The Lost Stories (34 page)

“Still, he could have drafted them to do the catering at Araluen,” Will said, but Halt shook his head gravely.

“That would have put his own chef's nose out of joint. It's never a wise thing for a king to annoy his chef. Too easy for him to slip something unpleasant into his food and . . .”

In the same instant, they both realized the significance of what they were saying. The King would be here in Redmont at the end of the month—along with other nobles and rulers of several overseas countries.

“What do you think?” Will asked. There was no need for him to spell out his meaning. Their thoughts were attuned.

“I think it's all circumstantial and vague,” said Halt. “But I think you should check it out thoroughly.”

DURING THE NEXT FEW DAYS, WILL CRISSCROSSED THE SURROUNDING countryside, searching for traces of the two foreign wool traders. He asked in nearby hamlets and villages, but the men had not been seen anywhere. He also combed the woods and the forests, in case the two men were camped somewhere in the vicinity. But he found nothing.

After several days, the urgency went out of his search and he began to think that he had overreacted. When he pressed himself to think about it, he could come up with half a dozen plausible explanations for the evidence he had uncovered, none of which involved assassination.

In addition, things at Redmont were becoming increasingly hectic with the arrival of local and overseas dignitaries.

First of these was Erak, Oberjarl of the Skandians. In typical fashion, Erak eschewed traveling overland on horseback but sailed up the Tarbus River in his old wolfship,
Wolfwind.
As he approached the small quay at the outskirts of Wensley Village, his men hoisted a long pennant to the masthead. Will couldn't suppress a grin as he recognized it. It was Evanlyn's—or, more correctly, Princess Cassandra's—personal pennant of a stooping hawk. Erak had flown the banner many years previously, when he had returned Cassandra, with Will, Halt and Horace, to Castle Araluen. Then, he had done it to still any fears in the hearts of Araluens who saw a wolfship so far inland. Now, with a treaty in place for many years, those fears were unlikely.

“We're going to have to get him to return that one of these days,” Halt said to Will as they watched the ship approach.

Will grinned. “Have you ever convinced a Skandian to give anything back?”

Halt shook his head gloomily. Then they stepped down the quay to welcome their old friend and ally, philosophically resigning themselves to the bruised ribs that would result from Erak's enthusiastic greeting.

When he recovered his breath, Will commented on the fact that Erak was yet to adopt the new Heron-class sail plan for his venerable ship. Erak smiled.

“We're both too old to change our ways,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, it does my crew good to have to do some extra rowing. They're getting fat and complacent.”

A few days later, the greeting ceremony was repeated as Seley el'then, Wakir of the Arridi province of Al Shabah, arrived in his turn. Will searched through his entourage for sight of a familiar face.

“Umar isn't coming?” he said, with some disappointment.

Selethen shook his head. “Unfortunately, he's too fond of his desert sands. The prospect of setting foot on a ship was too much for him.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” Will said. Umar and his Bedullin tribe had rescued him from death in the burning desert wastes when he had gone in search of Tug, lost in a sandstorm.

Selethen smiled mischievously. “So was his wife. She was looking forward to a wedding. I fear Umar will suffer for this.”

In all the bustle of settling the Skandians and Arridi into their quarters, the matter of the Toscan wool traders slipped from Will's consciousness until, by chance, he ran into Desmond one afternoon. The head steward beckoned to him as he was making his way through the keep courtyard to attend to a matter of the stabling of the Arridi troops' horses.

“Will!” Desmond said. “I've been meaning to show you something.”

He handed over a piece of paper that had obviously been crumpled into a ball, then unfolded and smoothed out. Will studied it with mild interest. It appeared to be a table plan for a banquet.

Down one side was a series of notes. Will read them, frowning.

Entry. Meal service and speeches. Dance. Departure.
The sight of the word
Speeches
gave him a guilty start. He was really going to have to do something about his own speech, he thought. He looked more closely. There was a small mark beside the word
Dance,
and he studied it for a second or two. He noticed the left-hand side of the plan had been heavily scratched out. He pointed to it.

