Kerry and I would be sent to fetch a nav­ig­ator gone to say good­bye to his wife, or to bear a sampling of spices to a buyer at a shop. The har­bour­mas­ter might send us run­ning to let a crew know some fool had tied the lines wrong and the tide was about to aban­don their ship. But I liked best the er­rands that took us into the tav­erns. There the storytellers and gos­sips plied their trades. The storytellers told the clas­sic tales, of voy­ages of dis­cov­ery and crews who braved ter­rible storms and of fool­ish cap­tains who took down their ships with all hands. I learned many of the tra­di­tional ones by heart, but the tales I loved best came not from the pro­fes­sional storytellers but from the sail­ors them­selves. These were not the tales told at the hearths for all to hear, but the warn­ings and tid­ings passed from crew to crew as the men shared a bottle of brandy or a loaf of yel­low pol­len-bread.

  They spoke of catches they’d made, nets full to sink­ing the boat, or of mar­vel­lous fish and beasts glimpsed only in the path of a full moon as it cut a ship’s wake. There were stor­ies of vil­lages raided by Outis­landers, both on the coast and on the outly­ing is­lands of our duchy, the tales of pir­ates and battles at sea and ships taken by treach­ery from within. Most grip­ping were the tales of the Red Ship Raid­ers, Outis­landers who both raided and pir­ated, and at­tacked not only our ships and towns but even other Outis­lander ships. Some scoffed at the no­tion of the red-keeled ships, and mocked those who told of Outis­lander pir­ates turn­ing against oth­ers like them­selves.

  But Kerry and I and Nosy would sit un­der the tables with our backs braced against the legs, nib­bling penny sweetloaves, and listen wide-eyed to tales of red-keeled ships with a dozen bod­ies swinging from their yar­darms, not dead, no, but bound men who jerked and shrieked when the gulls came down to peck at them. We would listen to de­li­ciously scary tales un­til even the stuffy tav­erns seemed chilling cold, and then we would race down to the docks again, to earn an­other penny.

  Once Kerry, Molly and I built a raft of drift­wood logs and poled it about un­der the docks. We left it tied up there, and when the tide came up, it battered loose a whole sec­tion of dock and dam­aged two skiffs. For days we dreaded that someone would dis­cover we were the cul­prits. And one time a tav­ern-keeper boxed Kerry’s ears and ac­cused us both of steal­ing. Our re­venge was the stink­ing her­ring we wedged up un­der the sup­ports of his table-tops. It rot­ted and stank and made flies for days be­fore he found it.

  I learned a smat­ter­ing of trades in my travels: fish-buy­ing, net-mend­ing, boat-build­ing and id­ling. I learned even more of hu­man nature. I be­came a quick judge of who would ac­tu­ally pay the prom­ised penny for a mes­sage de­livered, and who would just laugh at me when I came to col­lect. I knew which baker could be begged from, and which shops were easi­est to thieve from. And through it all, Nosy was at my side, so bon­ded to me now that I sel­dom sep­ar­ated my mind com­pletely from his. I used his nose, his eyes and his jaws as freely as my own, and never thought it the least bit strange.

  So the bet­ter part of the sum­mer passed. But one fine day, with the sun rid­ing a sky bluer than the sea, my good for­tune came at last to an end. Molly, Kerry and I had pilfered a fine string of liver saus­ages from a smoke-house and were flee­ing down the street with the right­ful owner in pur­suit. Nosy was with us, as al­ways. The other chil­dren had come to ac­cept him as a part of me. I don’t think it ever oc­curred to them to won­der at our single­ness of mind. New­boy and Nosy we were, and they prob­ably thought it but a clever trick that Nosy would know be­fore I threw where to be to catch our shared bounty. Thus there were ac­tu­ally four of us, ra­cing down the cluttered street, passing the saus­ages from grubby hand to damp jaws and back to hand again while be­hind us the owner bel­lowed and chased us in vain.

  Then Burrich stepped out of a shop.

  I was run­ning to­ward him. We re­cog­nized one an­other in a mo­ment of mu­tual dis­may. The black­ness of the look that ap­peared on his face left me no doubts about my con­duct. Flee, I de­cided in a breath, and dodged away from his reach­ing hands, only to dis­cover in sud­den be­fuddle­ment that I had some­how run right into him.

