“And we will see you started in the morning,” Groghe said.
“But we’ve other work to do!” Tortole shouted, outraged.
“I’ve herds to tend,” Sucho bellowed simultaneously.
“I notice that you each have two sons,” Robinton put in. “Strong fellows, and you have the stones to hand. I wonder which of you,
working three to a side, can finish your side first.” “Why, my sons and I …” “My sons and I …”
Tortole and Sucho glared at each other.
“Then we will see just who does win tomorrow, won’t we?” Robinton said as pleasantly as possible, smiling amiably.
“You’ll stay with us,” Sucho said, jerking a thumb at his chest.
“No, they’ll stay with us in a decent cot—’ Tortole replied.
“No!” Robinton’s well-trained bellow silenced them both. “Since Groghe is Fort, he will stay with his holder. And I, not being beholden to either Fort or Tillek, will stay with Tortole. However, if this evening anyone will care for a song or two, I will sit on that post -‘ he pointed to the one still standing, where a gate of sorts must once have been, allowing access from one holding to the other “- and sing for both families. Since a harper is obliged to be impartial.”
Then, before the astonished men could argue further, he swung up on the Ruathan runner and urged it forward, finding a narrow place where the animal could hop easily over the scattered stones.
“Will it be possible to have a wash before dinner?” he asked his appointed host as he paused by him.
Groghe was drawing Sucho with him towards the cot, where several more figures had appeared in the doorway. Groghe was initiating pleasantries, and Robinton heard the grumbles of answers.
“I do hope that we will not put you out for our dinner. We have our own provisions,” Robinton said. “A nice plump wherry that I took off its branch this morning.” He patted the carcass, which he had fastened to the back of his saddle.
“How’d you get it?” one of the sons asked, peering at the beheaded avian.
“Knife throw,” Robinton said indifferently. It wouldn’t hurt to suggest that he was proficient with a blade. He was, but it bore repeating with these rough-living folk. Tortole was taller than he, and massive. His sons, while younger, were no less substantial. It amused him that the herders looked equally able to take care of
themselves, which probably contributed to the stand-off.
“And you a harper?” The son sounded surprised.
“Oh, I have to travel long distances on my own,” Robinton said as they reached the forester’s cot. He nodded pleasantly to the three women who came out, their curiosity getting the better of their shyness.
“Hunting’s necessary from time to time.” He gave a courteous bow to the oldest of the women, dressed in rough skin pants and
clearly embarrassed to have a visitor. “I have begged shelter from your spouse. And bring this to add to the supper pot.” He bowed again as he handed over the wherry.
She opened and closed her mouth several times without getting a sound out.
One of the others took it from her, examining it with a knowledgeable eye, and managed a grin. “Young and fresh. Thanks, Harper.” She nudged the other, who was too surprised to respond to his smiles in any way. “It’ll do just fine. If these louts would do more hunting instead of herding, we’d not take yours from you.” She gave the men a withering smile and then, grabbing the old woman by the arm and prodding the other with the wherry carcass in her hand, she propelled them all into the cot.
“I’ll get the loft ready for you, Harper,” one of the lads said, remembering the duties of hosting.
“I’ll do your mount. Ruathan, isn’t it?” the other said, taking the reins from Robinton’s hand and casting an approving eye over the runner.
“I’ll just … take my things,” Robinton said, slipping open the knot which tied the saddlebags and grabbing them and his gitar.
“You’ll play for us this evening?” the first lad asked, eyes glinting with hope.
“I said I will. And I will. On the post so both -‘ and he paused for emphasis – “can enjoy.”