‘Here and there,’ the other shrugged, nodded. He was swarthy as smoke-grimed leather, wrinkled as a walnut from extremes of weather, lean as a wolf. Not young by any standards, still his hair was shiny black, his eyes too, and he seemed to have all of his teeth. But he moved his limbs carefully and his hands were very crooked. ‘I’d be doing it still if my bones hadn’t started to seize up. We had a cart of two wheels wrapped in leather, which we’d break down and carry when the way was rough. Upon the cart we took our house and goods along with us: a big tent with rooms, and cooking pots, and tools. We were -we are – Szgany, gypsies, and became Szgany Ferengi when I built this place here.’ He craned his neck and looked up, wide-eyed, at one interior wall of the house. It was a look half respectful, half fearful. There was no window but the Wallach knew that the old man stared up at the mountain peaks.
‘Szgany Ferengi?’ Thibor repeated. ‘You ally yourself to the Boyar Ferenczy in his castle, then?’
The old gypsy lowered his eyes from the unseen heights, drew back a little, took on a suspicious look. Thibor quickly poured him more of his own brandy. The other remained silent and the Wallach shrugged. ‘No matter, it’s just that I’ve heard good things of him,’ he lied. ‘My father knew him, once . . .’
‘Indeed!’ the old man’s eyes widened.
Thibor nodded. ‘One cold winter, the Ferenczy gave him shelter in his castle. My father told me, if ever I passed this way, I should go up and remind the Boyar of that time, and thank him on behalf of my father.’
The old man stared at Thibor for long moments. ‘So, you’ve heard good things of our master, have you? From your father, eh? And you were born under the mountains . . .’
‘Is something strange?’ Thibor raised a dark eyebrow.
The other looked him up and down. ‘You’re a big man,’ he said, grudgingly, ‘and strong, I can tell. Also, you look fierce. A Wallach, eh, whose fathers were Ungars? Well, perhaps you are, perhaps you are.’
‘Perhaps I am what?’
‘It’s said,’ the gypsy whispered, drawing closer, ‘that the old Ferengi’s true sons always come home to roost. In the end they come here, seek him out – seek out their father! Would you climb up to see him?’
Thibor put on a look of indecision. He shrugged. ‘I might, if I knew the way. But these cliffs and passes are treacherous.’
‘I know the way.’
‘You’ve been there?’ Thibor tried not to seem too eager.
The old man nodded. ‘Oh, yes, and I could take you. But would you go alone? The Ferengi’s not one for too many visitors.’
Thibor appeared to give it some little thought. ‘I’d want to take two of my friends, at least. In case the way gets rough.’
‘Huh! If these old bones can make it, surely yours can! Just two of them?’
‘For assistance in the steep places.’
Thibor’s host pursed his lips. ‘It would cost you a little something. My time and . . .’
That’s understood,’ the Wallach stopped him.
The gypsy scratched his ear. ‘What do you know of the old Ferengi? What have you heard of him?’
Thibor saw a chance for knowledge. Getting information out of people such as these was like drawing the teeth of a bear! ‘I’ve heard he has a great company of men garrisoned with him, and that his castle is a fastness impenetrable. Because of this he swears no fealty, pays no taxes on his lands, for none may collect it.’
‘Hah! The old gypsy laughed out loud, thumped the bar, poured more brandy. ‘A company of men? Retainers?
Serfs? He has none! A woman or two, perhaps, but no men. Only the wolves guard those passes. As for his castle: it hugs the cliff. One way in – for mere men – and the same way out. Unless some unwary fool leans too far from a window. . .’
As he paused his eyes because suspicious again. ‘And did your father tell you that the Ferengi had men?’