It seemed the young lady had been visiting her grandmother, having taken a basket of pies and fruit for the old woman. It was a fine story, but both the officer and I knew she had detoured to
meet some young suitor. The officer waited while Petra removed herself to her room to dress, but when she returned his cloak he bowed and left to resume his duties. After he had gone I asked Bellin if he could supply directions back to the inn where I had purchased lodgings. When I named the place he guffawed.
‘You cannot stay in such a cockroach-infested hovel,’ he insisted and offered me, free of charge, his best guest-room, slipping two gold coins into my hand as he ushered me through the main drinking hall. I am ashamed to say that I did not even make a polite attempt to refuse either. But then times were hard in Ziraccu.
The room was low-ceilinged and boasted two windows, one narrow and leaded, the other large and leading to a small balcony. The bed was softer than I liked, but the mattress was thick and clean. There was a table, four leather covered chairs, and a stool set before the stone fireplace. A fire had been recently lit, and the room was still cold. I sat down upon the stool and sipped a goblet of fine wine.
These lodgings were far better than those for which I had paid. Banking the fire, which by now had fulfilled its purpose and warmed the room, I took off my coat and undershirt, laying them carefully upon the back of a chair. The boots, complete with the wedding silver and the two gold coins, I left under the bed.
All in all it had been a fine day. It was not often that a bard was treated like a hero and, though I find compliments embarrassing, I am forced to admit that I enjoyed the praise. There was a little guilt also, for it was not I but Jarek Mace who had saved the girl. But I consoled myself with the thought that it was I, Owen Odell, who had first rushed to her rescue.
A copper warming-pan had been left in the bed. I removed it, slid under the heavy blankets and closed my eyes, seeing again the tall man leaping to our aid. I have seen many troupes of dancers in my life, yet rarely have I watched so graceful a human being. He had moved with great economy, always in balance, his confident skills wondrously displayed.
I pictured him again in my mind. Somewhat above six feet tall, wearing a common soldier’s jerkin of dark leather and beneath it a white blouse with puffed sleeves, slashed with . . . silk? Probably. But his dark leggings were of cheap wool, frayed at the knee, and his boots were those of a cavalryman. You know the old style, worn high over the knee to protect the rider, but folded down when afoot. Expensive boots.
A curious mixture, to be sure! But could I make a song of it? The hero bard and the wolfshead swordsman.
I doubted it, for there was no suitable ending. The swordsman had not fallen in love with the girl, and the tale was too swift in the telling.
Snuggling down, I slept without dreams until somewhere close to dawn.
I was awakened by a hand that closed over my mouth. ‘Do not cry out, goat-face, or I shall slit your throat!’ The hand moved away from my mouth, but I felt the point of a dagger against my neck. The room was dark and I could see nothing save a black silhouette above me. ‘What do you want?’ I managed to ask.
•The gold. Where is it?’ Gold? What are you talking about?’ Don’t bandy words with me! I rescued the wench, the reward should be mine. ’Jarek Mace?’ You know me?’ asked the man, surprised. Stepping back from she bed, he opened a tinder-box and struck his flint. Flames sprang up within the iron box. Lighting a taper from them, he moved to the three lanterns hanging upon the whitewashed walls. Soon the room was bathed in light and I sat up, watching him. He was wide-shouldered yet narrow of hip, long-legged and – as I have said -exceedingly graceful in his movements. His hair was light brown,worn long to the shoulder but cropped above the eyes. There was nothing special about the shape of his head, or his eyes or mouth, yet the combination of his features created a remarkably hand-some face. Turning back to the bed he grinned, and such was the power of the smile that I returned it. Pulling up a chair he sat beside me. ‘I have seen you before,’ he announced. ‘You do magicker’s tricks and tell stories.’Thus was my life described – and irritation began to grow within me. I had been called goat-face and my skills, which I had given some fifteen of my twenty-five years to learn, had been dismissed in one short sentence.