“I am Oswald, the King’s chamberlain,” he had explained. “What do you want?”
Pym, sitting on a stone bench just under the archway of the main castle entrance, stood up quickly and came forward. “Good sir, if ye please, be s’ kind as to bring me to the King. We ‘uns’ve a pressing matter t’ set afore His Highness.”
“The King,” informed Oswald coldly, hoping to draw information from the man, “sees no one who will not state his business to me.”
Pym scratched his jaw. “That I cannot say, sir. It is fer the King.” He leaned forward and confided, “But I kin tell ye this much…”
“Yes?” Oswald glared at the man, but he seemed not to notice.
“It be veery, veery important. That’s what ‘tis, yes.”
“And what does this important information concern?”
“That be fer the King, sir. Not fer no’un else.”
Oswald could see that the man was adamant about an audience with the King. He looked harmless enough, and who could say but that the tinker might indeed have something that could be useful to his master, though that seemed highly unlikely. Still there was a possibility, and in this dark times even the minutest chances might be snatched at.
“What is your name, sir?” asked Oswald.
“Pym, sir. Pym ‘tis, and Pym ‘t always will be.”
“Very well, Pym. Although it is not my proper course to admit you like this, I will. But if you waste the King’s time and my own with worthless drivel or idle rumor such as is heard in any village market or inn, I will have you removed promptly. Do you understand? You will never be welcome in Askelon again!” He looked at the tinker sharply. “Now, then, do you still want to see His Majesty?”
“I do, sir.” Pym swallowed hard.
“Do you still maintain that your information is vital to his ears alone?”
“ ‘Tis, sir.”
“Follow me.”
With that Oswald the Younger turned on his heel and walked away. Pym hesitated. “Well?” asked Oswald. “Are you coming?”
Pym nodded and hurried after the chamberlain. They marched along a wide, polished corridor where servants moved, hurrying about their chores. To Pym, the smooth stone walls and oak-beamed ceilings seemed things of enchanted origin. He marveled at even the most commonplace furnishings he glimpsed along the way, for they were royal furnishings. This was the home of the Dragon King, and these were the Dragon King’s chattel
Past countless doorways they went, past halls-each with huge carven doors-and galleries hung with giant tapestries of rich design. Up stairs and down stairs they went, deeper and deeper into the heart of the castle, and with every step Pym grew more excited. He was to see the King!
Finally they stopped in a short passageway of paneled oak-the royal apartments. Oswald led them to a door which bore the carved and red-lacquered figure of a terrible, twisting dragon. The chamberlain put his hand to the latch and said, “Wait here; I will announce you.”
Pym, with palms sweating now, wiped his hands on the backside of his pants, shifted first on one foot, then on the other. Perhaps it was a mistake-perhaps it would be better to tell the chamberlain and let him decide if the King should hear his story. Yes, without a doubt. Let the chamberlain.
But, before Pym could change his mind, Oswald reappeared, and he was yanked inside. Oswald took him through this first room-there were chairs and a great long table piled high with many scrolls of plans for buildings and a gleaming suit of armor standing on its frame-and to a door at the further end, to the King’s inner chamber.
Oswald knocked softly, opened the door, and pushed Pym in. “Sire, Pym the tinker to see you.” The door was closed quickly and quietly behind him, cutting off his only escape.
Pym tottered forward on shaky knees, his eyes unused to the darkness, his mind reeling in the awesome knowledge that he was in the presence of the mighty Dragon King. It was almost more than he could endure.
As evening came on, the inn grew crowded and the conversation more intense. Amidst the clink of ale jars in the hazy, murk-filled room, Ronsard, in his disguise as an ordinary laborer, listened and watched all that took place around him.
Something was at work; he could sense it, feel it. What is more, all gathered at the Gray Goose could feel it too. A heightened impatience, a simmering restlessness seethed just below the surface. Expectation, at first casual, had been drawn tighter and tighter until it hummed like a bowstring. Anticipation quivered in every voice, danced in every eye.
Tonight there would be trouble.
Ronsard had seen moods like this before in crowds of men. On the battlefield it could send troops into a foaming fury to drive the enemy into flight. It could just as easily turn back on itself and ignite flames of fear, causing even field-proven veterans to abandon their arms in mortal terror. Which way it turned depended on the leader.
But who was the leader here? He wondered. That white-bearded traveler the innkeeper had mentioned?
Ronsard drifted unseen from table to table, listening here and there to what was said, trying to determine not only what sparked this unnatural mood, but also what course it would take when it broke.
“I tell ‘ee,” said a man, “the god’s er angered.”
“ ‘Tis the fault o’ the King. Any man, blind or not, can see that plain enough,” said another.
“It is no good going against them. No good at all.”
“Dangerous it is! Dangerous!”
“Something must be done!”
“The sword is lost, did you hear? The Zhaligkeer is lost.”
“Aye, there’s trouble coming. It has brought us nothing but trouble. What’s wrong with the old ways?”
“Old ways are best! By the gods!”
“The Shining One gone? What can it mean?”
“The kingdom is without a King! That is what it means!” So the voices went. And of all the gossip Ronsard heard, one item concerned him more than any other: they knew about the missing sword. The King’s enemies would know soon, if not already, and then the infighting would start.
Would Quentin be equal to it? Ordinarily, yes. But not now, not in his present condition.
Ronsard settled back along a rear bench and watched the room, as one would watch a caldron beginning to boil. Would this stranger, this Longbeard show himself? What if he did not come-what would happen? Ah, what would happen if he did appear? That was more to be feared.
Ronsard stood and was about to return his long-empty ale jar to the bar when Longbeard entered. Ronsard did not see or hear him. Rather, he knew the man had appeared by the sudden tension in the room, the thrill that tingled in the dank, smoky air.
The inn grew hushed.
“He is here!” said a voice close by.
“There he is. That’s the one I told you about.”
“Ah, yes. Here he is.”
“Now we will find out what to do.”
“Longbeard will tell us what to do!”
The whispers swirled around the gnarled old man like dry leaves around a bent old tree. Longbeard moved into them easily. If he understood the sensation his sudden appearance had caused, he showed no outward sign of it.
Ronsard watched him walk to the center of the room, making his way to the bar. The inn was completely silent now. All eyes were on the old man with the flowing white hair and beard. Watching. Waiting.
Then came a shout. “Longbeard! Have you seen him?”
Seen whom? wondered Ronsard.
Longbeard turned toward the voice and replied, speaking normally, but so every ear could hear him, “Yes. I have just come from his chambers.”
A man standing near him asked, “Will he change his mind?”