Not long after his return, Rap was ambling the high hills upon a gray gelding named Bluebottle while three large, tangle-haired dogs bounded along at his side. He was wearing beige leather trousers that he had purchased in the spring. Their many patched patches bespoke a long history of previous owners, but they were very comfortable, and he regretted that his ankles were already growing out of them. He carried a shirt tucked in his belt on one side and a lunch poke on the other. Earlier there had been rain to give the world a clean, fresh smell, but now the sun smiled from a cloudless sky, the wind played lazily in the grasses, and a curlew wailed its mournful cry.
Dull! Almost he could have hoped for a wolf or two coming after a lamb or a calf or a long-legged foal, but wolves normally found easier pickings in the summer among the coneys and mice. And even wolves were not very exciting—the dogs took care of them, upon request.
That day Rap was minding the horses. They were not quite so idiotic as the cattle, but their leader was a stallion named Firedragon who had a driving ambition to keep his herd as large as possible. He objected mightily to having its members conscripted and driven off to take their turns at wagon duty. He was willing to forget about the hay crops in the name of freedom, dreaming of some promised land to the south, beyond the reach of men, to which he was determined to lead his people. These tendencies, also, it was Rap’s job to discourage, with the enthusiastic but muddled assistance of his dogs.
The morning had been spent, therefore, in maneuvers, with Firedragon seeking a breakout to the south and Rap persistently cutting him off. At noon the game was postponed for some serious grazing and rolling, and Rap was then able to start thinking about lunch. His viewpoint looked down upon the highway, and it was then he observed a solitary traveler in obvious trouble. Having confirmed that Firedragon had temporarily suspended his planned migration—being presently more interested in one of the mares—Rap pointed Bluebottle down the hill and went off to assist. On the way he donned his shirt to be respectable for human company. The highway was a barely visible track through the hills, here following a winding valley marked at long intervals by the graves of some who had tried to follow the trail in winter, but otherwise barren of any other sign of mankind. Plodding upon it was the traveler. Some way ahead of him, a saddled horse methodically cropped the grass. Every few minutes it would wander a few steps and return to eating, but those few steps were deceptively effective. The gap between quarry and pursuer was growing no narrower. It certainly never would, unless the horse was unlucky enough to catch its reins in a bush. There were very few bushes. The wayfarer noted Rap’s approach and stopped to wait for him, undoubtedly with relief. He flinched as the dogs bounded up, but once they had sniffed him thoroughly and decided that he was not a wolf in minstrel’s clothing, they wandered off to inspect the scents upon the road.
Jalon was garbed in the same brown cloak and oversize doublet he had worn when Rap challenged him at the palace gate, and the same baggy hose.
“You are a welcome sight, young man!”
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.