“And you still don’t understand anything about staying quiet until it’s your turn,” said Tiamak sternly. “Don’t fear, Brother. Madi’s a good man, even if his tongue wags a bit too much. He’s been to Kwanitupul and Nabban and all over the South. And he’s also very, very good with horses.”
“I can find ’em by smell, I can train ’em from colts, and I can make ’em dance if someone plays the music. That’s my Hyrka blood.”
“You’re a Hyrka?” All Etan knew about Hyrkas was what everyone knew, that they were wild folk who moved around. He had only ever seen them at local markets, where they sold inexpensive trinkets and mended pots and pans. He had heard that they also had a magical way with horses, and certainly those animals he had seen attached to Hyrka carts had looked healthy enough.
“Aye, my lovely man, that I am. Our wheels never rest.”
Etan turned in confusion to Tiamak. “Do I really need a guide?”
“You are on royal business, Brother, do not forget. What if something happens to you? What if you fall and hit your head—who will tend you? Who will tell us where you are? The men of some monkish orders may travel as solitaries, but that is not the way to conduct the business of the king and queen.”
“Then it seems to make more sense to send a larger party. What if we are attacked by bandits?”
Tiamak wagged his finger. “Do not try to teach an old uncle how to dig for turtle eggs. There is a balance in this, as in all things. Too many people traveling and everyone will be curious about your business. People will find you just to sell information, and that is likely to be only what the seller thinks you want to hear. And those who do not want you to discover the answers you seek will also know of your coming. It is like a long journey through the swamp by boat. One person may disappear without trace. Too many will sink the canoe. No, there is a balance, and Madi will perform many useful tasks for the amount I am paying him.”
“For the pittance you are paying me, my sweet little lord,” the Hyrka said loudly, laughing. “Surely that’s what you mean.”
“Silence, Madi.” Tiamak turned to Etan. “That is a phrase you will find very useful, by the by. I suggest you memorize it.”
Etan just stood. He understood Tiamak’s logic, but the idea of having a companion, especially one who seemed so unlike himself, was daunting. Where would he find the quiet hours to pray?
Madi was grinning. “Here, you’ve scared the poor fellow to death, Lord Tiamak. Don’t fear, Brother. I won’t rob you and leave you dead by the road. I like priests. And I like Lord Tiamak. Lovely fellow for a mud man.”
“Considering you’re not getting paid more than what your food and expenses will cost until you finish the job to my satisfaction,” Tiamak told him, “I suggest you find a more respectful name to call me than ‘mud man.’”
“Begging your pardon, Lord,” said Madi. “You are right, so right.” But he did not seem particularly chastened.
Tiamak handed the purse to Etan. “This must last you until you reach Kwanitupul. Do not let this reprobate use it to buy drink, whatever he tells you. He is a good man, I swear that he is, but he is a worthless devil when he’s been drinking.”
“Ah, but I have truly given it up, my lord,” said Madi. “The poison will not pass my lips again. I am a changed man. Did you know, dear one, I’ve even married my wife!”
“What does that mean?” Etan asked, interested despite himself.
“He can tell you later,” Tiamak said. “I am sure it is a story that will take up many hours of travel between here and Meremund, where you will take ship for Nabban. But right now the packet is waiting for you both, and I still have more to say.” Tiamak drew a bundle wrapped in oilcloth from under his robe. “I myself copied these for you so you could take them with you. They are letters from Prince Josua and other Scrollbearers, from the year before he vanished. They may help you in your quest. At the least, they will give you some idea of the kind of man that Prince Josua was, why he was so loved and why his loss has been felt so keenly.”
“I will read them all, my lord,” said Etan, taking the package.
“You may write to me as well. In the bundle you will find a list of places where you can find someone to carry letters safely back here to the Hayholt. I hope you share any news you find as quickly as is possible. The king and queen are most anxious to learn about the prince and his children.”
“Of course. I will write as often as I can.”
