Hawklan sensed this was a sop being thrown to Gister for some reason.
‘But that’s no reason for treating you as we have,’ the Rede continued. ‘Please join me for a meal then we can talk at our leisure and sort out any misunderstand-ings.’
Hawklan accepted the offer gratefully and with a conspicuous show of relief.
‘Go back to your homes,’ said the Rede to the crowd. ‘I’ll find out who these people are, make amends for our discourtesy and do what is necessary.’ His remarks however were largely superfluous, as the people were already drifting away, some talking excitedly, some quietly, and others affecting amused tolerance of the children who had now appeared and were running among them mimicking Uskal’s crouching advance with the sickle and Serian’s mighty kick.
Gister stood alone, fists clenched, irresolute and lowering.
The Rede spoke to him with a barely contained anger. ‘Gister, you know what I think of your ranting and your foolish ideas. I’ll tolerate a lot, but you go too far. You should have more sense. Uskal’s a half-mad dog at best, without you encouraging him.’
Gister burst out. ‘I go too far. I go too far. It’s you who go too far. Consorting with enemies of the King. Helping them evade justice… ’
‘Enough,’ said the Rede, his anger exploding. ‘Or… ’
‘Or what?’ said Gister in a tone that amounted to a sneer. ‘You’ll call a Pentadrol? Talk the enemies of the King to death?’
‘The Pentadrol is for restrained and reasoned argu-ment, Gister. If I thought you were amenable to that I’d call one without hesitation,’ replied the Rede, but as the old man turned away and beckoned him to follow, Hawklan knew that he had lost his argument with Gister. He presumed that the Pentadrol was some form of village forum whose effectiveness Gister had somehow contrived to undermine. What was happening in this country?
The Rede walked carefully up the steps to his resi-dence. He signalled to a young man standing nearby and asked him to attend to the newcomers’ horses.
Hawklan intervened. ‘Thank you, Rede,’ he said. ‘But we must attend to our own horses.’
The old man nodded and smiled knowingly. ‘Of course,’ he said after a moment. ‘Tel-Mindor will show you to the stables.’ He raised his hand and a well-built, loose-limbed figure appeared at the top of the steps. Although the man was probably middle-aged, Hawklan was reminded immediately of Jaldaric and the other High Guards. His carriage showed he was active and vigorous, but there was another quality about him which Hawklan could not readily identify. The man returned Hawklan’s smile of greeting easily, but Hawklan was intrigued. The young man would have made a perfectly adequate guide to the stables, but the Rede obviously wanted someone of his own to accom-pany them. To eavesdrop? To restrain? The man’s movements were unusually fluid and economical and something deep inside Hawklan began to whisper that he was not a man to be assailed lightly. Protection? Probably the most likely reason. Gister and his following did not look like the type of people who would refrain from ambush on moral grounds. Then again maybe the old man was just protecting his political flank from subsequent accusations. In any event, whatever the reason, it showed him to be a man of some discernment, and one worth cultivating.
A little later the three of them joined the Rede in his private rooms where he offered them food and drink. The room was cluttered with papers, documents and all manner of objects which indicated a full, active and acquisitive life. It needed no great powers of observation to see that no woman blessed the Rede’s life and that he had once been a military man. The sheer disorder of the place demonstrated the first, while the second was apparent from the quantities of swords, knives, bows, axes, pieces of armour and countless other military relics that littered the place.
Hawklan noticed that those weapons which were obviously decorative and ceremonial were scattered about indiscriminately, lying on chairs, under tables, idling on shelves or standing sentinel-like in corners, while a handful of others, scarred and bruised in real earnest, were solicitously mounted in cabinets around the walls.
Pride of place seemed to go to a battered helm with a great leering dent spreading down from its crown to just over the left eye. Hawklan’s gaze flickered to the Rede’s forehead in search of a scar, but the man was sitting with his back to the window, and it was difficult to see his face.
‘We ran into Mandrocs on one of the Watch Patrols into Narsindal,’ said the old man, answering the unspoken question and rubbing his head ruefully. The remark seemed to bring back old memories and the rubbing became pensive. ‘It was odd you know. Usually if we saw any at all they’d keep their distance-disap-pear into the mist. But this lot came out of nowhere, went straight for us, and then vanished before we could recover fully. Like skirmishers almost… organized… as if they were practicing on us. I’ve always felt that very strange… ’ He fell silent.
Hawklan watched him for a moment before speak-ing. ‘I thought perhaps you’d been in the Morlider War,’ he said.
The Rede came out of his reverie abruptly. ‘Oh, I was,’ he said. ‘Later on.’ Then tapping his finger on the side of his nose, ‘But I was older and wiser then. Never let anyone get that close again, I can assure you, Hawklan.’
Hawklan’s eyes widened at the sound of his name and Isloman casually rested his hand on his club. Tel-Mindor, sitting near the door, noted the movement and smiled briefly.
Rede Berryn leaned forward. ‘I was a training officer in the High Guards, Hawklan. I can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.’
Hawklan shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed awkwardly.
The Rede picked up a small fruit from a dish by his arm and chuckled as he began to nibble it fastidiously, his eyes watching Hawklan steadily.
‘I think the wisest thing you could say, Hawklan, is "Rede Berryn, I’m the worst spy and the worst actor in the whole world", then perhaps the two of us can talk some sense. Truth for truth.’
Hawklan smiled and nodded his head in acknowl-edgement. ‘I’d prefer it,’ he said. ‘I don’t sit easily with deceit.’
The Rede chuckled. ‘No, you certainly don’t, Hawk-lan. You might be a fighter, but you’ve never been a ranker with an officer to deceive.’ Both he and Tel Mindor laughed loudly but good-naturedly.
As they subsided, Hawklan conceded. ‘You’re right, Rede, I am indeed a poor actor, and I do owe you an apology. But I’m neither spy nor fighter. I’m just a healer.’
The old man looked at him narrowly for a moment, then, stretching his right leg stiffly, he massaged his knee with his hand and rested his foot on a well-worn stool nearby.
‘We’re very near Orthlund here,’ he said. ‘There’ve been tales for years of a great healer, Hawklan, living in some village by the mountains. Even thought of going to see him myself… ’ He paused reflectively then shrugged off his digression. ‘Anyway, I’m inclined to believe you. You’ve got a healer’s way about you, and I’ll trust our little healer’s response to you; he’s a good man, very perceptive.’ Then, almost in spite of himself, he laughed again. ‘Poor lad looked as if he’d met one of the Guardians when you took hold of his hands and he’s quite incapable of anything other than an honest response.’ His laughter subsided and he went on, more seriously, ‘As for you being a fighter and a spy, well you’re no ordinary traveller, that’s for sure. Nor your silent friend here.’ He indicated the watching Isloman. ‘That little charade with Uskal and Gister wouldn’t fool anyone with half an eye for a warrior. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were sorely tempted to use your sword on that oaf’s head at one stage, weren’t you?’ He did not wait for an answer, but patted his knee and eased his foot back down on to the floor. ‘Anyway, I’m not too bothered about that. You’ve got your own reasons for doing what you’re doing and you’d be hard-pressed to hurt Fyorlund much more than it’s hurting itself at the moment.’ His voice was bitter. ‘What’s more to the point is what we’re going to say to the Mathidrin when they arrive.’