Roger Taylor - Farnor

‘You seem very sure about the old man,’ Dessane said, a faltering rearguard.

Nilsson smiled. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘As far as I could understand him, he seemed to think we were some kind of king’s men.’ He searched for Gryss’s words. ‘Gather-ers, that’s it. Tithe gatherers he called us. You speak the language better than I do. What are they, do you think?’

Dessane thought for a moment, brow furrowed, then he chuckled, relieved to be standing with his captain instead of against him. ‘They’re tax collectors, by the sound of it,’ he said. His chuckle became a low laugh. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it. They think we’re tax collectors.’

Nilsson snapped his fingers. ‘That’s why that crowd was waiting in the village.’

‘And looking so miserable.’ Dessane laughed mali-ciously.

Nilsson clapped his lieutenant on the back, the ten-sion between them gone. The two men’s laughter floated up into the bright sky, twisting around the thin columns of smoke rising from the dead torches.

Gryss called at the farm as Garren had asked. He had little to say. ‘They don’t look any better by torchlight than they did by daylight,’ he said. ‘But those I saw were in a poor way. In need of rest and good food, I’d judge.’

‘Shouldn’t they have had enough supplies to come this far?’ Garren asked.

Gryss shrugged. ‘One would think so, but perhaps they’ve had problems. The Captain did say they’d got themselves lost. Understandable, I suppose, after all this time. There’ll certainly be no one alive who could remember the way since the last time the tithe was gathered. Although, to be honest, I think he’s a harsh one. I certainly wouldn’t like to try knocks with him. He’s probably been driving them too hard.’

‘You did say they were foreigners,’ Garren said. Necessarily, that comprehensively explained many evils.

Farnor surreptitiously hugged himself as these reve-lations and speculations fed off one another, though he would have preferred to have been without the chilly note that filled Gryss’s voice when he spoke of the Captain.

‘Where do you think they come from?’ he ventured. ‘And why would the King use foreigners as gatherers?’

Once again Gryss shrugged. ‘Anywhere, and he alone knows, are the best answers I can give you, Farnor. We might find out in time, I suppose, but my main concern now is to have the tithe agreed and get them out of here.’ He sighed. ‘Though they’ll have to stay for a few days at least. They’ve got some very tired men there.’

Katrin entered the room, her fingers threaded through the handles of four cups. Gingerly the men unhooked them. A savoury smell filled the room. Gryss sipped his noisily and then patted his stomach.

‘Splendid, Katrin,’ he said. ‘It’s a clear night out there and chillier than you’d think. And the company so far’s not been too warming.’ He became businesslike. ‘I think it’d be a good idea to take some food to them as soon as possible. Be friendly, but not too friendly. Just enough to get them on their feet and to get us a good deal, but not so much that they’ll remember us next year.

He laughed. ‘Better not give them any of this, though, Katrin,’ he said, holding his cup up like a formal toast. ‘Or they’ll never leave.’

Katrin gave him a knowing look and raised a finger to rebuke him for such foolishness.

‘Pity about Dalmas,’ Farnor slipped into the easy silence.

The others nodded. ‘I think I’m about used to the idea now,’ Gryss said sadly. ‘When this is over, we’ll have to see if there’s anything else we can do. It’d be a shame to lose the whole celebration.’

There was a short debate about what could be done, and how, but the day had been long and, filled with his mother’s warm drink, Farnor found himself falling asleep. He jerked himself awake a couple of times, then finally had to concede defeat and retire to bed after being awakened by Gryss and his parents laughing when he almost fell out of his chair.

In bed, he lay, half awake, half dozing, for some time, basking in the steady rumble of the voices percolating through his bedroom floor. I must remember to ask what they were talking about in the morning, he thought, as he turned over, relishing his growing adult privileges from the childish security of his familiar bed.

Gradually he sank deeper and deeper into a luxuri-ous drowsiness, his thoughts pursuing their own strange, incoherent ways and he happening upon them from time to time and thinking he understood where they were going. From nowhere, his mother and father and Gryss flowed into this meandering stream and he felt their thoughts and hopes and fears with extraordi-nary vividness. Instinctively, he reached out to cherish the love and to soothe the pains.

Then, as on the hillock, he jerked violently. The impact left him winded and shaking and wide awake.

He swore, and twitched his right leg once or twice, deeming it to be that limb which had offended, then he turned on to his back, and flopped down into the pillow again.

As the small noises of this upheaval faded, he real-ized that no sound was coming from down below. The room, in fact the whole house, was silent. For a moment, ominous shadows began to form at the edge of his awareness, but, almost immediately, they were scattered as his mother’s laugh suddenly rose up to reassure him. It was closely followed by echoing laughter from Gryss and his father. The sounds merged and peaked a few times and then drifted back into their steady drone.

Farnor turned over and went to sleep immediately.

‘Dalmas stayabed, young man,’ was Gryss’s greeting as Farnor entered the kitchen the next morning. ‘Your father’s gone to collect some of my medicines and food for our guests. Would you like to come with me to the castle when he gets back?’

‘Jobs and then breakfast first, Dalmas or no,’ Katrin intervened. ‘Then he can go if he wants.’ She wielded a large spoon like a judicial sceptre.

Both men bowed to this higher authority.

A little later, Farnor and Gryss were sitting on one of Garren’s carts and being drawn steadily along the remains of the castle road by Garren’s old mare. Much of the vegetation that had overgrown the road had been trampled by the riders the previous night, but twice Farnor had to jump down and lead the animal as the unevenness of the neglected surface caused her problems.

He complained after the second time but Gryss shut him up. ‘Don’t mention anything about the state of this road,’ he said. ‘For all I know it might be our job to look after it.’

‘Why? We don’t need it,’ Farnor protested. ‘If they want it, they should…’

‘Never mind,’ Gryss interrupted firmly. ‘Just do as I say. Paying tithes and the like is bad enough, but there’s all sorts of queer things can happen when you start getting involved in the affairs of folks from over the hill, and I’d prefer you didn’t go giving them any ideas. You just look and listen when we get to the castle and keep a guard on your tongue. There’ll be bargains to be struck soon, and the more we know, the better.’

Though quietly spoken, there was an authority in this instruction that was not to be argued with. Farnor nodded and urged the mare on.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. The soft clop of the horse’s hooves, the creaking of harness, the muffled rumble of the wheels and the swaying rhythm of the cart conspired with the warm sunshine and the scents of the valley to lull both passenger and driver into as deep a state of relaxation as is possible short of actually falling asleep.

Farnor scarcely noticed when they passed beyond the point where, but days earlier, he would have considered his world as ending.