The three companions exchanged glances. Then Matt said, “Long life, and we’ll drink to it as soon as we get mugs.”
A serving wench overheard and swirled by their table. “Would you have ale, sirs?”
“Yes, and meat and bread,” Matt told her. “Dinner, in fact.”
“As soon as I may,” she promised, and whirled away.
“Busy place tonight,” Matt commented.
” ‘S’a minshtrel,” the drunk informed them. “Came in f’r shupper. Landlord fed ‘im while he shent boyzh out t’ tell ev’yone.”
“So the whole village crowded in to be ready to listen by the time the minstrel finishes.” Matt nodded. “Smart businessman.” Then he turned to Sir Orizhan. “Does it seem to you there are an awful lot of minstrels running around these days?”
“Far more than I am accustomed to seeing,” the knight agreed. “One might almost think them to be troubadours, and us to be in the south.”
A man dressed in bright clothes stood up and struck an off-key chord on his lute.
“Or perhaps not,” Sir Orizhan amended.
The minstrel tuned a string, then struck the chord again. It was much better, and he nodded in satisfaction.
“Tell us the news ere you sing, minstrel!” one man called, and a chorus of voices took up the cry. “Aye, the news! First, the news!”
“Well, my songs are news enough in themselves,” the minstrel said, laughing.
“If they have tunes, that is news indeed,” Sir Orizhan muttered.
“Just my luck,” Matt sighed, “traveling with a critic.”
“Still, I’ll tell you the most recent in short sentences,” the minstrel went on. “Which will you have first—the bad, or the good?”
“The bad!” a dozen voices cried with relish.
“The worst of it, then, is that King Drustan has fallen ill.”
A furious babble broke out as people asked each other if it could be true, and assured that it could be, wondered about the benefit-to-damage ratio of the results.
When they had quieted, and begun to realize that the damages might well outweigh the benefits, the innkeeper called out, “Then what is the good news, minstrel?”
“The good,” the minstrel cried with false heartiness, “is that our loyal Prince John has assumed rule as regent! The king has spoken through his son, and appointed him to care for us all!”
The announcement was greeted with stunned silence. The minstrel tried to grin around at them all, but his smile faltered. Then the murmuring began, dark, ugly, and apprehensive.
“I’ve heard of it,” a tinker told his neighbor, much too loudly. No doubt he’d been disgruntled at having to give up the attention of the crowd as news bearer.
“What have you heard?” a woman at another table asked.
“Why,” the tinker said in a voice to fill the room, “that there is more to His Majesty’s ‘illness’ than meets the eye.”
“How do you mean?” The minstrel’s tone was threatening; he didn’t like having his thunder stolen, either.
The tinker’s tone sank to a dramatic whisper—one that carried to most of the room. “There’s some as say the queen poisoned him.”
“Ridiculoush!” the drunk exploded. “Queen couldn’t’ve! She been in prizhon!”
Matt started to edge farther away from the man. So did Sergeant Brock; they converged on Sir Orizhan, who sat across from the drunk.
“Worsht of ‘em all, that Zhon!” the drunk grumbled. He glared into his ale, but his voice grew louder and louder. “That Gaherish, he wazh a mean ‘un, but wazhn’t a puling little coward, at leasht! An’ who wazh that blue knight that did in Prinsh Brion, eh? Just a shuit of armor with nothin’ in-shide? That’sh bad magic, I tell yuh, bad! Sumthin’ really bad, when only the sniveling slug of a grubby little coward’zh left t’ruleush!”
Out of the corner of his eye Matt caught movement. He turned just in time to see the raven fly away from the windowsill. Somehow, it gave him a very bad feeling. He stood up, tugging at Sir Orizhan’s shoulder. “Come on. I don’t think I want to stay and hear this.”
“Give up housen again?” Brock protested.
Sir Orizhan started to object, too, until he saw the look on Mart’s face. Then he nodded and stood up. “Yes, of course. There is bound to be another inn down the road.”
“Oh, I’m not good enough fer yuh, hey?” the drunk called after them. “Jus’ cauzhe ol’ Dolan’zh tellin’a truth, nobody wantsh ‘im aroun’.”
“Might have more to do with how much ale you’ve drunk,” Matt told him as he hurried his friends toward the door.
The innkeeper rushed to intercept them. “No, goodmen, by your leave! Stay! I’ll toss out that fool Dolan! I should have done it long ago!”
But Dolan had no doubt been paying for his drinks. Still, three dinners would bring the innkeeper more than a dozen stoups of ale.
Sergeant Brock sighed. “I would dearly love to stay in an inn for the night,” he said.
“All right, we’ll stay.” But Matt felt a twinge of sympathy. “You don’t have to kick him out, mine host. Just tuck him into the inglenook, okay?”
“And keep feeding him ale,” Sergeant Brock added. “My… employer will pay for it.” He nodded at Matt.
“Well, if it’s the price of a good night’s sleep, okay,” Matt said, and they went back to the table. The landlord preceded them and hustled Dolan off to the inglenook, protesting every inch of the way. As they sat down, Matt wondered if maybe he really would have been doing the man more of a favor to let the landlord kick him out.
He thought so even more after dinner, when the soldiers burst in.
They came following a hound that looked to be more wolf than dog, its cry more a howl than a bark. It padded straight toward the inglenook. The patrons exclaimed in horror and fright and leaped out of its way, overturning chairs and tables in their haste.
Dolan looked up and saw the hound coming. “Nooooo!” he wailed, hands up to shield him. “Save me, goodfolk!”
But the dog stopped inches from him, growling a threat. Dolan climbed up on his stool and pressed himself back into the inglenook, still wailing his denial and staring at the beast in terror.
“Down with you, then!” A soldier struck his knees with a spear shaft, and the poor man fell with a scream.
The soldier yanked him upright, and Dolan yammered, “But I’ve done nothing!”
“You’ve spoken against the prince!” The sergeant’s voice rang through the great common room. “Don’t try to deny it! We know!”
“Sit down, my masters,” Sergeant Brock muttered, yanking at Mart’s sleeve.
Matt looked down in surprise; he hadn’t even realized he’d stood up. Sir Orizhan stared, too, looking down at himself.
“We can’t let them haul him away just for being drunk,” Matt muttered, but it was halfhearted.
“You can’t throw away a kingdom for a single drunken fool!” Brock hissed. “Sit down, my masters, for if you fight the king’s men-at-arms, everyone will know you for what you are!”
It was a point well taken—they couldn’t compromise the whole mission, and risk the war they might prevent, to save one single man. Matt forced himself to sit, and Sir Orizhan, equally reluctantly, sat, too, and watched the soldiers drag Dolan out, wailing and weeping.
“Be calm, Sir Knights,” Brock muttered. “We do not know what punishment they will give him, after all.”
“True,” Matt said stiffly. Since Dolan was just a drunken loudmouth, presumably the punishment wouldn’t be terribly severe.
“It is not as though he were really talking treason, after all,” Sir Orizhan muttered, but he didn’t look convinced.
The door closed behind them all, dog, soldiers, and victim, and the patrons turned back to talking to one another, trying to strike up conversations again—but their efforts were subdued and listless. Finally the innkeeper called, “Your songs, minstrel! Are you not one who has the gift of raising folks’ spirits?”