Дэйв Дункан - Magic Casement

Rap returned the smile, slid from Bluebottle’s back, and eased his aching legs. “It is a long walk to Pondague, sir.”

“You think perhaps I should ride the horse?”

“It would be quicker.” Obviously Rap had not been recognized, which was not surprising, for men-at-arms did not wander the hills. He unhooked his grub bag from his belt. “I was about to eat, sir, if you would care to join me? Company with lunch would be a rare luxury.”

Jalon glanced at his mount, which was pretending not to be watching but had noticed Bluebottle. “I was going to do the same about an hour ago,” he confessed, “but I forgot that a horse is not a harp, which stays where you put it.” Then his smile turned to alarm as he saw Bluebottle also wandering off in search of lusher nourishment. “Have you not just made the same mistake?”

Rap shook his head. “He’ll come if I call.”

Now Jalon had noticed more and was staring in disbelief. “No saddle? No bridle? No reins?”

His surprise was understandable. Rap squirmed slightly. “It was a wager, sir. Some of the other men bet me that I could not ride herd all day like that. Usually I use saddle and bit, sir. Except for very short journeys.”

The minstrel studied him for a few moments in astonished silence. “You can control a horse without?”

“Most of them.” Rap felt more embarrassed than flattered. It was no great trick, for the horses had known him all their lives.

Jalon frowned. “Then can you call mine over? I have some royal provisions that I shall be happy to share.”

Rap nodded. “That one I can. Sunbeam! Come here!”

Sunbeam raised her head and sent him a look of studied insolence.

“Sunbeam!”

She twisted her ears a few times, bent for a few more mouthfuls to show that she was pleasing herself, and then began to drift toward the men, nibbling as she came.

“They don’t like to be rushed,” Rap explained, but he did not have to call again. In a few moments Sunbeam arrived and nuzzled his hand. He loosened the saddle girths and tied the reins back out of harm’s way. Then he detached the saddlebag and laid it down. He patted Sunbeam’s rump and she wandered off to join Bluebottle.

“Incredible!” Jalon said.

“Sir, the way you sing is incredible. You must allow me a knack for horses.”

Rap thought he had made rather a cute little speech there—for a stableboy—but it had an astonishing effect on Jalon. He started. His mouth opened and closed a few times. He almost seemed to lose color.

“Impossible!” he muttered to himself. “But… you are the one the princess went to!”

Rap did not answer that, but his face must have reacted, for the minstrel at once said, “I beg pardon, lad. I mean no harm.” He knelt to fumble with the saddlebag.

His supplies were certainly more appetizing than Rap’s. One spot being as good as another, the two of them sat down where they were. Jalon laid out a fine lunch of cold pheasant and fresh rolls, wine and cheese and big green pickles, but obviously he had encountered some problem and his eyes kept coming back to Rap’s face.

“Your name is Rap, right?” he asked suddenly. “And you were the guard, also!”

“Yes, sir. I usually work in the stables, not on the gate. You were correct when you said that I must be new to it. You were the first stranger I ever challenged.” He had also been the last. Thosolin had bounced Rap straight back to his post and then bawled him out thoroughly, telling him to stand there and look pretty and challenge nothing short of a gang of armed pirates in future.

“I’m not surprised you work in the stables,” Jalon remarked, licking fingers, “with that kind of ability. Tell me about yourself.”

Rap shrugged. “There is nothing to tell, sir. My parents are dead. I work for the king. I hope to stay in his service and be a man-at-arms one day.”

Jalon shook his head. “I can tell from your face that there is more to it than that. I do not mean to be personal, but your nose does not come from Krasnegar.”

However it was meant, that remark seemed personal to Rap.

“You have brown hair,” the minstrel added thoughtfully. “The Kransegarians are either lighter or darker than you. Even if they are of mixed parentage, they are one or the other. Gray eyes? So your parents came from far away. From Sysanasso, I would guess. You’re a faun.”

“My mother, sir. My father was a jotunn.”

“Tell me!” Jalon chewed a pheasant leg and fixed his strangely dreamy blue eyes on Rap, although there was certainly interest in those eyes at the moment.

Rap did not see that it concerned the man, but Jalon was a friend of the king and was therefore due respect from a servant of the king.

“My father was a raider, sir, one of a crew that roamed far to the south. Slavers. They found good trade selling their captives. My mother was one, but my father took a fancy to her and kept her. Later he settled in Krasnegar and became a net maker.”

Jalon nodded thoughtfully. “Was he captain of the ship?”

Rap shook his head. “Just a crewman, sir.”

“And what happened to him?”

This was none of any minstrel’s business! “He broke his neck.” Rap did not hide his bitterness. Maybe it would shame the man out of his curiosity.

It did not. “How?”

“He fell off the dock one night. Perhaps he was trying to swim, but the harbor was frozen solid—he was drunk. I am not of noble birth, sir!”

Jalon ignored the sarcasm. “It wasn’t him, then.”

He sat in silence for a moment, pondering. Rap wondered what that last remark had meant.

“And your mother, this slave who was not sold with the others… was she the common property of the whole crew, or just of your father?”

“Sir!”

Jalon smiled apologetically and then stretched out to lean on one elbow while he ate. “Put up with me for a moment, friend Rap. I am not good at this sort of thing. I know others who would do it better. But I sense something here… I have traveled widely and I have heard tales and seen sights that you have not. I have been to Sysanasso. It is hot and jungly and unhealthy. Fauns have wide, rather flat noses, and brown skins—browner than yours, mostly—and they have very curly brown hair. So your hair is a compromise.” He grinned. “Or an argument?”

Rap smiled as politely as he could manage and said nothing.

Far away, Firedragon whinnied. Sunbeam replied, and Rap swung around and shouted at her. She seemed to sigh regretfully and went back to grazing.

Jalon was amused. “Fauns have the reputation of being very good with animals.”

“That explains me, then.”

The minstrel nodded. “All the keepers in the imperor’s zoological gardens are fauns. So are many hostlers.”

Rap had talked about fauns with sailors, but he had never heard that before. “What else can you tell me about them, sir?”

Jalon wiped the neck of the bottle and passed it. “They are supposedly peaceful, but dangerous when roused. Wouldn’t be human otherwise, would they?” He smiled. “People like to label people. Jotnar are always said to be big and warlike, but look at me!”

“Yes, sir.” No one could have looked less warlike than this slight, flaxen-haired minstrel.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s understandable, too. I don’t usually mention it in this part of the world, but there’s elf blood in my family. When I’m near Ilrane, of course, I apologize for my jotunn part. I can’t pass as an elf, though.”

Rap had never met an elf. He’d heard they had unusual eyes.

“So there’s nothing wrong with a little outcross!” Jalon said in an unusually firm tone.

“No, sir.” Rap sipped sparingly at the wine. He didn’t care for wine. If there was nothing wrong with being a halfbreed, then why was the minstrel going on and on about it? Perhaps he thought he was putting Rap at ease by mentioning his own elvish descent. “Fauns?” Jalon muttered. “Oh, yes… they have very hairy legs.” He glanced at Rap’s protruding ankles and then grinned at his angry flush. He began musing again, almost to himself. “Krasnegar is a hard place to live, but no worse than Sysanosso, I suspect. How old were you when your father died?”