Wouldn’t he?
She reached the top of the lane and paused to catch her breath, and also to reconnoiter the courtyard. There was only one gate to the castle and it opened into this cobbled outer court. Now there was no wagon in sight to provide cover, only a few ambling pedestrians. The summer sun was high enough to smile in over the ancient stone walls and brighten the pigeons that strutted around, cleaning up the horse droppings. Relics of winter snow bled quietly to death in corners. A man-at-arms was standing as rigid as his pike beside the gate, with two mangy dogs snuffling aimlessly beside him. Within the big arch of the entrance, nosy old Thosolin would be lurking in his guard room.
It was none of Thosolin’s business, she decided firmly. Whether or not he had the right to stop her going out, he certainly could not stop her coming in. She did not recognize the petrified man-at-arms, but he looked as if he were taking his job unusually seriously and so would not interfere. She squared her shoulders, adjusted the silk below her arm, and began to march.
She had every right to go into the town by herself, and if she chose to do so in shabby old jodhpurs and a leather doublet that might have been thrown out by one of Inisso’s stablehands, well, that was certainly not Thosolin’s business either.
She wondered who the guard on the gate was, he must be somebody new. It was not until she had almost reached the arch that—
He rolled his eyes in alarm and almost dropped his pike. Then he came even more stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, not looking at her. Inosolan bristled angrily.
His cone-shaped helmet was too small, sitting like an oversize egg in the nest of his unruly brown hair. His chain mail was rusty and much too large. His very plain face was turning from brown to pink, showing up his freckles.
“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “I thought you were off on the mainland.”
“I’m just back for a couple of days,” he muttered. His eyes rolled warningly toward the guard room door.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” She put her hands on her hips and inspected him crossly. “You look absurd! Why are you dressed up like that? And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the stables?”
Pudding, the gang had called Rap when they were all small together. He’d had almost no nose then, and not much more now. His face was all chin and mouth and big gray eyes.
“Please, Inos,” he whispered. “I’m on guard duty. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
She tossed her head. “Indeed? I shall speak to Sergeant Thosolin about that.”
Rap never suspected a bluff. “No!” He shot another horrified glance toward the guard room.
He had grown, even in the short time he had been gone, unless it was those stupid boots. He was taller than her now by quite a bit, and the armor made him seem broader and deeper. Perhaps he did not look quite so bad as she had thought at first, but she would not tell him so.
“Explain!” She glared at him.
“A couple of the mares had to come back.” He was trying not to move his lips, staring straight through Inos. “So I brought them. I’m going back with the wagons. Old Hononin had nothing for me to do, with the other ponies away.”
“Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Well, you still aren’t doing anything very much. You will take me riding after lunch. I’ll speak to the sergeant.”
A mixture of fury and stubbornness came over his face, wrinkling his wide nose until she half expected the freckles to start popping off like brown snowflakes. “Don’t you dare!”
“Don’t you speak to me like that!”
“I won’t ever speak to you again!”
They glared at each other for a moment. Rap as a man-at-arms? She remembered now that he had expressed some silly ambition to play with swords. It was an idiotic idea. He was tremendously good with horses. He had a natural gift for them.
“What good do you think you’re doing standing here with that stupid pike? “
“I’m guarding the palace!”
Inos snorted before she remembered again that snorting was not regal. ”From what? Dragons? Sorcerers? Imperial legions?” He was growing very angry now, she was pleased to see, but he made a great effort to answer civilly. “I challenge strangers.” Tommyrot! She suppressed another snort; and there, as if sent by the Gods, a stranger came strolling across the yard toward the gate.
“Right!” Inos said. “Challenge this one.”
Rap bit his lip. “He doesn’t look very dangerous.”
“Challenge! I want to see how it’s done.” He clenched his big jaw angrily. “Stand back, then!” As the stranger drew near, Rap swung his pike to the level, took one pace with his left foot, and demanded loudly, ”Who goes there—fiend or froe?”
The young man stopped, raised his eyebrows, and considered the question. ”You’re new at this, aren’t you?” he asked in a pleasant tenor.
Rap turned very red and said nothing, waiting for an answer. Inos suppressed a snigger, letting just enough escape that Rap would know it was there.
“Well, I’m not a fiend.” The stranger was quite young, slim, and not very tall, but a blond jotunn nonetheless. Anyone less like a fiend Inos could not imagine. He wore a brown wool cloak with the hood back, a leather doublet, and rather baggy brown hose. She decided that his clothes were all too big for him, which made him seem shabbier than he truly was. He was fresh-faced and scrubbed and clean-a point of note in Krasnegar-and the sun blazed on his white-gold hair.
“Definitely I’m not a fiend,” he repeated. “I’m a wandering minstrel, so I suppose I’m either a to or a froe. Yes, I must be a froe.”
“What’s your name, minstrel?” Rap demanded hoarsely.
“My name is Jalon.” But the stranger’s attention had wandered to Inos. He bowed. “And I know who this is. Your humble servant, Highness.”
He had big blue eyes, with a dreamy air that she found quite appealing. On impulse, she held out her hand. He took it in his long minstrel’s fingers and kissed it.
“I saw you when you were very small, Highness.” He had a charming smile. “I knew then that one day you would amaze the world with your beauty. But I see that I underestimated it.” He was a very nice young man.
“If you’re a minstrel, why haven’t you got a harp?” Rap was still holding his pike at the challenge position.
“How long did you see me?” Inos asked. He could not be so very many years older than she was. She could not recall any minstrel so young. Perhaps he had been an apprentice accompanying his master.
He smiled vaguely at her and turned to Rap. “Harps are heavy.” He pulled a pipe from a pocket in his cloak and played a trill.
“Do you sing, too?” Rap was still suspicious.
“Not at the same time,” Jalon said solemnly.
This time the snigger escaped completely, and Rap shot Inos a murderous glare from the corner of his eye.
Jalon did not seem very worried by the pike. “But I do play the harp and there used to be a good one on the mantel in the hall, so I can borrow that again, I’m sure.” He did not seem as if he would be very worried by anything at all-and there certainly was a harp on the mantel.
“Wait here!” Rap put his pike over his shoulder rather clumsily and swung around, stamping his boots and apparently headed for the guard room.
That would not do at all! Inos did not want Sergeant Thosolin, and perhaps others, coming out and seeing her wandering unaccompanied, carrying home her own purchases. “Rap? Should you go off and leave me helpless with this dangerous stranger?” Rap stopped and spun around, almost grinding his teeth.
“And the castle!” she exclaimed. “What if a troll comes, or a griffon? And you’re not here to guard us!”
“You come with me, then!” He was quite furious now.
“No!” Inos said. “I think you should take Master Jalon to the guard room with you if you think he is dangerous. You are welcome in my father’s house, minstrel.” That sounded very gracious and regal.
The stranger smiled and bowed to her again. He strolled toward the guard room with Rap. Inos lingered for a moment, then slipped through the archway, unobserved and very satisfied.
Like the town itself, the castle was all up and down, and she was soon puffing again as she hurried up the endless steps toward her chamber. Halfway there she met old Kondoral, the seneschal, picking his way carefully down an especially dark staircase. He was small and stooped and white-haired, with gray, withered skin and eyes so rheumy that she did not like to look at them . . . but quite a pleasant old relic when he did not talk your ears numb. His memory for recent events was failing. He repeated the same stories endlessly, yet he could remember the remote past quite well.