Besides, he reflected, it was far better than staying on Lord Murthren’s estates, and watching those he loved be scourged and beaten.
The thought brought memories of his father to mind; he shook them off and hurried after Gar. They dismounted near the keep, and a hostler stepped forward to take their reins. Ian turned to follow the man, but the lieutenant called out, “Nay, lad!” and to Gar, “His lordship will wish to see the boy, too, if he is your apprentice.”
Gar nodded to Ian, but the boy glanced at the horses, worried that he might not be doing his job. “Don’t worry, lad, I’ll treat them well,” the hostler said with a gap-toothed grin. “I’ll leave the currying to you, though.”
“Oh! Yes, sir! Thank you!”
But the man shook his head. “No ‘sir,’ lad—I’m but a serf, and you are a gentleman, or will be.”
Ian swallowed hard, realizing that he had given himself away.
But the hostler hadn’t noticed. “Go along with you, now,” he said, and turned away, leading the horses. Ian turned to follow Gar and the lieutenant; he had to hurry, for they had gone ahead without him, assuming he would follow.
The lieutenant led them up a flight of stairs that curved against the side of the keep; another like it curved down from the landing before the great portal where two soldiers stood on watch. They struck their chests in salute as the lieutenant came up to them; he responded with a nod, and went in through the high, wide doorway.
They came into a large antechamber that seemed very dim after bright sunlight, but Ian could see benches around the walls, arms racked in brackets, and soldiers standing on guard at either side of an inner door, with a third by the stairway. He saluted as the lieutenant passed; the officer responded with a nod and led his guests up the narrow steps that curved to follow the wall of the keep. They passed two landings lighted by arrow-slits, then came into a wide hallway that ended in a large window filled with real glass. Sunlight streamed in, so Ian knew they must have gone a quarter of the way round the keep, and that the window would look out into the bailey, though from the side.
The lieutenant led them down the hall to a door guarded by two footmen. They struck their chests in salute; he responded with a nod. “Announce me to his lordship.”
One of the guards went in and came back a few moments later. “His lordship will see you, Lieutenant.”
They went in, and Ian stopped, staring at the white-haired, white-bearded man in a rich velvet robe who stood bending over a table, frowning down at its surface. A prickling passed over his head and down his back as he realized he was looking at Lord Aran himself, the man about whom stories were whispered between serfs indoors during the long winter evenings, stories that Ian had heard as long as he could remember, stories of mercy and justice and compassion—for serfs! For mere serfs, who were little better than most animals and worse than some, who had no right to expect such gentle treatment but received it anyway. No one knew why, but it was whispered that in his youth, Lord Aran had been in love with a beautiful serf who had died bearing him a child, and it was for her sake that he treated all his serfs as he had wished to treat her. Ian wondered if love could really make so huge a change in a man.
The old lord looked up. “Yes, and who is this, Lieutenant?”
“He is a freelance, my lord—Captain Gar Pike and his apprentice Ian Tobinson, who wish to serve with you.”
“Serve with me!” The old lord swung to Gar, frowning. “Die with me, you mean! Are you ready for that, gentleman?”
“If we must,” Gar said, with a ghost of a smile. “But I would rather fight for you, my lord, and gain a victory.”
“Victory!” The old lord slapped a hand on the table. “Come, look at this map and tell me the odds of victory!”
“I can tell you that from having ridden in, milord.” But Gar came to the table and looked down at the chart. He pointed with a finger. “We halted awhile on this height, and I saw that it is a mile from your castle. Nothing but a cannon or an energy projector could reach you here.”
The lord looked up sharply. “What know you of cannon and energy projectors?”
“I have fired cannon, and know them well. As to energy projectors, I know only what I have heard from officers who have survived them—or used them. They are said to throw lightning bolts for ten miles and more; cannon can hurl huge balls of lead at least as far.”
“True, so far as it goes.” The lord nodded. “And those weapons are, of course, the ones that I fear—those, and the flying boats that can hurl lightning at us from the skies.”
“Flying boats?” Gar looked up, interested. “So the tales are true! But have you no concern about floating boats, milord?”
“Not greatly,” Lord Aran said. “Even a catapult could sink one, and I have cannon of my own.”
“Then what need to fear those of other lords?”
“Because cannon require gunpowder and leaden balls, young man, and projectors require energy. Those who besiege us may make as many of either as they wish, but we must make do with what we have within our walls.”
Gar frowned down at the map. “How long will those endure?”
“Perhaps three months—perhaps less,” the old lord said heavily.
Gar nodded. “Then we must break the siege at once, while we still have the ammunition to do it.”
“And how shall you do that?” The old lord scowled.
“Why, by breaking their projectors and cannon.” Gar grinned. “From what I have heard, they cannot make more.”
The old lord just stared at him a moment, then slowly smiled. “Aye, they cannot. But how shall you break their pieces, young gentleman?”
“By very well-placed shots with cannon of your own, milord—or by small raiding parties who shall go by night with hammers and axes.”
Lord Aran’s smile stayed, even though he said, “It will take somewhat more than hammers and axes, Captain, and they who do the deed are like to die in the trying—but you give me hope. Yes, just the faintest glimmer—we may yet survive.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Give him a coat of my cloth, my shilling for his pouch, and a troop of serfs to train.” He turned back to Gar. “I know not what imp of perversity urges you to join with us, young gentleman, but I am glad of it.”
Ian knew the name of that imp, though—Master Oswald.
They came back out into the courtyard, and Ian halted, amazed. The huge space seemed somehow dwarfed, for it was filled with a churning mob and a roaring of noise. Mothers called after their children, men yelled to one another, cattle bawled, sheep and goats bleated. Every serf on the estate must have been within those walls—or on his way; looking up, Ian saw that soldiers were hurrying new arrivals out of the way, so that more could stream in through the gatehouse tunnel.
“Lord Aran is serious,” Gar said, gazing out over the mass of people. “The siege will begin soon.”
“Not today,” the lieutenant said grimly, “but the lords may well begin to move tomorrow. We must get this horde sorted out and bedded down before the enemy arrives at our walls.” He called back through the doorway. “Corporal!”
A young man came out and saluted. “Sir!”
“This is Captain Pike,” the officer said. “Conduct him and his apprentice to the barracks, then bring him to me; I’ll be by the gate.” He turned back to Gar. “Be as quick as you can; we will need your help in sorting out this mob.”
“Why, then, I’ll come now,” Gar said, and turned to the corporal. “Show my apprentice where we’ll be quartered, then take him to the stables. He’ll take our saddlebags to the barracks, and he can show me there himself when the day’s done.” He turned back to Ian. “Curry the horse and pony first, lad, then stow the saddlebags. After that, go about where you may and make yourself useful. Good enough?”