In the cramped main Hall of Nabol, Fax, surrounded by contemptuous soldiery, listened to what they said and then told them that if they were not out of his Hold by nightfall, he would order them all slaughtered for trespass.
No one doubted that he would implement that threat.
"You are not Lord Holder of Nabol or Crom or Ruatha by any right, other than that of conquest," Tarathel said, stiff with outrage but impressive with dignity. "You will usurp no more lands without full contest at arms."
Fax smirked, glancing at the grinning faces of his guards. "Any time you like," he said, obviously delighted at the prospect. "Is that all you came to say? Well, out with you then!"
At a signal, his men began to advance on the group of Lord Holders and Harpers.
"Careful, you at the door," Fax said, raising his voice. "Don't want you trampled in the rush!"
Tarathel looked about to burst, Groghe was livid with rage, Oterel dead white. With stately dignity they turned smartly about and walked in a measured tread out of the Hall, down the steps and across the narrow courtyard to their waiting mounts. If the runner-beasts tossed their heads, sidled and shied, it was because their riders communicated their fury and humiliation to them. Big Black twice tried to rear, and kicked out when another animal came close enough. Robinton was sure he would burst a blood vessel before they got halfway to the Nabol border.
Once there, the Lord Holders made their way back to Fort Hold. Aware that they were being followed – and that they were meant to know they were being followed – they stopped only to rest and water their mounts and eat travel rations from their saddles, both grateful and furious that they had no opportunity to vent their bottled-up emotions until they were back on safe lands.
What Robinton noticed, to keep his sanity, was the difference in the very atmosphere as soon as they had forded the Red River.
Even the runner-beasts, weary though they were, seemed to pick up. Just at the last, as a final insult, their followers made a charge which startled the last few runners crossing the river. Fax's men lined the bank, laughing and calling insults across the water. With those final reminders of their opprobrious rout ringing in their ears, the Lord Holders continued down the Fort road to the nearest border post.
There, at last, they could give vent to their repressed feelings and argue that they should have come in force, with enough men to show Fax that they meant business about meeting any further aggression with equal force and its defeat.
Robinton, food and drink in his hands, could no longer listen to such useless ranting and wandered off far enough to avoid hearing a recapitulation of what ought to have been said, or done, or implied, or threatened. He felt that, considering the large contingent of armed men which Fax had around him, they had been lucky indeed not to be harmed – except in pride and dignity. Such a delegation had been futile from the outset and only let them in for ridicule, but some show of protest had to be made! That much he knew. If only R'gul had been willing to let them ride dragons to Nabol, their retreat would not have proved such a mortification of their intent. But R'gul had denied them the convenience of dragons, saying he knew only too well what Fax's opinion of dragonriders was and had no intention of jeopardizing another dragon and rider. Robinton had argued against confronting Fax at all. Not from a lack of courage, but from a desire to avoid what had happened: Fax's contemptuous disregard of their condemnation.
As if Fax cared a straw in the wind!
"Bad idea all told," a voice said at his elbow, almost causing him to drop the klah and his food. They were taken out of his hand by filthy fingers. "You can get more, and I'm starving of the hunger.
Haven't had a drink in three days. Should have tried to persuade them out of such a meeting, Rob. Fax is still laughing."
"Where were you, Nip?" asked Robinton, regaining his composure. He should have known Nip would have witnessed the whole sorry episode.
"Where I could see." The spy shook his head as he gobbled food almost without chewing. He took a sip of the wine and swallowed his mouthful.
"I'll filch some more for your trip back," Robinton told him.
"That is, if you're going back?"
"Oh, I'm needed where I will be by morning more than ever, I assure you." Nip crammed the rest of the roll into his mouth, rolling his eyes at his own greedy hunger and chewing vigorously.
He took the last sip and handed the cup back to Robinton, almost regretfully. "There's more where you got that, isn't there?"
"I'll get you – and me – more," Robinton said. He slipped back into the camp and helped himself to a skin, as well as a saddlebag full of travel meat roll. Everyone was so busy trying to air their own hindsight wisdom that no one noticed him sneaking in and out.
"Here--' And he stopped, seeing Nip propped against a tree fast asleep.
He sat down, hoping the courageous little man would rouse to tell him what he had in mind. The gleam in Nip's eyes had suggested that his devious mind had already thought of several interesting ways to harass Fax.
Robinton was almost half-asleep himself when he heard his name called. So he left the wine-skin and the full bag of food and retraced his steps.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Some good did come of that disagreeable confrontation with Fax.
MasterSmith Fandarel withdrew all Masters from the "seven holds." Other CraftMasters followed that example. Fax had been too busy congratulating himself over the acquisition of Ruatha Hold to realize what was happening. Now he complained bitterly, offering inducements to the Masters to return. Nor did he dare retaliate against those journeymen who remained: as many as could do so had slipped away before he knew they had left. Even the MasterMiner at Crom had removed himself and set up a new headquarters for his Craft in one of the SmithHalls at Telgar. Despite substantial rewards, Master Idarolan, who had succeeded Gostol as MasterFishman, refused to lay any keels for Fax to replace the ships which had so mysteriously disappeared from the High Reaches fishing villages. All that were left were small sloops or ketches, which were restricted in cargo space or range.
The only Hall that did not withdraw skilled assistance was the Healer Hall. MasterHealer Oldive quietly stated that such a measure went against the very purpose and grain of his Craft. He was respected for it, as were those of his Hall who remained to succour the ill and injured. And there were many of them.
"Fax hadn't counted on the loss of Masters," Robinton said, thoroughly pleased. Of course, harpers had long since been driven away or hunted down by Fax. Indeed, it had become almost a crime, Nip said, to admit to owning an instrument, much less playing or singing.
"The man is determined to make life as miserable as possible. He's succeeding rather well – a fact which will eventually go against him."
"We hope," Robinton remarked drily.
"Oh, wait and see," Nip said with unusual optimism.
"I'm waiting."
While the MasterHarper waited over the next five turns, he busied himself improving all within his Hall. He asked Groghe for the best fighter of his guard and had the man teach classes, from apprentice level on up, in self-defence and – though this did not sit well with the more self-confident young students – when to run and hide and how to do that, leaving the least evidence of escape. To Robinton's surprise, Sebell turned out to be almost ferocious in the drills: only Saltor, the head guard, or his burly assistant, Emfor, would partner him.