I shook my head. I had been walking beside the carriage, a respite from the spine-crunching jolts, and saw no reason to give that up.
"Yeah, ye’d better be gettin’ yer ass back in." Ison shifted the heavy iron pike in his hands. For most of the trip it had been at hand beside him, but now he held it at arms.
Perhaps they expected trouble? I touched Geldswan, which I now wore openly. Its appearance brought no comment from my guard, other than a comment by Charles that I was wearing it on the wrong side. I restrained from showing him that my sword hand is sinister.
"See here." James leaned forward. "Ye jest can’t walk into the castle like a wanderin’ beggar. A man uf yer station needs to go in respectfully."
I looked sideways at him and growled. I can still do that; the old lord did not force me into complete silence.
"Yer an obstinate bastard," he chuckled.
My hands flew briskly, though he could not read them. "Do you know more of my parents than I?"
Ison leaned down. "Ye’d best not do that here. These mountain fold live by the Badlands, and they know all ‘bout wizards. They’ll say yer puttin’ a curse on ‘em. Get inta the carriage now – we’re almost on Krast."
Ten years and a lifetime before, I would have taken insult at this command, and tested his iron against my steel. As a true Bard, with the harp tattooed on the back of my hand, no one would have thought to dictation to me like that – but a burned gate cannot be locked. Regretfully I climbed back in, and turned my face to the window.
In the refuge of my mind, a dismal ballad took shape. There was the usual murder and mayhem, treachery between false friends, and jolting horseback rides through the soggy brown leaves of late fall. That I would never sing the words did not stop them from forming.
Charles slapped my knee, and when I turned to look, he held his hands a arm’s length apart. "Those rats had tails two feet long!"
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