“What's this?” he asked.

Desmond nodded. “Yes. I wondered about that too. Then I checked and realized we'd changed the plan for that part of the hall when we heard there'd be two shiploads of Skandians. We had to put the Gallican delegation there—they're not fond of our Skandian friends.”

Realization dawned on Will. “This is the seating plan for the wedding feast?” he said, and when Desmond nodded, he added, “Where did it come from?” Even as he asked, he had a sense that he already knew.

“We found it in Robard's room. He had a small bin he used for rubbish. It was under the fallen drape, which was why we didn't notice it. One of the maids found it a day or so later when she was tidying up. She put it aside but forgot to give it to me until yesterday.”

“Why would he have this?” Will asked.

Desmond shrugged casually. “It's not unusual. Even though we'd demoted him, I still used him to help with table planning and seating arrangements.”

Will fingered his chin thoughtfully. In spite of Desmond's reassurance, his suspicions were aroused. He studied the drawing and noticed another small mark, this time between two buttresses on the east wall.

“What's this?” he asked, and Desmond leaned over to look.

He shrugged, his face blank. “No idea,” he said. “Could be just a mark on the paper—a blot or a stain of some kind. It's pretty faint.”

“It's right opposite the bridal table,” Will pointed out. A large rectangle marked the position where the bridal party would be seated on a raised dais. Desmond simply shrugged again. He didn't seem to think that was any cause for alarm. Will tapped the sheet of paper with the back of his hand.

“Let's go and take a look at this spot,” he said, and he strode away toward the keep, Desmond hurrying behind him.

Servants were already at work in the Great Hall, building the raised platform where Cassandra, Horace, Duncan, Will and Alyss would be seated. The scent of fresh-sawn pine filled the air.

Will positioned himself between the two buttresses. They were four meters apart, and as he had noticed, standing there put him directly opposite the platform.

Desmond stood beside him, more than a little curious. “What are you worried about?” he said.

Will gestured toward the half-built platform. “I'm thinking this would be an ideal vantage point if someone wanted to harm the King. Those buttresses would pretty much conceal an attacker from view,” Will replied.

But before he finished the sentence, Desmond was shaking his head. “Not on the day,” he said, pointing to the sketch. “On the day, this area will be packed with people and tables. There'll be at least thirty people who will have a clear view of this point. I think you're imagining things, Will.”

But Will wasn't convinced. “Maybe,” he said. Then he added, “I'll hold on to this sketch if you don't mind.”

Desmond made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Be my guest. Now, if you don't need me any further, I have one or two things to attend to.”

“Just one or two?” Will grinned. He knew the head steward was run off his feet with preparations for the wedding. Desmond rolled his eyes dolefully.

“Make that one or two hundred,” he said.

 

Later that night, Will sat for some time, a mug of coffee gradually going cold beside him, as he studied the rough drawing, trying to make sense of the cryptic marks. A small cross beside the word
Dance
. And another mark, perhaps nothing more than a blemish, against the wall between the buttresses. Desmond was right, he realized. A crossbowman would have no chance of remaining unseen there, with the area packed with happy, noisy guests. Further, even if there was a way he could remain unseen, his view of the platform would be constantly obscured by people coming and going, greeting each other, moving from one table to another, and by a constant procession of servants bringing food and wine.

He checked the copy of the table assignments Desmond had given him and was further reassured. The table set between the buttresses had been reserved for Gundar Hardstriker's crew of sea wolves. With a score of big, excitable Skandians close by, it would be no place to suddenly produce a weapon of any kind.

Feeling a little better about things, he set the seating plan aside and reached for his pen and a clean sheet of paper. Perhaps he should make a start on his speech, he thought.

