"So," he said, "what do we do now?"
The Ranger shrugged. He had his own pack open and was taking out a few items-a clean shirt and his razor and washing things.
"We wait," he said. "We're not losing any time-yet. The mountain passes into Skandia will be snowed over for at least another month. So we may as well make ourselves comfortable here for a few days until we see what our gallant Gall has in mind for us."
Horace used one foot to remove the boot from the other and wiggled his toes in delight, enjoying the sudden feeling of freedom.
"There's a thing," he said. "What do you suppose this Deparnieux is up to, Halt?"
Halt hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "I'm not sure. But he'll probably show his hand sometime over the next few days. I think he has a vague idea that I'm a Ranger," he added thoughtfully.
"Do they have Rangers here?" Horace asked, surprised. He'd always assumed that the Ranger Corps was unique to Araluen. Now, as Halt shook his head, he realized his assumption was correct.
"No, they don't," Halt replied. "And we've always been at some pains not to spread word of the Corps too far and wide. Never know when you're going to end up at war with someone," he added. "But, of course, it's impossible to keep something like that a total secret, so he may have got some word of it."
"And if he has?" Horace asked. "I thought he was originally only interested in us because he wanted to fight me-you know, like you said."
"That was probably the case at first," Halt agreed, "but now he's got wind of something and I think he's trying to work out how he can use me."
"Use you?" Horace repeated, frowning at the idea. Halt made a dismissive gesture.
"That's usually the way people like him think," he told the boy.
"They're always looking to see how they can turn a situation to their own advantage. And they think that everyone can be bought, if the price is right. Do you think you could put that boot back on?" he added mildly. "The window can only let in a limited amount of fresh air and your socks are a touch ripe, to put it mildly."
"Oh, sorry!" said Horace, tugging the riding boot back on over his sock. Now that Halt mentioned it, he was aware of a rather strong odor in the room.
"Don't knights in this country take vows of chivalry?" he asked, returning to the subject of their captor. "Knights vow to help others, don't they? They're not supposed to 'use people.'"
"They take the vows," Halt told him. "Keeping them is another matter altogether. And the idea of knights helping the common people is one that works in a place like Araluen, where we have a strong king. Here, if you've got the power, you can pretty much do as you please."
"Well, it's not right," Horace muttered. Halt agreed with him, but there didn't seem to be anything to gain by saying so.
"Just be patient," he told Horace now. "There's nothing we can do to hurry things along. We'll find out what Deparnieux wants soon enough. In the meantime, we may as well relax and take it easy."
"Another thing:," Horace added, ignoring his companion's suggestion. "I didn't like those cages by the roadside. No true knight could ever punish anyone that way, no matter how bad their crime might be. Those things were just terrible. Inhuman!"
Halt met the boy's honest gaze. There was nothing he could offer by way of comfort. Inhuman was an apt description of the punishment.
"Yes," he said, finally, "I didn't like those either. I think that before we leave here, my lord Deparnieux might have a little explaining to do on that matter."
They dined that night with the Gallic warlord. The table was an immense one, with room for thirty or more diners, and the three of them were dwarfed by the empty space around them. Serving boys and maids scurried about their tasks, bringing extra helpings of food and wine as required.
The meal was neither good nor bad, which surprised Halt a little.
Gallic cuisine had a reputation for being exotic and even outlandish.
The plain fare that was served up to them seemed to indicate that the reputation was an unfounded one.
The one thing he did notice was that the serving staff went about their tasks with their eyes cast down, avoiding eye contact with any of the three diners. There was a palpable air of fear in the room, accentuated when any of the servants had to move close to their master to serve him with food or to fill his goblet.
Halt sensed also that Deparnieux was not only aware of the tension in the atmosphere, he actually enjoyed it. A satisfied half smile would touch his cruel lips whenever one of the servants came close to him, eyes averted and holding his or her breath until the task was completed.
They spoke little during the meal. Deparnieux seemed content to observe them, rather as a boy might observe an interesting and previously unknown bug that he had captured. In the circumstances, neither Halt nor Horace were inclined to offer any small talk.
When they had eaten, and the table had been cleared, the warlord finally spoke what was on his mind. He glanced dismissively at Horace and waved a languid hand toward the stairway that led to their chambers.
"I won't keep you any longer, boy," he said. "You have my leave to go."
Flushing slightly at the ill-mannered tone, Horace glanced quickly at Halt and saw the Ranger's small nod. He rose, trying to retain his dignity, trying not to show the Gallic knight his confusion.
"Good night, Halt," he said quietly, and Halt nodded again.
"'Night, Horace," he said. The apprentice warrior drew himself up, looked Deparnieux in the eye and abruptly turned and left the room.
Two of the armed guards who had been standing by in the shadows instantly fell in behind him, escorting him up the stairs.
It was a small gesture, Horace thought as he climbed to his chambers, and it was probably a childish one. But ignoring the master of Chateau Montsombre as he left made him feel a little better.
Deparnieux waited until the sound of Horace's footsteps on the stone-flagged stairs had receded. Then, pushing his chair back from the table, he turned a calculating gaze on the Ranger.
"Well, Master Halt," he said quietly, "it's time we had a little chat."
Halt pursed his lips. "About what?" he asked. "I'm afraid I'm just no good at all with gossip."
The warlord smiled thinly. "I can tell you're going to be an amusing guest," he said. "Now tell me, exactly who are you?"
Halt shrugged carelessly. He toyed with a goblet that was sitting, almost empty, on the table in front of him, twirling it this way and that, watching the way the faceted glass caught the light from the fire in the corner.
"I'm an ordinary sort of person," he said. "My name's Halt. I'm from Araluen, traveling with Sir Horace. Nothing much more to tell, really."
The smile stayed fixed on Deparnieux's face as he continued to regard the bearded man sitting opposite him. He appeared nondescript enough, that was for sure. His clothes were simple-verging on drab, in fact. His beard and hair were badly cut. They looked as if he had cut them with a hunting knife, thought Deparnieux, unaware that he was only one of many people to have had that very same thought about Halt.
He was a small man too. His head barely came up to the warlord's shoulder. But he was muscular for all that, and in spite of the gray hairs in his beard and hair, he was in excellent physical condition.