at a ford to let the horse drink and eat from a nose bag. From one of the bundles in the wagon he produced two meat pies and a flagon of small beer to share with his passenger. He played his archlute again, doing much better on steady ground, but she noticed he was making little use of the extra strings, and when he did the result was not always tuneful. It was a very beautifully crafted instrument, worth more than he would earn in years.
As their journey resumed, Emerald tried again. “What do you do the rest of the time, when you’re not wrestling that lute or following Saxon around?”
He shrugged vaguely. “Odd jobs.”
That was a very terse answer from an air person. Sterner measures were called for.
“Who cuts your hair?”
That alarmed him. “What?”
“All the stable boys I ever met looked like pitchforks in hay season. Your clothes are dirty enough and you remembered not to wash your face this morning, but those fingernails? You don’t stink and scratch. A skilled barber cut your hair. You don’t talk like a hayseed. You’re interested in things a hayseed would not be—Sir Snake, for example.”
He flushed yet again, this time obviously furious. His anger was directed at himself, though, not her. “I wait on table sometimes. Vincent’s very particular about things like fingernails.”
He was lying. She just shook her head.
“And I overhear the gentlefolk talking about things like the Old Blades.”
“Go tell an owl, boy! You said earlier that you’d met Snake, one of the King’s most trusted officers. And ‘Vincent’?—you’re on first-name terms with a man who runs a county?”
“That has nothing to do with…with you.”
“Tell me anyway. All of it.”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Wart said, sounding as if he were trying to talk and keep his teeth clenched at the same time.
“Try me. We have several days to kill.”
He sighed. “I ran away from home when I was ten. I had to. My stepfather drank all the time and beat me. He was going to kill me or cripple me. My name was Wat in those days, Wat Hedgebury. I teamed up with a wandering minstrel. He showed me how to strum a lute. Owain was his name, kindest old man you’d ever hope to meet. I sang a bit and passed the hat for him; I learned to do a little juggling and tumbling and carried his bedroll on the road, so I wasn’t just charity for him. One day we were performing in Firnesse Castle, which isn’t very far from here, and he had a stroke. He died the next day. Baron Grimshank had no use for a minstrel’s apprentice—I was ordered to try another county, and soon. On the other hand, he did fancy Owain’s lute, which was a good one. Owain had told me I could have it, but no one listened when I said so.” Wart grinned ruefully. “I became more than a little cheeky, I’m afraid.”
“Not wise?”
“Very foolish. His lordship did not take kindly to being called a thief to his face. He had a henchman called Thrusk, a great hairy brute, big as a bull. They called him the Marshal, but he was just the thug who did the dirty work, grinding the faces of the poor and downtreading peasants. Grimshank told Thrusk to see me off. Thrusk’s idea of a fond farewell involved a horsewhip. That left me really mad.” Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he added, “So I decided to get my lute back, and that night I broke in.”
“You broke into a castle ?”
“Knew you wouldn’t believe me!”
But she did. He had lied earlier and was telling the truth now. Perhaps he was testing her ability to tell the difference. “I didn’t say I didn’t. I’ll decide whether I believe you when I’ve heard the rest.”
That pleased him. He smirked as he said, “It gets stranger. Firnesse Castle sits on the lip of a cliff—not a very high cliff, but high enough and steep enough that they don’t bother to post guards on that side. There’s no beach, just rocks. Even Baelish raiders could never land a boat there, but at low
As their journey resumed, Emerald tried again. “What do you do the rest of the time, when you’re not wrestling that lute or following Saxon around?”
He shrugged vaguely. “Odd jobs.”
That was a very terse answer from an air person. Sterner measures were called for.
“Who cuts your hair?”
That alarmed him. “What?”
“All the stable boys I ever met looked like pitchforks in hay season. Your clothes are dirty enough and you remembered not to wash your face this morning, but those fingernails? You don’t stink and scratch. A skilled barber cut your hair. You don’t talk like a hayseed. You’re interested in things a hayseed would not be—Sir Snake, for example.”
He flushed yet again, this time obviously furious. His anger was directed at himself, though, not her. “I wait on table sometimes. Vincent’s very particular about things like fingernails.”
He was lying. She just shook her head.
“And I overhear the gentlefolk talking about things like the Old Blades.”
“Go tell an owl, boy! You said earlier that you’d met Snake, one of the King’s most trusted officers. And ‘Vincent’?—you’re on first-name terms with a man who runs a county?”
“That has nothing to do with…with you.”
“Tell me anyway. All of it.”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Wart said, sounding as if he were trying to talk and keep his teeth clenched at the same time.
“Try me. We have several days to kill.”
He sighed. “I ran away from home when I was ten. I had to. My stepfather drank all the time and beat me. He was going to kill me or cripple me. My name was Wat in those days, Wat Hedgebury. I teamed up with a wandering minstrel. He showed me how to strum a lute. Owain was his name, kindest old man you’d ever hope to meet. I sang a bit and passed the hat for him; I learned to do a little juggling and tumbling and carried his bedroll on the road, so I wasn’t just charity for him. One day we were performing in Firnesse Castle, which isn’t very far from here, and he had a stroke. He died the next day. Baron Grimshank had no use for a minstrel’s apprentice—I was ordered to try another county, and soon. On the other hand, he did fancy Owain’s lute, which was a good one. Owain had told me I could have it, but no one listened when I said so.” Wart grinned ruefully. “I became more than a little cheeky, I’m afraid.”
“Not wise?”
“Very foolish. His lordship did not take kindly to being called a thief to his face. He had a henchman called Thrusk, a great hairy brute, big as a bull. They called him the Marshal, but he was just the thug who did the dirty work, grinding the faces of the poor and downtreading peasants. Grimshank told Thrusk to see me off. Thrusk’s idea of a fond farewell involved a horsewhip. That left me really mad.” Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he added, “So I decided to get my lute back, and that night I broke in.”
“You broke into a castle ?”
“Knew you wouldn’t believe me!”
But she did. He had lied earlier and was telling the truth now. Perhaps he was testing her ability to tell the difference. “I didn’t say I didn’t. I’ll decide whether I believe you when I’ve heard the rest.”
That pleased him. He smirked as he said, “It gets stranger. Firnesse Castle sits on the lip of a cliff—not a very high cliff, but high enough and steep enough that they don’t bother to post guards on that side. There’s no beach, just rocks. Even Baelish raiders could never land a boat there, but at low
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