But he would have to tell Gird, he argued to himself. It would not be honest to do otherwise. Although it would be important to pick exactly the right time to tell Gird—when the Marshal-General was in the right mood, when he had no pressing worries, when they had ample time to discuss it. From experience, he knew the first few days back in Fin Panir would be a chaotic jumble of work. It might easily be a hand of days, or two, before he could find time to tell Gird about something which, after all, was of no practical importance to the Fellowship.
“Luap . . . sir?” Luap glanced up to see a strange yeoman in the doorway, twisting his conical straw hat in his hand. “It’s about Gird. . . .”
Luap realized he had not heard anything from the other end of the corridor for a long time. He had been working steadily through the mass of accounts and correspondence that had, as he expected, kept him at his desk every day since his return. Gird had been out much of the time, busy with court work. Now his heart faltered—had Gird died? But the man was already speaking, concern overcoming nervousness.
“He come in for a meal like he does so often,” the man said. “And then he sees this old friend from back at Burry or some-such place. And they gets to talking and taking a bit of ale, you know. . . .” His voice trailed away. He didn’t want to say it. Luap sighed.
“You’d like someone to help him home?” he asked.
The man nodded. “This friend, see, he’s eggin’ him on, like, and Gird won’t listen to the innkeeper or even the cook. . . .”
Luap realized that he’d seen the man before after all. He worked in the stables at the largest inn down by the lower market. He groaned inwardly. It was going to be a hard job getting Gird back up the hill. “Do you have a spare room, perhaps?” he asked.
“Well . . . I suppose maybe, but after what he called the innkeeper . . .”
“I’ll come now,” said Luap, standing. Whom could he call? He’d need more arms than two, if Gird had drunk his fill. He flung his blue cloak around him, and took the stout stick that had become a Marshal’s insignia, though all knew he was no Marshal. A glance out the window of the room across the corridor located Marshal Sterin, and a yell brought him in, sweaty and cross from drilling novices.
“Gird?” he said. “What’s the Marshal-General want now?”
“A friend’s help to come home,” said Luap. “He’s down at the Rock and Spring.”
“Ahh . . .” Sterin cut off whatever he’d almost said, with a glance at the man from the inn. “Met an old friend, did he?”
“From Burry, this man thinks. Got to talking about the war—”
“I see. We’ll need another, and it can’t be a novice. Too bad Cob’s not here. Tamis Redbeard?”
“Good,” said Luap. Tamis Redbeard stood a hand taller than he did, and could probably lift Gird in one hand. If he wasn’t fighting back.
They could hear Gird and someone else before they came in sight of the inn. Singing, none too melodiously, one of the songs written after Greenfields. A small crowd loitered outside the inn, a few lucky ones close enough to peer in the windows. It parted like butter before a hot knife, then flowed back as seamlessly, as Luap led the others through the door.
The man from Burry, or wherever, had one arm around a post, and one around Gird’s shoulders. He had reached the green stage; Luap thought he would vomit in a moment or two. Gird had still the flush of early drunkenness, a red rim to each eye and a glitter in them.
“Marshal-General, we’ve need of you up the hill,” Luap began. It wouldn’t work, but he could start with respect and good sense.
“No court today,” said Gird, head thrust forward. He belched, grinned at his companion. “So we’re just taking a bit of ale, like, and singing the old songs. No harm in that. Everybody’s got to have some time—”
“No, it’s not court,” Luap said. “It’s something else.”
“I know,” said the other man, slurring the words. “You think we’re drunk and ye’ve come to nursemaid th’ old man.” Luap glared at him; that would end any chance of Gird cooperating. Gird glowered, first at his companion and then at Luap.
“Is that what it is, you think I need a keeper?”
“No, sir. We’ve need of you, that’s what I said.”
“And you need me so much you brought two Marshals along? Can’t you ever tell the truth, Luap? Did you think I wouldn’t know Sterin and Tamis, big as they are, with their staves?”
Luap gritted his teeth. It was not fair, in front of all these people, and in such a cause. Confront drunks directly and start a brawl—even Gird said that, when he was sober. It wasn’t as if he himself hadn’t used subterfuge on other drunks, from time to time. Rage scoured his mind, eroding the controls he placed so carefully. He opened his mouth, but Sterin was before him.
“Aye, Father Gird, if you’ll have the truth of it, we was told you’d drunk more’n was good for you, and would be the better of friends to bring you home. Yer friend there’s had more’n his fill; he’s green as springtime berries, and the both of ye smell like ye’ve emptied a barrel—”
“Lemme alone,” began the other man, when Sterin reached to unhook his arm from Gird’s shoulder. Then he turned even greener around the mouth, his eyes widened, and he spewed across the floor, then fell headlong in the mess. Sterin had stepped back, not quite in time, and now gave Luap a disgusted glance. He shrugged.
“I’ll get this mess clean,” he said, meaning man and floor both. “You and Tam get the Marshal-General back before he doubles it.” Luap fought down another surge of anger. Sterin was in his rights, as the senior Marshal present, but did he have to make it so obvious that Luap had no right of command?
“Yes, Marshal Sterin,” he heard himself saying, the effort at courtesy clearly audible and destroying the effect he had meant to produce. He and Tam moved around the man from Burry, now struggling to sit up, and moved into position beside Gird. He put his arm under Gird’s elbow, ready to lift or push or whatever would be necessary.
“Let’s go now,” he suggested, in the calm quiet tone that worked best with most drunks. Gird glanced from one to the other.
“I am not drunk.” As always in this state, his words came slow, the peasant accent distinct. “My father wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Your father’s dead these many years.” Luap heaved, as effectively as he might have heaved at a live, deep-rooted oak. “Come on, now, man . . . you’ve got to get back home.”
“No home.” His forehead knotted. “Gone. Went away.”
The other drunk, still pale from throwing up the first wash, tittered weakly. “I’m not that drunk,” he lied. “My home didn’t go away.”
“Shut up,” Luap muttered at the man from Burry. “Sterin—get him away.” He had seen the expression on Gird’s face before, the swift change from hilarity to grim sadness. It had something to do with whatever happened the morning of Greenfields, which Gird would not speak of—but he was more dangerous in this mood than any other. The man from Burry vanished, and in a few moments Sterin reappeared. Luap could feel the tension in Gird’s shoulders, some mingling of rage and sorrow.