‘Well enough. I lived close by when I was a boy. It’s changed a great deal since then.’
‘I’m from Tilth myself. Up on the Branedee Downs is where I grew up, though my mother was from Buck. Her family lived not far from Galeton; I know the area, for I ranged there as a child. But mostly we lived near the Downs, where my father was Huntsman for Lord Sitswell. My father taught both my brothers and me the skills of being a huntsman. When he died, my older brother took his position. My younger brother returned to live amongst my mother’s people. I stayed on, mostly training the coursing horses in Lord Sitswell’s stable. But when the Queen and her party came hunting there years ago, I turned out to help, for the party was so large. The Queen took a liking to me, and –’ she grinned proudly ‘– I’ve been her Huntswoman ever since.’
I was trying to think of something more to say when Lord Golden beckoned us both to come closer.
I urged the black forwards and when we were close, he announced, ‘Those were the last of the houses for a way. I did not want folks saying that we rode in great haste, but neither do I wish to miss this evening’s only ferry from Lampcross. So now, good people, we ride. And, Badgerlock, we’ll see if that black is truly as fleet as the horse-seller said. Keep up as best you can. I’ll hold the ferry for us all.’ So saying, he touched his heels to Malta and let out her reins. It was all the permission she required. She sprang forwards, showing us her heels.
‘My Whitecap can match her any day!’ Laurel proclaimed, and gave her horse her head.
Catch them! I suggested to the black, and was almost shocked at her competitive response. From a walk, she all but leapt into a run. The smaller horses had the lead on us. Packed mud flew up from their hooves, and Malta led only by virtue of the narrowing trail. My black’s longer stride diminished their lead until we were close behind them, getting the full benefit of the mud they threw. The sound of us behind them spurred them to greater effort and once more they pulled ahead of us. But I could feel that my black had not yet hit her peak. There was still unrealized reach in her stride, and the tempo of her gait said that she had not reached her hardest gallop. I tried to hold her back where the flying clods would not shower us so heartily, but she paid no heed to the rein. The moment the trail widened, she surged forwards into the gap, and in a few strides she passed them both. I heard them both cry out to their horses, and I thought they would overtake us. But like a lengthening wolfhound on the scent, my black reached out to seize even longer strides of the path and fling it behind us. I glanced back at them once, to see both their faces alight with the challenge.
Faster, I suggested to my black. I did not really think she had more speed in her, but as a flame roars up a dry tree, she surged forwards again. I laughed aloud at the pure joy of it, and saw her ears flicker in response. She did not reach towards my mind with any thought, but I felt a tentative glimmer of her approval. We would do well enough together.
We were first to reach Lampcross Ferry.
FIFTEEN
Galeton
Since the time of the Piebald Prince, the scouring of the Witted has been accepted within the Six Duchies as matter-of-factly as enforced labour for bad debt or flogging for thieves. It was the normal way of the world, and unquestioned. In the years following the Red Ship war, it was natural that the purging should begin in earnest. The Cleansing of Buck had freed the land of the Red Ship Raiders and the Forged ones they had created. Honest folk hoped to purify the Six Duchies of unnatural taints completely. Some were, perhaps, too swift to punish on little evidence. For a time, accusations of being Witted were enough to make any man, guilty or not, tremble for fear of his life.
The self-styled Piebalds took advantage of this climate of suspicion and violence. While not revealing themselves, they publicly exposed well-known figures who were possessed of the Wit but never spoke out against the persecution of their more vulnerable fellows. It was the first attempt by the Witted as a group to wield any sort of political power. Yet it was not the effort of a people to defend themselves against unjust persecution, but the underhanded tactic of a duplicitous faction determined to seize power for themselves by any available means. They had no more loyalty to themselves than a pack of dogs.
Delvin’s The Politics of the Piebald Cabal
As it turned out, my race to the ferry landing was of small use. The ferry was there and tied up, and so it would remain, the captain told me, until an expected cargo of two waggons of sea salt arrived. When Lord Golden and Laurel arrived, which, to speak fairly, was not so much longer after I did, the captain remained adamant. Lord Golden offered him a substantial purse to leave without the waggons, but the captain shook his head with a smile. ‘I’d have your coins once, and nice as they might clink, I could only spend them once. I wait for the waggons at Lady Bresinga’s request. Her coins come to me every week, and I’ll not do anything to risk her ill-will. You’ll have to wait, good sir, begging your pardon.’
Lord Golden was little pleased with this, but there was nothing he could do. He told me to remain there with the horses, and took himself off to the landing inn where he could have a mug of ale in comfort while he waited. It was in keeping with our roles, and I harboured no resentment. I told myself this several times. If Laurel had not been with us, perhaps he would have found a way for us to share some time without compromising our public roles. I had looked forwards to a companionable journey with him and time in which we did not have to maintain our fa?ade of master and servant but I resigned myself to what was necessary. Still, something of my regrets must have showed in my face, for Laurel came to keep pace with me as I walked the horses about in a field near the ferry landing. ‘Is something troubling you?’ she asked me.
I glanced at her in some surprise at the sympathy in her voice. ‘Just missing an old friend,’ I replied honestly.
‘I see,’ she answered, and when I offered no more on the topic, she observed, ‘You’ve a good master. He held no grudge against you that you beat him in our race. Many’s the master who would have found a way to make you regret your victory over him.’
The idea startled me, not as Tom Badgerlock but as Fitz. It had never occurred to me that the Fool might resent a race fairly won. Plainly I was not fully settled into my role. ‘That’s true, I suppose. But the victory was his as much as mine. He chose the horse, and at first I was not much impressed with the beast. But she can run, and in running she showed a spirit I didn’t suspect she had. I think I can make a good mount of her yet.’