Below the corpse was a hawking glove, lovingly made and decorated with fine white beads. Urine from the corpse had dripped upon it, staining the hide.
3
THF OXEN FOUND pulling the wide wagon too difficult over the narrow deer trails to Gwalch’s cabin, so Tovi was forced to take the long route, down into the valley and up over the rocky roads once used by the Lowland miners when there was still a plentiful supply of coal to be found on the open hillsides. The baker had set off just after dawn. He always enjoyed these quarterly trips into Citadel town. Gwalch was an amusing, if irritating, companion, but the money they shared from their partnership helped Tovi to maintain a pleasant and comfortable lifestyle. Gwalch made honey mead of the finest quality, and much of it was shipped to the south at vastly inflated prices.
One of the oxen slipped on the rocky shale. ‘Ho there, Flaxen! Concentrate now, girl!’ shouted Tovi. The wagon lurched on, the empty barrels in the back clunking against one another. Tovi took a deep sniff of the mountain air, blowing cool over High Druin. At the top of the rise he halted the oxen, allowing them a breather before attempting the last climb into the forest. Tovi applied the brake, then swung to stare out over the landscape. Many years before he had marched with the Loda men down this long road. They were singing, he recalled; they had met the Pallides warriors down there by the fork in the stream. Seven thousand men—even before the Farlain warriors had joined them.
All dead now. Well … most of them anyway. Gwalch had been there. Fifty years old and straight as a long staff. The King had been mounted on a fine Southern horse, his bonnet adorned with a long eagle feather. Every inch a warrior he looked. But he had no real heart for it. Tovi hawked and spat, remembering the moment when the King fled the field leaving them to stand and die.
‘Blood doesn’t always run true,’ he said softly. ‘Heroes sire cowards, and cowards can sire kings.’
The air was crisp, the wind beginning to bite as Tovi wrapped his
cloak across his chest. Didn’t feel the wind back then, he thought. I did a week later, though, as I fled from the hunters, crawling through the bracken, wading the streams, hiding in shallow caves, starving and cold. God’s bones, I felt it then!
High above him two eagles were flying the thermals, safe from the thoughts and arrows of men. Tovi released the brake and flicked the reins over the backs of the oxen. ‘On now, my lads!’ he called. ‘It’s an easier trip down for a while.’
Within the hour he arrived at Gwalch’s cabin. The old man was sitting outside in the sunshine with a cup of mead in his hands. There were three horsemen close by, two grim-faced soldiers still sitting their saddles, and a cleric who was standing before the old man, arguing and gesticulating. The soldiers looked bored and cold, Tovi thought. The cleric was a man he recognized: Andolph the Census Taker, a small, fat individual with ginger hair and a face as white as Tovi’s baking flour.
‘It is not acceptable!’ Tovi heard the cleric shout. ‘And you could be in serious trouble. I don’t know why I try to deal fairly with you Highlanders. You are a constant nuisance.’
Tovi halted the wagon and climbed down. ‘Might I be of service, Census Taker?’ he enquired. Andolph stepped back from the grinning Gwalch. ‘I take it you know this man?’
‘Indeed I do. He is an old friend. What is the problem?’
Andolph sighed theatrically. ‘As you know, the new law states that all men must have surnames that give them individuality. It is no longer enough to be Dirk, son of Dirk. Gods, man, there are hundreds of those. It is not difficult, surely, therefore to find a name that would suffice. But not this old fool. Oh no! I am trying to be reasonable, Baker, and he will not have it. Look at this!’ The little man stepped forward and thrust a long sheet of paper towards Tovi. The baker took it, read what was written there, and laughed aloud.