“And you have brought our missing lamb back to the fold.” Bayaz frowned down at Malacus Quai, motionless on the grass. “How is he?”
“I think he will live, sir,” said Wells, “but we should get him out of the cold.”
The First of the Magi snapped his fingers and a sharp crack echoed from the buildings. “Help him.” The smith hurried forward and took Quai’s feet, and together he and Wells carried the apprentice through the tall door into the library.
“Now, Master Ninefingers, I have called and you have answered, and that shows good manners. Manners might be out of fashion in the North, but I want you to know that I appreciate them. Courtesy should be answered with courtesy, I have always thought. But what’s this now?” The old gatekeeper was hurrying back across the yard, greatly out of breath. “Two visitors in one day? Whatever next?”
“Master Bayaz!” wheezed the gatekeeper, “there’s riders at the gate, well horsed and well armed! They say they’ve an urgent message from the King of the Northmen!”
Bethod. It had to be. The spirits had said he had given himself a golden hat, and who else would have dared to call himself King of the Northmen? Logen swallowed. He’d got away from their last meeting with his life and nothing else, and yet it was better than many had managed, far better.
“Well, master?” asked the gatekeeper, “shall I tell them to be off?”
“Who leads them?”
“A fancy lad with a sour face. Said he’s this King’s son or something.”
“Was it Calder or Scale? They’re both something sour.”
“The younger one, I reckon.”
Calder then, that was something. Either one was bad, but Scale was much the worse. Both together were an experience to be avoided. Bayaz seemed to consider a moment. “Prince Calder may enter, but his men must remain beyond the bridge.”
“Yes sir, beyond the bridge.” The gatekeeper wheezed away. He’d love that, would Calder. Logen was greatly tickled by the thought of the so-called Prince screaming uselessly through that little slot.
“The King of the Northmen now, can you imagine?” Bayaz stared absently off down the valley. “I knew Bethod when he was not so grand. And so did you, eh, Master Ninefingers?”
Logen frowned. He’d known Bethod when he was next to nothing, a little chieftain like so many others. Logen had come for help against the Shanka, and Bethod had given it, at a price. Back then, the price had seemed light, and well worth the paying. Just to fight. To kill a few men. Logen had always found killing easy, and Bethod had seemed a man well worth fighting for—bold, proud, ruthless, venomously ambitious. All qualities that Logen had admired, back then, all qualities he thought he had himself. But time had changed them both, and the price had risen.
“He used to be a better man,” Bayaz was musing, “but crowns sit badly on some people. Do you know his sons?”
“Better than I’d like.”
Bayaz nodded. “They’re absolute shit, aren’t they? And I fear now they will never improve. Imagine that pinhead Scale a king. Ugh!” The wizard shuddered. “It almost makes you want to wish his father a long life. Almost, but not quite.”
The little girl that Logen had seen playing scurried over. She had a chain of yellow flowers in her hands, and she held it up to the old wizard. “I made this,” she said. Logen could hear the rapid pounding of hooves coming up the road.
“For me? How perfectly charming.” Bayaz took the flowers from her. “Excellent work, my dear. The Master Maker himself could not have done better.”
The rider clattered out into the yard, pulled his horse up savagely and swung from the saddle. Calder. The years had been kinder to him than to Logen, that much was clear. He was dressed all in fine blacks trimmed with dark fur. A big red jewel flashed on his finger, the hilt of his sword was set with gold. He’d grown and filled out, half the size of his brother Scale, but a big man still. His pale, proud face was pretty much as Logen remembered though, thin lips twisted in a permanent sneer.
He threw his reins at the woman churning milk then strode briskly across the yard, glowering about him, his long hair flapping in the breeze. When he was about ten strides away he saw Logen. His jaw dropped. Calder took a shocked half step back and his hand twitched towards his sword. Then he smiled a cold little smile.
“So you’ve taken to keeping dogs have you, Bayaz? I’d watch this one. He’s been known to bite his master’s hand.” His lip curled further. “I could put him down for you if you’d like.”
Logen shrugged. Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you’re better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that’s the last thing you want. So Logen said nothing. Calder could take that for weakness if he pleased, and so much the better. Fights might find Logen depressingly often, but he was long, long past looking for them.
Bethod’s second son turned his contempt on the First of the Magi. “My father will be displeased, Bayaz! That my men must wait outside the gate shows little respect!”
“But I have so little, Prince Calder,” said the wizard calmly. “Please don’t be downhearted, though. Your last messenger wasn’t allowed over the bridge, so you see we’re making progress.”
Calder scowled. “Why have you not answered my father’s summons?”
“There are so many demands on my time.” Bayaz held up the chain of flowers. “These don’t make themselves, you know.”
The Prince was not amused. “My father,” he boomed, “Bethod, King of the Northmen, commands you to attend upon him at Carleon!” He cleared his throat. “He will not…” He coughed.
“What?” demanded Bayaz. “Speak up, child!”
“He commands…” The Prince coughed again, spluttered, choked. He put a hand to his throat. The air seemed to have become very still.
“Commands, does he?” Bayaz frowned. “Bring great Juvens back from the land of the dead. He may command me. He alone, and no other.” The frown grew deeper still, and Logen had to resist a strange desire to back away. “You may not. Nor may your father, whatever he calls himself.”
Calder sank slowly to his knees, face twisted, eyes watering. Bayaz looked him up and down. “What solemn attire, did somebody die? Here,” and he tossed the chain of flowers over the Prince’s head. “A little colour may lighten your mood. Tell your father he must come himself. I do not waste my time on fools and younger sons. I am old fashioned in this. I like to talk to the horse’s head, not the horse’s arse. Do you understand me, boy?” Calder was sagging sideways, eyes red and bulging. The First of the Magi waved his hand. “You may go.”
The Prince heaved in a ragged breath, coughed and reeled to his feet, stumbled for his horse and hauled himself up into the saddle with a deal less grace than he had got down. He shot a murderous glance over his shoulder as he made for the gate, but it didn’t have quite the same weight with his face red as a slapped arse. Logen realised he was grinning, wide. It was a long time since he’d enjoyed himself this much.
“I understand that you can speak to the spirits.”
Logen was caught off guard. “Eh?”
“To speak to the spirits.” Bayaz shook his head. “It is a rare gift in these times. How are they?”
“What, the spirits?”
“Yes.”
“Dwindling.”
“Soon they will all sleep, eh? The magic leaks out of the world. That is the set order of things. Over the years my knowledge has grown, and yet my power has diminished.”