“Don’t worry too much about how often,” said Tiamak with a smile. “Write when you have something important to tell me or something important to ask. I suspect this task will keep you quite busy, and you will be traveling as well.”
Somebody on the ship’s boat was ringing a bell.
“That means they are waiting for you,” said Tiamak. “Have you been on boat or ship before?”
“Boats? Only as a boy. Only on the shallow bits of the Ymstrecca.”
“Well, as you will see, the Gleniwent is different from any stream, and the ocean is more different still. Do not fear. The Princess is a fine ship and its captain is one of Erkynland’s best. He will have you in Meremund in a day or so, and then I have bought you passage on a respectable merchant ship around the Horn of Nabban and into Firannos Bay. It will be fine weather for traveling, and I’m sure you will be in Kwanitupul before the Day of the Sister Saints.”
Etan’s heart sank at the thought of a month on pitching, rolling ships, but he had promised both his God and his monarchs that he would perform this task, so he gave Tiamak a sickly smile and clasped his hand. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my best.”
“You will do splendidly, I know.” He looked over the monk’s shoulder. “You had better hurry, now, Brother. Madi is already taking your bag onto the landing boat.”
Etan turned to see that the scrawny Hyrkaman was indeed dragging his precious possessions up the gangplank and onto the boat, which was piled so high with jars and sacks that the brackish water of the castle harbor almost reached the rails.
Several of the oarsmen made the sign of the Tree as Etan passed. For a moment, as he squeezed himself into a spot in the center of the boat between two sacks of grain, that cheered him. Then Madi came and squatted beside him. “Don’t take it to heart, Brother, sir.”
“What?”
“Sailors always hate having a priest on board. Bad luck, they say. In the old days, sometimes they’d push one overboard in a bad storm or when the kilpa-beasts were particular bad, just to see if it helped.” He noticed Etan’s expression. “Oh, but they don’t do that no more, sir. Not this close to shore, anyway.”
Etan closed his eyes and began to pray as the lines were loosed and the little boat steered toward the sea gate and the Kynslagh beyond.
Pasevalles found Sir Porto in the guard barracks, where the old soldier still had a bed, despite having passed beyond his years of useful service. Unlike many of the other knights, Porto was not descended from landed gentry—his knighthood had been bestowed for deeds of honor in the long-ago war against the Norns—so without his place in the barracks the ancient soldier would have had nowhere to go. That, along with the pittance soldiers were paid, even when they were too old or injured to fight, had been one of King Simon’s cleverest ideas, Pasevalles had long thought, and it had helped to cement the loyalty of his guardsmen.
“You have heard the news, I’m sure,” said Pasevalles.
Porto was sitting on his cot, a pile of meager belongings lying beside him, but he rose to bend an ancient knee. “I am to go east, Lord Chancellor, with the prince. We are in search of the fairies, I am told.”
“You sound as if that were a punishment, not an honor,” Pasevalles said.
Porto gestured helplessly. “I have only just returned from the north. I am old, m’lord, and tired.”
“You are old, yes, but presumably age has brought you some wisdom as well. Did you know you were picked out of all other companions by the king himself?”
Porto brightened a little. “Is that true? The messenger said something like it, but I did not believe it. I thought it just a bit of honey glaze on a tough hock of beef.”
“Yes, it’s true. It is as much to gain wisdom as anything else that the prince is being sent. Have you any wisdom you haven’t used up yet?”
“I hope so, my lord.” Porto’s shoulders sagged again. “But I have only one horse, and he is near as old as I am. I fear he will not survive a second long journey so soon.”
“Then rejoice, because I have arranged a new mount for you. A handsome, strong young charger from the Stanshire grasslands, out of my own stable. You may come see him, if you wish.”
“Truly? My lord, you are too good.” Porto looked a bit more hopeful. “I only hope I can prove deserving of such kindness.”
“You will, if you listen to me now.” Pasevalles crouched so that his eyes were level with Porto’s, a strange and seemingly ignoble thing for a noble of his importance to do. “Prince Morgan must come home again. He must return hale and hearty.”