticed the two new arrivals—it was his business to notice such things, after all. Before too long, a serving girl made her way through the customers to their table. Halt ordered coffee and lamb stew for them both, and she nodded, sliding away with the skill of long practice through the packed customers.

Will crashed out the final chord of the song, and the two dancers slumped, exhausted, onto their benches. At Halt’s suggestion, he had discarded the distinctive mottled Ranger’s cloak when he left their camp, wearing a long, thick woolen outercoat instead. By the same token, he had left his bow and quiver behind and unclipped his throwing knife and sheath from the double scabbard arrangement at his belt, leaving the larger saxe knife in a single scabbard. The throwing knife had gone into a sheath sewn inside his jerkin, under the left arm. Some years earlier, Will had experimented with a sheath sewn into the back collar of his jerkin, with near disastrous results.

Halt, of course, wore his normal Ranger’s outfit and carried his bow. There was nothing significant about that in a countryside where everyone seemed primed for trouble. The mottled appearance of the cloak might be a little unusual, but even so, he had the appearance of a woodsman or farmer. Horace wore a plain leather jacket over his leggings and boots, with his sword and dagger in a belt around his waist. He wore a cloak, of course, to keep out the biting cold of the wind. But unlike Halt’s, it had no cowl. Instead, he wore a close-fitting wool cap, pulled down over his ears. He wore no armor or insignia of any kind. To outward appearances, he was a simple man-at-arms.

As a result of these varied costumes, there was nothing to connect the two newcomers to the foreign minstrel who had arrived earlier in the evening. And with Halt’s carefully renewed Hibernian accent, they didn’t even appear to be foreign.

Their food arrived, and the coffee, and they fell to eating. Over the years he had known the young warrior, Halt had become more or less accustomed to Horace’s prodigious appetite. He spooned the savory lamb and potato stew into his mouth, using the thick slice of bread that came with it to mop up the juice. Finishing his own bread, Horace noticed the half slice remaining in front of Halt and reached for it.

“You going to eat that?”

“Yes. Hands off.”

Horace was about to protest, but a warning shake of Halt’s head stopped him. He realized that Halt, while maintaining the appearance of eating his meal, was eavesdropping on the other diners. With the music halted temporarily while Will took a break, a babble of conversation had broken out around the room.

There were three men seated at the next table. Villagers, by the look of them. Probably tradesmen, Horace thought. He could see them while Halt, with his back to them, was much closer and in a better position to hear what they were saying. Not that it was too difficult to do that. With the level of background noise in the hot, smoky room, they had to raise their voices to be heard.

“A bad business is what I’ve heard tell,” a bald man was saying. From the flour that coated the front of his shirt, Horace guessed he was either the local miller or baker. He caught another warning head shake from Halt and realized that he was staring at the next table. Hastily, he looked down at his plate just as Halt slid the crust of bread across the table toward him. Smiling, Horace took it and began to make a show of wiping the remains of his meal from the plate with it.

“Four killed, so I’ve heard. A terrible thing. My wife’s brother was there just three days gone. Happen he’d been there yesterday, he could be among the dead now.”