  I do not like to dwell on what happened next. I was soundly cuffed, not only by Burrich but by the en­raged owner of the saus­ages. All my fel­low cul­prits save Nosy evap­or­ated into the nooks and cran­nies of the street. Nosy came bel­ly­ing up to Burrich, to be cuffed and scol­ded. I watched in agony as Burrich took coins from his pouch to pay the saus­age man. He kept a grip on the back of my shirt that nearly lif­ted me off my feet. When the saus­age man had de­par­ted and the little crowd who had gathered to watch my dis­com­fit­ure were dis­pers­ing, he fi­nally re­leased me. I wondered at the look of dis­gust he gave me. With one more back­han­ded cuff on the back of my head, he com­manded, ‘Get home. Now.’

  We did, more speedily than ever we had be­fore. We found our pal­let be­fore the hearth, and waited in trep­id­a­tion. And waited, and waited, through the long af­ter­noon and into early even­ing. Both of us got hungry, but knew bet­ter than to leave. There had been some­thing in Burrich’s face more fright­en­ing than even the an­ger of Molly’s papa.

  When Burrich did come, full night was in place. We heard his step on the stair, and I did not need Nosy’s keener senses to know that Burrich had been drink­ing. We shrank in on ourselves as he let him­self into the dimmed room. His breath­ing was heavy, and it took him longer than usual to kindle sev­eral tapers from the single one I had set out. That done, he dropped onto a bench and re­garded the two of us. Nosy whined, and then fell over on his side in puppy sup­plic­a­tion. I longed to do the same, but con­ten­ted my­self with look­ing up at him fear­fully. After a mo­ment, he spoke.

  ‘Fitz. What’s to come of you? What’s to come of us both? Run­ning with beg­gar-thieves in the streets, with the blood of kings in your veins. Pack­ing up like an­im­als.’

  I didn’t speak.

  ‘And me as much to blame as you, I sup­pose. Come here, then. Come here, boy.’

  I ven­tured a step or two closer. I didn’t like com­ing too close.

  Burrich frowned at my cau­tion. ‘Are you hurt, boy?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then come here.’

  I hes­it­ated, and Nosy whined in an agony of in­de­cision.

  Burrich glanced down at him in puz­zle­ment. I could see his mind work­ing through a wine-in­duced haze. His eyes went from the pup to me and back again, and a sickened look spread across his face. He shook his head. Slowly he stood and walked away from the table and the pup, fa­vour­ing his dam­aged leg. In the corner of the cham­ber there was a small rack, sup­port­ing an as­sort­ment of dusty tools and ob­jects. Slowly Burrich reached up and took one down. It was made of wood and leather, stiff with dis­use. He swung it, and the short leather lash smacked smartly against his leg. ‘Know what this is, boy?’ he asked gently, in a kind voice.

  I shook my head mutely.

  ‘Dog whip.’

  I looked at him blankly. There was noth­ing in my ex­per­i­ence or Nosy’s to tell me how to re­act to this. He must have seen my con­fu­sion. He smiled gen­i­ally and his voice re­mained friendly, but I sensed some­thing hid­den in his man­ner, some­thing wait­ing.

  ‘It’s a tool, fitz. A teach­ing device. When you get a pup that won’t mind – when you say to a pup, “come here”, and the pup re­fuses to come – well, a few sharp lashes from this and the pup learns to listen and obey the first time. Just a few sharp cuts is all it takes to make a pup learn to mind.’ He spoke cas­u­ally as he lowered the whip and let the short lash dance lightly over the floor. Neither Nosy nor I could take our eyes off it, and when he sud­denly flipped the whole ob­ject at Nosy, the pup gave a yelp of ter­ror and leaped back from it, and then rushed to cower be­hind me.

  And Burrich sank down slowly, cov­er­ing his eyes as he fol­ded him­self onto a bench by the fire­place. ‘Oh, Eda,’ he breathed, between a curse and a prayer. ‘I guessed, I sus­pec­ted, when I saw you run­ning to­gether like that, but damn El’s eyes, I didn’t want to be right. I didn’t want to be right. I’ve never hit a pup with that damn thing in my life. Nosy had no reason to fear it. Not un­less you’d been shar­ing minds with him.’

  Whatever the danger had been, I sensed that it had passed. I sank down to sit be­side Nosy, who crawled up into my lap and nosed at my face anxiously. I quieted him, sug­gest­ing we wait to see what happened next. Boy and pup, we sat, watch­ing Burrich’s still­ness. When he fi­nally raised his face, I was astoun­ded to see that he looked as if he had been cry­ing. ‘Like my mother,’ I re­mem­ber think­ing, but oddly I can­not now re­call an im­age of her weep­ing. Only of Burrich’s grieved face.

  ‘Fitz. Boy. Come here,’ he said softly, and this time there was some­thing in his voice that could not be dis­obeyed. I rose and went to him, Nosy at my heels. ‘No,’ he said to the pup, and poin­ted to a place by his boot, but me he lif­ted onto the bench be­side him.

