As the notes echoed around the warm room, Halt found himself remembering the long summer days in the forest surrounding Castle Redmont, and a small, busy figure who asked endless questions and brought a new feeling of energy and interest to life. In his mind's eye, he could see Will's face-hair tousled by the cowl of his cloak, brown eyes alight and filled with an irrepressible sense of fun. He remembered him as he cared for Tug, remembered the pride the boy had shown at the prospect of having a horse of his own and the special bond that had formed between the two of them.
Perhaps it was because Halt could feel the years encroaching on him as the gray hairs in his beard became more the norm than the exception. But Will had brought a sense of youth and fun and vitality to his life, a sense that was a welcome contrast to the dark and dangerous paths that a Ranger was often required to tread.
He remembered too the pride he had felt when Horace had told him of the way Will took it upon himself to follow the Wargal forces in Celtica, and how the boy had stood alone against the Wargals and Skandians as Evanlyn had worked to make sure the fire took hold of the bridge. There was more to Will than just an irrepressible spirit.
There was courage and ingenuity and loyalty. The boy would have made a truly great Ranger, Halt thought, then abruptly realized that he had thought of Will as if such an eventuality were no longer possible. His eyes moistened with tears and he shifted uncomfortably. It was a long time since Halt had shown any outward sign of emotion. Then he shrugged. Will was worth at least a few tears from a grizzled old wreck like himself, he thought, and made no move to wipe them away. He glanced sideways at Horace to see if the boy had noticed, but Horace was entranced by the music, leaning forward on the bench they shared, his lips slightly parted, one finger beating time unconsciously on the rough tabletop. It was as well, Halt thought, smiling ruefully to himself. It wouldn't do for the boy to see him dissolving into tears at the first sound of sad music. Rangers, particularly treasonous ex-Rangers who had insulted the King, were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.
The music finally ended, to a roar of applause from the people in the room. Halt and Horace joined in enthusiastically and Halt used the moment to covertly dash a hand across his eyes and wipe away the traces of moisture there.
He noticed that the performers were being rewarded by the audience with coins tossed into the hat that had been artfully left, upturned, on the floor beside them. He shoved a couple of coins toward Horace and nodded toward the players.
"Give them these," he said. "They've earned it."
Horace nodded wholehearted agreement and rose to cross the room, ducking his head under the heavy beams that supported the ceiling. He tossed the coins into the cap, the last in the room to do so. The piper looked up, saw an unfamiliar face and nodded his thanks. Then he began to pump the bellows on his pipes with his elbow again, and once more, the haunting voice of the pipes swelled up and began to fill the room.
Horace hesitated, loath to move now that another song had begun.
He glanced back to where Halt sat in the shadows, shrugged and settled onto a tabletop at the edge of the small crowd surrounding the performers.
There was a different tone to this piece. There was a subtle note of triumph in the melody, augmented by the bold major chords struck by the stringed instrument, which came more to the fore for this piece.
Indeed, before too long, the brittle, rippling notes of the gourd-shaped instrument had wrested the lead from the pipes and set toes tapping and hands beating time throughout the room. A delighted smile broke out on Horace's face, and as the door to the street opened and a gust of wind swept around the room, he barely took notice of the newcomer who entered.
Others did, however, and Halt, senses finely honed by years of living through dangerous situations, felt a change in the atmosphere in the room. A sense of apprehension and almost suspicion seemed to grip the people grouped around the musicians.
There was even a slight hesitation in the tune as the piper glanced up and saw the man who had entered. Just the slightest break in rhythm, almost imperceptible, but enough for Halt to notice.
He looked at the newcomer. A tall, well-built man, perhaps ten years younger than himself. Black beard and hair, and heavy, black brows that gave him an ominous appearance. He was obviously not one of the simple townsfolk. As he threw back his cloak, he revealed a chain mail shirt covered with a black surcoat that bore a white raven insignia.
The hilt of a sword was obvious at his waist, worked with gold wire and with a dully gleaming pommel in the same metal. High, soft leather riding boots marked him as a mounted warrior-a knight, judging by the insignia on his surcoat. Halt had no doubt that, tethered outside the tavern, he would find a battlehorse-most probably a jet-black one, judging by the stranger's favored color scheme.
The newcomer was obviously looking for someone. His eyes swept the room quickly, passing over Halt without noticing the shadowy figure at the rear of the room, then finally lighting on Horace. The brows tightened fractionally and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, to himself. The boy, enthralled by the music, had barely taken note of the knight's arrival and now paid no attention to the intense study to which he was subjected. There were others in the room who did. Halt saw the heightened awareness of the innkeeper and his wife as they watched and waited for events to unfold. And several of the townspeople were showing signs of anxiety, signs that they might prefer to be somewhere else.
Halt's hand reached under the table for his quiver. As ever, his weapons were within easy reach, even when he was dining, and the longbow leaning against the wall behind him was already strung. Now he eased an arrow from the quiver and laid it on the table before him as the tune came to an end.
This time, there was no chorus of applause from the people in the room. Only Horace clapped enthusiastically, then, realizing he was the only one doing so, he stopped, confused, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. Now he too became aware of the armed man in the room, standing half a dozen paces away from him, staring at him with an intensity that bordered on aggression.
The boy recovered his composure and nodded a greeting to the newcomer. Halt was pleased to notice that Horace had the presence of mind not to look in his direction. He had sensed that something unpleasant might be about to happen and understood the advantage that would come from Halt's not being noticed.
Finally, the newcomer spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. He was a tall man, as tall as Horace, and heavily built. This was no roadside warrior, Halt decided. This man was dangerous.
"You are the oakleaf chevalier?" he asked, with a hint of derision. He spoke the Araluen language well, but with a distinct Gallic accent.
"I believe I have been called that," Horace replied, after a moment's pause. The knight seemed to consider the answer, nodding to himself, his lip curled in a half sneer.
"You believe so?" he said. "But can you, yourself, be believed? Or are you a lying Araluen dog who barks in the gutters?"
Horace frowned, puzzled. It was a clumsy attempt to insult him.
The other man was trying to provoke a fight for some reason. And that, to Horace, was sufficient reason not to be provoked.
"If you like," he replied calmly, his face a mask of indifference.
But Halt had noticed how his left hand had touched lightly, and almost instinctively, to his left hip, where his sword normally hung ready.