There was nothing crumbling or ramshackle about these stones. There might be grime in the streets outside its wall. There might be washwater thrown carelessly in the town streets, but not here. The buildings below on the hill might be shuttered in fear of the coming night, but the Kathseide’s windows showed bright with colors, a beautiful notion. He thought how it would have brightened the old gables and the shuttered windows of Ynefel had even his humble horn window stood unshuttered to the night.
He saw before him what Ynefel might have been.
Except for the people. And women and children.
Except for the smoothness of the walls, which showed no faces, none.
It was pristine. Beautiful.
His knees ached as they climbed the last steep stretch of cobbles, this road being steeper than Ynefel’s, as the walls were taller than Ynefel’s.
Within the open gateway he saw stones pale gold and clean, unweathered, a cobbled courtyard, beyond a thick archway, and inner buildings, pale stone glowing in the twilight.
He was looking at that instead of watching around him, when dark movement came from the side and, out of nowhere, metal-clad men suddenly confronted him.
“I brung ’im,” the boy said. “I brung ’im, master Aman.”
He was frozen with fear, facing such grim expressions, like Mauryl’s expression when he had done something wrong. The boy was looking quite proud of himself and seeming to expect something of the men, who were holding weapons and waiting, he supposed, for him to account for himself.
“My name is Tristen, sir. Are you the master here?”
One of the men grinned at him, not in a friendly way. The other:
“The master, he wants?” that one asked, leaning on what spoke other Words: Pike, War, and Killing. “Which master in particular, Sir Strangeness?”
“I suppose.., the master of all this Place.”
They laughed. But the men seemed to be perplexed by him. The one leaning on the pike straightened his back and looked at him down a nose guarded by a metal piece, eyes shadowed from the deepening twilight by a metal-and-leather Helm. The third, helmless, had never smiled, not from the beginning.
“Come along,” that one said, and motioned with his pike for him to enter the arch of the gates.
“The boy,” he said, remembering his manners, “the boy would like supper, if you please, and a place to sleep.” “Oh, would he, now?”
“He has,” he said, finding himself wrong, and chased by one of Mauryl’s kind of debates, “he has nowhere to sleep. And he wants supper, I’m sure, sir.”
“He wants supper.” The man thought that strange, and dug in his purse and flipped a coin to the boy, who caught it, quite remarkably.
“Off wi’ ye. And no Gossip, or I’ll cut off your Weasel ears.” Weasel was four-footed and brown.
And there was, clearly, another way one found coins. The guards had coins to give. For himself, he saw no such chances, but he was prepared to go where they asked and wait until the men could make up their minds what to do about him.
“Come along,” said the one the boy called master, and another shoved him, not at all kindly or needfully, in the shoulder. He thought how pigeons fluttered and bumped one another. If this man was indeed master here he seemed a rough and rude sort. But he remembered how the men at the fire had behaved, and how they had grown quite unfriendly once they became afraid of him, and the weapons these men had were far more threatening than knives.
So he thought he should do what they asked and not give them any cause to be afraid; and then, he thought, he might find out whether this man was the master of the Kathseide, or whether he was only master of these men. Perhaps there was someone else, after all, who might ask him inside and talk to him much more reasonably than men outside, and perhaps even be expecting his arrival.
He walked through the gateway, believing they would go through into the courtyard and straightway to the inner halls of the keep, but he was no more than under the gateway arch when the one man dropped the staff of his pike in front of his face and made him stop—a roughness which he was not at all expecting, and which might be misbehavior on their part.
But he was not certain. He might have been in the wrong. He let the other man take him by the arm and direct him toward a doorway at the side in the arch, which his fellow opened, showing him a room bright with candlelight, a plain room with a table and chairs, and another man sitting—curious sight—with his feet on the table. Dared one do such a thing?
Not, he suspected, at Mauryl’s table.
“We’ve an odd ’un,” the helmless man said. “Wants to see the master of the Zeide, he says.”
“Does he?” The man at the table wrinkled his nose. “And on what business, I’d like to know. —Is this our report from about town?”
“Seems t’ be our wanderin’ stranger.”
“Has either of ye seen ’im before?”
“Never seen ’im,” one said, and the other shook his head. “Truth t’ tell,
‘t was Paisi picked ’im up, led ’im up to us wi’ no trouble to speak of.”
“Paisi did. Led ’im up, ye say?”
“I was surprised meself. I figured the little Rat could find what smelt odd, so I sent him out. But I never figured he’d bring it himself. Clever little Rat, he is. An’ this ’un—” The man sat half on the table. “Him talking like a Lord,” the man said. “Airs and manners and all. He wasn’t at all meetin’ wi’ anybody of account in town. Talked to some on the streets, as of no account at all, wandered here, wandered there, ain’t no sense to it, by me, what he was doin’ or askin’.”
“A lord, is he?” The man slowly took his feet off the table—Mauryl would have been appalled, Tristen decided uneasily. He was surrounded by behavior and manners he began to be certain that Mauryl would not at all approve, manners which far more reminded him of the men in the woods. And from one master, now there seemed two, and they wondered whether he was a Lord, which held its own bewilderments.
But, then, they had brought him in under stone, where he was safer.
They might have shoved him about quite rudely, but they had not harmed him.
“And what,” the man in the chair wanted to know, “what would be your name?”
“Tristen, sir, thank you. And I came to find the master of the Kathseide.”
The man frowned, the grim man looked puzzled, and the one sneezed or laughed, he was not certain which.
“Is he the Mooncalf all along? Or only now?”
“A mooncalf in lord’s cloth, to us at least. All up and down the town, nothing of trouble nor of stealin’ that we’ve heard yet, and the boy had no trouble to win his copper. But he come strolling up from the low town, bright as brass, and he had to be through the gates sometime today, though Ness an’ Selmwy don’t report seein’ ’im.”
“So how long have ye been lurkin’ about the streets, rascal?”
“Not lurking, sir,” Tristen replied, he thought respectfully, but the man at his back fetched him a shove between the shoulders. “Walking.”
“How long have ye been in the town?” the foremost man asked, and he was glad to understand it was a simple question, and anxious to lay everything in their laps.
“I came in from the Road, sir. I walked through the gates down below, and the boy led me up to this gate to see the master of this Place before the dark came.”
“Did you, now?” the man said, leaning back again, and one of the other two shut the door, a soft, ominous thump, after which he heard the drop of a heavy bar.
“Paisi certainly done better ’n Ness an’ his fool cousin,” the grim man said.
“And how, pray,” asked the man in charge, “did you pass through the gate, sir mooncalf?”