The Forlorn(57)

Shafts of leaf-speckled moonlight came spilling down onto them through the ragged edge of the storm clouds as they came out of their makeshift shelter. Her hair was wet and plastered against her skull. It only served to accentuate the high cheekbones and big eyes further. She turned to face him, bit her lip, and tumbled into speech. "I came to sleep with you. To get you to take me to my father."

Keilin was silent for a minute. Then prudence won. "You don't have to. I said I would do that anyway. Now, go back to bed." He pushed her away roughly and immediately turned to the saddlebag and began taking out his bedroll. When, after some studied minutes, he looked up again, she was gone. But it was a long time before he got to sleep that night. And riding the next day was pure agony. But at least he didn't have to avoid her as well. She was doing that with more skill than he had.

The days that followed were hard, pushing both the horses and riders to their limits. It suited Keilin. When they stopped he pushed himself still harder, chopping firewood, fetching water while the others sat owl-eyed and exhausted. He even forced Beywulf into weapons drills. By the time Keilin lay down in the evening, sleep was close to euthanasia.

Once again they'd come down off the plateaus, this time into country which would lift any man's spirits. The rolling hills were rich and verdant. The grass was soft with flowers, the streams clear and laughing. The farmers were cheery and prosperous. Even the ants seemed fat and lazy. But Keilin resisted its appeal, staying locked into a frustrated anger.

Port Lockry was a neat thatch-and-whitewash town, set in a gap in the sea cliff, built around a well-constructed harbor mole. From a mile away it looked the picture of prosperity and comfort. Like all fishing towns it smelt of tar and fish. It also reeked of fear. People scurried about in little knots of agitation, talking anxiously. They eyed the hard-ridden, well-armed group of strangers with suspicion. The party rode past the smithy, where a queue of townsfolk waited. By the smoke and din from within, the smith was working furiously. Keilin saw the plump burgher at the head of the queue paying over gold, and no small amount, for the clumsy sword he was receiving. By the way he was holding it, thought Keilin, with all the scorn of the newly skilled, it wouldn't matter that the thing would bend at his first strike.

"We should make for the Silver Anchor, Cap. It's the best tavern for picking up news of ships with a berth or two," said Beywulf, hopefulness in his voice.

"No doubt also with the best beer," Cap said dryly. "Still, I dare say you're right. Might be a good idea to find out just what is going on around here. Something has got a normally quiet town's fat little folk running around like newly beheaded chickens."

The Silver Anchor was full and noisy, unusual for a sailor's and fisherman's pub at eleven in the morning. Elbowing through a mixture of drunken fishermen and crying-in-their-beer burghers, they fought their way through to the bar. Cap's commanding presence found them service and the attention of the hard-pressed barman. "We'll have four pints and two halves. And we're needful of finding passage on a good ship bound to northern waters. Do you know of any vessels heading up the coast?"

The barman drew the beers from the barrel without a word, and placed the tankards on the scarred and stained bar top. He wiped his hands on his apron. "That'll be six silver," he said, his voice flat.

Keilin took the half pushed at him. A half! Like a child. He was sixteen, dammit. Then he saw the Princess's face and lost some of his own anger in amusement. She was obviously just as displeased at being given a smaller tankard, but, as she'd just taken her first sip, it looked like the thought that she might have to drink all of it was vying with her chagrin. In the meanwhile Cap waited, his eyes holding the barman like a fly trapped in a pool of his own beer. Finally Cap said quietly, but in the sort of voice that stopped conversations all around them, "You haven't answered my question, ale draper."

Forty years of working in a dockside tavern had taught him to recognize trouble when it stared him between the eyes. It was one of those things you learned quickly or you didn't survive. This barman had once been a county champion wrestler, and the fact that he welcomed brawls had tended to discourage them. Today he was feeling too old for bruises. And the squat hairy one next to the tall fellow had brawl written all over his wide countenance. But before he could step back and bring the heavy metal-grid shutter slamming down, Cap's long fingers closed on his shirtfront. Without any sign of effort on the tall man's part, he lifted the three-hundred-and-twenty-pound barman, and pulled him half across the bar counter.

"Don't even think about it, friend. Just answer my questions and we'll get along peacefully. What's going on here? Normally every bloody barman in a port town would give you the names of three skippers going anywhere, including hell. Have they stopped giving you kickbacks?" Cap asked, in the sort of voice used when discussing the weather.