  ‘Fitz,’ he began, and then paused. He took a deep breath and star­ted again. ‘Fitz, this is wrong. It’s bad, very bad, what you’ve been do­ing with this pup. It’s un­nat­ural. It’s worse than steal­ing or ly­ing. It makes a man less than a man. Do you un­der­stand me?’

  I looked at him blankly. He sighed, and tried again.

  ‘Boy, you’re of the royal blood. Bas­tard or not, you’re Chiv­alry’s own son, of the old line. And this thing you’re do­ing, it’s wrong. It’s not worthy of you. Do you un­der­stand?’

  I shook my head mutely.

  ‘There, you see. You’re not talk­ing any more. Now talk to me. Who taught you to do this?’

  I tried. ‘Do what?’ My voice felt creaky and rough.

  Burrich’s eyes grew rounder. I sensed his ef­fort at con­trol. ‘You know what I mean. Who taught you to be with the dog, in his mind, see­ing things with him, let­ting him see with you, telling each other things?’

  I mulled this over for a mo­ment. Yes, that was what had been hap­pen­ing. ‘No one,’ I answered at last. ‘It just happened. We were to­gether a lot,’ I ad­ded, think­ing that might ex­plain it.

  Burrich re­garded me gravely. ‘You don’t speak like a child,’ he ob­served sud­denly. ‘But I’ve heard that was the way of it, with those who had the old Wit. That from the be­gin­ning, they were never truly chil­dren. They al­ways knew too much, and as they got older, they knew even more. That was why it was never ac­coun­ted a crime, in the old days, to hunt them down and burn them. Do you un­der­stand what I’m telling you, fitz?’

  I shook my head, and when he frowned at my si­lence, I forced my­self to add, ‘But I’m try­ing. What is the old Wit?’

  Burrich looked in­cred­u­lous, then sus­pi­cious. ‘Boy!’ he threatened me, but I only looked at him. After a mo­ment, he con­ceded my ig­nor­ance.

  ‘The Wit,’ he began slowly. His face darkened, and he looked down at his hands as if re­mem­ber­ing an an­cient sin. ‘It’s the power of the beast blood, just as the Skill comes from the line of kings. It starts out like a bless­ing, giv­ing you the tongues of the an­im­als. But then it seizes you and draws you down, makes you a beast like the rest of them. Un­til fi­nally there’s not a shred of hu­man­ity in you, and you run and give tongue and taste blood, as if the pack were all you had ever known. Un­til no man could look on you and think you had ever been a man.’ His voice had be­come lower and lower as he spoke, and he had not looked at me, but had turned to the fire and stared into the fail­ing flames there. ‘There’s some as say a man takes on the shape of a beast then, but he kills with a man’s pas­sion rather than a beast’s simple hun­ger. Kills for the killing …

  ‘Is that what you want, fitz? To take the blood of kings that’s in you, and drown it in the blood of the wild hunt? To be as a beast among beasts, simply for the sake of the know­ledge it brings you? Worse yet, think on what comes be­fore. Will the scent of fresh blood touch off your tem­per, will the sight of prey shut down your thoughts?’ His voice grew softer still, and I heard the sick­ness he felt as he asked me, ‘Will you wake fevered and as­weat be­cause some­where a bitch is in sea­son and your com­pan­ion scents it? Will that be the know­ledge you take to your lady’s bed?’

  I sat small be­side him. ‘I do not know,’ I said in a little voice.

  He turned to face me, out­raged. ‘You don’t know?’ he growled. ‘I tell you where it will lead, and you say you don’t know?’

  My tongue was dry in my mouth and Nosy cowered at my feet. ‘But I don’t know,’ I pro­tested. ‘How can I know what I’ll do, un­til I’ve done it? How can I say?’

  ‘Well, if you can’t say, I can!’ he roared, and I sensed then in full how he had banked the fires of his tem­per, and also how much he’d drunk that night. ‘The pup goes and you stay. You stay here, in my care, where I can keep an eye on you. If Chiv­alry will not have me with him, it’s the least I can do for him. I’ll see that his son grows up a man, and not a wolf. I’ll do it if it kills both of us!’

