“No, you’re too ornery to make a decent meal.” More soberly, Ezzef came over to stand at Carl’s stirrup and look up into his dusty, sun-darkened face. “Did you make the bargain, Carl? Will the witch-men forge for us?”
“The Chief has to know first. It’s a long story,” said the boy, turning his eyes away. He didn’t want to start panic among the men by rumors of the City people’s refusal, or premature hopes by tales of magic powers.
Ezzef nodded gravely and went back to his post, and Carl began to realize the loneliness of a leader. He couldn’t share his journey with this old comrade—the tribe had to come before any one man—but it was hard.
He clicked his tongue, and the pony moved forward again, shoving slowly through the crowds.
Within the stockade, Dalestown was a jumble of wooden houses through which muddy streets wound a narrow way. It had its own wells and cisterns, and Ralph had, several years before, caused others to be made so that fire fighters would always have water close at hand. One bit of ancient wisdom which the Doctors told the people was that filth meant plague, so there were public baths and the Chief paid men to haul away wastes. But with all those who had crowded in since the first threat of war, that system was in danger of breakdown.
As Carl rode down High Street, between the tall, overhanging walls of buildings gaudily painted under splashes of mud, he saw the same confusion of people he had known and loved all his life. Here, a rich merchant passed by, dressed in furs and gold chains, borne in a litter by four half-naked servants. There, a group of children tumbled and rolled in the dust; a mongrel yapped at their play. Yonder came a housewife, her long skirts lifted above the littered street, a baby strapped into a carrying-cradle on her back. A wandering juggler, his lean body clad in fantastically colored rags, a banjo slung next to his ribs, brushed shoulders with a sober-faced young Doctor in the long blue robe of his order, carrying a bag of magical instruments. Circled by the perpetual bustle, a tall, black-skinned trader in clothes of foreign cut, come from the southern tribes to barter his cotton or fruit or tobacco for the furs and leather of the Dales, was talking to a white-bearded old farmer who stood unmoving in his wooden shoes, puffing a long-stemmed pipe. A bulky guard was warning two drunken warriors to behave themselves; a wagonload of fine timber moved slowly toward some carpenter’s shop; and a horse tamer edged his half-broken mount carefully through the swarm.
Open doors, and shingled booths, where the work of the town went on, lined the sides of the street. A smith, muscled and sooty, hammered out a plowshare in the ruddy glow of his fire. Across the way, a fat baker gave two round loaves of coarse black bread, new and warm and fragrant, to a boy. And a weaver had his cloths and rugs spread out for sale, next door to a tailor who sat cross-legged making complete garments. On the corner, a dark and smoky tavern rang with noisy life and beside the tavern, a trader’s store was massed with foreign goods and delicate jewelry for sale. Even now, Dalestown tried to live as it had always done. But many newcomers filled the streets, leaning from the windows and jamming into the crowd. Refugees, thought Carl, men and women and children from outlying farms who had fled here for safety when news of the invaders came. Some could stay with friends and relatives, some could pay for a bed in one of the few inns—but most had to sleep outside, in tents or under their wagons, ready to flee inside the walls if danger threatened. Their eyes were filled with fear and a deep, hopeless longing, their voices shrill or else hushed to an unnatural quiet. It was not a good thing to see, and Carl touched the saddlebag where he had the magic light as if groping for comfort.
The boys came out on the open market square in the center of town and forced a slow path across its packed width. The Hall loomed on the farther side, a great building of dark oak with painted gables and the heads of animals carved along the eaves and ridgepole. Here was the place of meeting for the tribe. On its right was the smaller house of the Chief, squarely and solidly built of wood and stone, the banner of the Dales —a green fir tree on a background of gold—floating above it. Toward this Carl directed his horse.
An old servant stood on the porch, looking unhappily over the restless throng. When he saw Carl, he shouted. “Master Carl! Oh, Master Carl, you’re back! Thank the gods, you’re back!”
“You never doubted it, did you, Rob?” smiled Carl, touched at the welcome. He swung stiffly to the ground, and the old man patted his shoulder with a thin, blue-veined hand.
“Oh, but it’s been so long, Master Carl—”
“Only a few days. Is my father inside?”
“Yes, he’s talking with the High Doctor. Go right in, Master Carl, go in and make him glad. I’ll take your horse.”
“And my friends’ horses too, please.” Carl frowned. He wasn’t overly happy at having to confront Donn before he had talked with his father. The High Doctor meant well, and was kindly enough when no one crossed him, but he was overbearing and tightly bound by the ancient laws.
Well, it would have to be faced sometime. “Come on, boys,” said Carl, mounting the steps.
“Maybe we should wait,” hedged Tom.
“Nonsense. You’re the guests of the house, as your folks’ll be when they arrive. Follow me.”
Carl entered a hallway paneled in wood and carpeted with skins. Light from the windows was getting dim, and candles burned in their brackets on the wall. It was a large, well-furnished house, but there were grander places in town. The Chief’s power did not lie in trade goods.
A small thunderbolt came shouting down the stairs and threw itself into Carl’s arms, squealing and shouting.
“Hello, brat,” said the boy gruffly. “Get down—the Lann don’t do as much damage as you.”
It was his young sister Betty, five years old, who clung to him and stared with wide eyes. There were only these two left—Ralph’s other children, and then his wife, had died, of some disease which the ancients could have cured but which was too strong for the drums and prayers and herbs of the Doctors, and the Chief had not married again. The three were a happy family, but there were dark memories among them.
“What’s ’at?” Betty pointed to the flashlight, wrapped in a piece from his tattered cloak, that Carl bore in one hand.
“Magic, brat, magic. Now where’s Daddy?”
“In’a living room. Can I come?”
“Well—” Carl hesitated. It might not be wise for a child to know of this and prattle the news all over town. If the Lann were as smart as he thought, they had a few spies mingled with the refugees. “Not just now. This is man-talk. Later, huh?”
Betty made fewer objections than he had thought-she was growing up enough to learn that men ruled the tribes, under the law if not always in fact—and he sent her trotting back up the stairs. Then he led Tom and Owl down the hall to the living-room door. He opened it softly and looked in.
The room was long and low, furnished with a dark richness of carved wood and thick skins and the trophies of war and hunt. Light from many candles and the broad stone fireplace filled the farther end with radiance and shadows, glimmering off shields and swords hung above the mantel, off wrought brass candlesticks and silver plates. Windows between heavy draperies showed the last gleam of day.
Ralph stood before the hearth. He was a tall and powerful man of thirty-seven, his eyes blue in a grave bronzed face, his hair and close-cropped beard the color of gold. His dress was, as usual, simple: plain shirt and breeches of linen, a green wool cloak swinging from broad shoulders, a dagger at his tooled leather belt. His big hands were calloused with labor, for he worked his own farm outside the walls, but his look was calm and strong, and Carl’s heart quickened at the sight of him.