“Your Majesty, Your Excellency, Your . . .” He paused, not sure what honorific he should use for Erak, Oberjarl of the Skandians. In all the years he'd known Erak, he'd never had to address a formal speech to him. His pen hovered uncertainly and a drop of ink fell onto the paper. He studied it. It was like the mark against the word
Dance,
he thought. Easy enough for a mark like that to happen. He glanced at the seating plan, then back at the embryonic speech. For the life of him, he couldn't remember how he had started the last one. Perhaps that was a good thing, he thought morosely. It couldn't have been too memorable.

He clicked the inkwell top shut and set down the pen. “I'll get on to it tomorrow,” he said aloud. Ebony raised her head and looked at him skeptically. “I will,” he insisted.

Then he rose from the table and went to bed. But there was still the tiniest worm of doubt eating away at his mind and it took him some time to fall asleep.

TWO DAYS LATER, THE MATTER WAS DRIVEN FROM HIS MIND BY the arrival of
Wolfwill.

The elegant ship, with its curving triangular sail hauled in hard against a beam wind, fairly flew up the last stretch of the Tarbus. Word had come ahead of its imminent arrival and there was a large crowd gathered to greet it. Erak, standing next to Will, sighed as he watched the graceful ship approach, a bow wave of white at her forefoot.

“Changing times, young Will,” he said in a lowered tone.

Will glanced up at the massive Oberjarl and saw a look of regret in his eyes. Erak missed the old days of freedom, when he and his crew roamed the world, raiding and stealing and fighting. Will sensed that Erak would love to go back to those times, and to do so in a ship like
Wolfwill.
Much as he professed to love his old square-sailed wolfship, the newer design, with all its speed and grace, was something no true sailor could look upon without envy.

When the ship was less than forty meters from the quay, the onlookers heard a sharp order from the burly figure at the steering oar—Gundar. Sailors moved quickly to obey him and the long, curving boom came quickly down, the wind spilling from the sail as the sail handlers gathered it in and folded it.

At the same time, a banner was unfurled from the mast top: three stylized cherries on a light blue background. The fast-sailing
Wolfwill
had been assigned the longest trip of all, bringing the guest with the greatest distance to travel.

Shigeru, Emperor of Nihon-Ja, had arrived for his friend's wedding.

Although his arrival had been expected for some days, the sight of the banner was concrete proof and the large crowd broke into a chorus of cheering. Then the slight figure of the Emperor himself strode quickly down the main deck of the ship to take a position in the bow, watching as
Wolfwill
ran smoothly up to the quay, the last way falling off her as she reached the timber pilings.

The ship kissed gently against the quay, and the cheering redoubled as Shigeru leapt nimbly over the bulwark and strode up the rough planks, flanked by the commander of his personal bodyguard. The dozen Senshi warriors who made up that bodyguard were caught unawares by the Emperor's impulsive action. They scrambled ashore to follow him, hurriedly forming into two ranks, marching behind him with the peculiar stiff-legged gait of the Senshi.

King Duncan reacted more quickly than they did. Seeing Shigeru leap ashore, he strode quickly forward to meet him. Stopping a few meters short of the Nihon-Jan ruler, Duncan bowed deeply from the waist. A mutter of surprise ran around the assembled Araluens. Most of them had never seen their King bow to any man. Shigeru's eyes twinkled and he bowed in his turn. Being more accustomed to the action, he took his bow even lower than Duncan's. The two rulers stood thus, bent at the waist, eyes down, for several seconds. Then Shigeru spoke.

“I'm not sure about you, Your Majesty, but my back is killing me.”

Duncan smothered a short bark of laughter, then answered in a low tone. “Perhaps we should straighten up, Your Excellency. If we leave it too long, we may never manage it.”

The two leaders stood erect and eyed each other. Duncan, tall and broad shouldered, his rust-colored hair beginning to show gray at the temples and in his beard. Shigeru, clean shaven and much smaller, but with a wiry strength and an irrepressible energy and curiosity.

“Welcome to Araluen,” Duncan said.

Shigeru nodded an acknowledgment. “It's a pleasure I have looked forward to for some time.” Then he looked beyond Duncan and his face lit up with genuine pleasure as he saw a tall figure approaching from the crowd.