  He lurched from the bench to seize Nosy by the scruff of the neck. At least, such was his in­ten­tion. But the pup and I sprang clear of him. To­gether we rushed for the door, but the latch was fastened and be­fore I could work it, Burrich was upon us. Nosy he shoved aside with his boot; me he seized by a shoulder and pro­pelled me away. ‘Come here, pup,’ he com­manded, but Nosy fled to my side. Burrich stood pant­ing and glar­ing by the door, and I caught the growl­ing un­der­cur­rent of his thoughts, the fury that taunted him to smash us both and be done with it. Con­trol over­lay it, but that brief glimpse was enough to ter­rify me. And when he sud­denly sprang at us, I re­pelled at him with all the force of my fear.

  He dropped as sud­denly as a bird stoned in flight, and sat for a mo­ment on the floor. I stooped and clutched Nosy to me. Burrich slowly shook his head as if shak­ing rain­drops from his hair. He stood, tower­ing over us. ‘It’s in his blood,’ I heard him mut­ter to him­self. ‘From his damned mother’s blood, and I shouldn’t be sur­prised. But the boy has to be taught.’ And then, as he looked me full in the eye, he warned me, ‘Fitz. Never do that to me again. Never. Now, give me that pup.’

  He ad­vanced on us again, and as I felt the lap of his hid­den wrath, I could not con­tain my­self. I re­pelled at him again. But this time my de­fence was met by a wall that hurled it back at me, so that I stumbled and sank down, al­most faint­ing, my mind pressed down by black­ness. Burrich stooped over me. ‘I warned you,’ he said softly, and his voice was like the growl­ing of a wolf. Then, for the last time, I felt his fin­gers grip Nosy’s scruff. He lif­ted the pup bod­ily, and car­ried him, not roughly, to the door. The latch that had eluded me he worked swiftly, and in mo­ments I heard the heavy tromp of his boots down the stair.

  In a mo­ment I had re­covered and was up, fling­ing my­self against the door. But Burrich had locked it some­how, for I scrabbled vainly at the catch. My sense of Nosy re­ceded as he was car­ried farther and farther from me, leav­ing in its place a des­per­ate loneli­ness. I whimpered, then howled, claw­ing at the door, and seek­ing after my con­tact with him. There was a sud­den flash of red pain, and Nosy was gone. As his can­ine senses deser­ted me com­pletely, I screamed and cried as any six-year-old might, and hammered vainly at the thick wood planks.

  It seemed hours be­fore Burrich re­turned. I heard his step, and lif­ted my head from where I lay pant­ing and ex­hausted on the door­step. He opened the door, and then caught me deftly by the back of my shirt as I tried to dart past him. He jerked me back into the room, and then slammed the door and fastened it again. I flung my­self word­lessly against it, and a whim­per­ing rose in my throat. Burrich sat down wear­ily.

  ‘Don’t even think it, boy,’ he cau­tioned me, as if he could hear my wild plans for the next time he let me out. ‘He’s gone. The pup’s gone, and a damn shame, for he was good blood. His line was nearly as long as yours. But I’d rather waste a hound than a man.’ When I did not move, he ad­ded, al­most kindly, ‘Let go of long­ing after him. It hurts less, that way.’

  But I did not, and I could hear in his voice that he hadn’t really ex­pec­ted me to. He sighed, and moved slowly as he read­ied him­self for bed. He didn’t speak to me again, just ex­tin­guished the lamp and settled him­self on his bed. But he did not sleep, and it was still hours short of morn­ing when he rose and lif­ted me from the floor and placed me in the warm place his body had left in the blankets. He went out again, and did not re­turn for some hours.

  As for me, I was heart­sick and fe­ver­ish for days. Burrich, I be­lieve, let it be known that I had some child­ish ail­ment, and so I was left in peace. It was days be­fore I was al­lowed out again, and then it was not on my own.

  Af­ter­ward, Burrich was at pains to see that I was given no chance to bond with any beast. I am sure he thought he’d suc­ceeded, and to some ex­tent he did, in that I did not form an ex­clus­ive bond with any hound or horse. I know he meant well. But I did not feel pro­tec­ted by him, but con­fined. He was the warden that en­sured my isol­a­tion with fan­at­ical fer­vour. Ut­ter loneli­ness was planted in me then, and sent its deep roots down into me.

  THREE

  Cov­en­ant

  The ori­ginal source of the Skill will prob­ably re­main forever shrouded in mys­tery. Cer­tainly a pen­chant for it runs re­mark­ably strong within the royal fam­ily, and yet it is not solely con­fined to the King’s house­hold. There does seem to be some truth to the folk say­ing, ‘When the sea blood flows with the blood of the plains, the Skill will blos­som’. It is in­ter­est­ing to note that the Outis­landers seem to have no pre­dilec­tion for the Skill, nor the folk des­cen­ded solely from the ori­ginal in­hab­it­ants of the Six Duch­ies.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60