“I don’t reckon so,” Mitt said, almost equally worried.
“I’ll give a false name,” Maewen said, “if anyone asks.”
“A wise precaution,” Navis agreed. “At times like this I could wish Mitt and I were not so obviously Southerners.”
The Hannart horsemen had vanished by the time they came round the clump of trees and saw the Lawschool. Maewen had another moment of sheer surprise. She had known the school would have to be the oldest part of the college she and Aunt Liss had visited, but she had expected that this would be the part with all the towers and tall, pointed windows. She had not expected it would be these low, graceful greenish buildings topped with clusters of long, stylish chimneys. The windows were wide, one and all, and they had diamond panes. In the middle, an elegant archway filled by a wrought-iron gate joined two blocks of the buildings together. The rest were joined by a high stone wall.
“Looks a good place for studying,” Mitt said. He tried to smile, but he knew his face had gone pinched and worried. Those Hannart riders were inside. He could glimpse horses between the bars of the gate.
By the time they reached the gate, there was nothing to be seen through it but a garden and a cobbled path leading away between lavender bushes. An official walked to the middle of the gate. Maewen bit the inside of her mouth, or she would have laughed. He was wearing exactly the same uniform that the porters at the college wore in her day: baggy knee-length breeches and tunic in dark blue, with a wide white collar. It was obviously old-fashioned even two hundred years before that. He had bad teeth. She saw them as he spoke.
“Visitors for Sending Day? Which of the scholars are you for?”
Navis hesitated a fraction because of those riders from Hannart. “Hildrida Navissdaughter,” he said, with a shrug you could only have seen if you knew him.
“And I’m for Brid Clennensdaughter,” Moril called from the cart.
The porter smiled at them. Maewen had to look away from his teeth. “I’m sorry for it, but you’re all too early. Sending Day doesn’t start till midday. Come back then, and I’ll let you in with pleasure. You’re not the only ones I’ve had to turn away. You’ll find the town’s full of you. But,” he said to Hestefan, “you can come half an hour ahead if you want to set up to sing. The other Singer will be coming back then.”
Hestefan frowned to hear of another Singer to compete with and began to turn the cart round. “Thank you. I shall only perform in the town then. But my apprentice will be back to see his sister.”
Nobody pointed out that the riders from Hannart had been let in at once. Nobody even remarked that since they had been let in, this meant they were not just a chance band of hearthmen but members of the Earl’s household on important business. Yet they all knew it, even Maewen. They rode back the way they had come very soberly.
The other Singer was now camped just outside the town. They saw him as soon as they came round the trees, a neat black, white, and gold cart at the edge of the wide green, surrounded by sacks and bundles of provisions. Someone—presumably the Singer—was sorting through the bundles in a rather hopeless way.
Moril, at the sight, tugged excitedly at Hestefan’s arm. Hestefan whipped up the mule. The green cart, in a most uncharacteristic way, went rollicking and bumping across the turf toward the black and white one. Moril stood up on the seat, waving and shrieking, “Dagner! Dagner!”
The Singer, a slightly built young man with reddish hair, who looked very little older than Mitt, had just picked up one of the sacks. He turned round at the noise and let out a bellow of his own. “Hestefan! MORIL!” He dropped the sack and came racing over to hang on to the step of the green cart, laughing as if this was the most wonderful meeting in the world. The three of them fell into instant eager talk.
As Maewen came up with Navis and Mitt, she thought she had never seen Hestefan look so animated. They hung about a short distance away, none of them sure how private the Singers wanted to be, and admired the new Singer’s turnout. The horse, which was enjoying a nosebag, was as black and glossy as the black paint on the cart, and its harness was white. The austere colors served to show up the fact that instead of a name painted on the cart, there was a large and complicated coat of arms.
Moril turned and shouted to them, “It’s my brother! Isn’t it wonderful! Dastgandlen Handagner!”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” Mitt said, decidedly impressed. “Aberath folk said he was the best.”
“Let us be introduced,” Navis said.
But before they had come within talking distance, Moril had said something to Dagner which seemed to alarm him acutely. Dagner backed away from the green cart, asking anxious questions. Next moment he was running for his cart and hurling the sacks and bundles in anyhow, latching the tailgate, and running again to take the nose bag off the horse. The horse’s head came up. It looked as surprised as everyone else. “Sorry, Stiles,” Dagner called out. “Later.” With that he was in the driving seat and untying the reins, and the cart was in motion. All in seconds.
“But what about Brid?” Moril yelled.
“You’re here now. You can give her my love!” Dagner shouted back. “Get up, Stiles. I want your best pace.” The horse broke into a trot. The black and white cart went in a swift near circle past Navis, Mitt, and Maewen. Dagner leaned out to call as he passed, “I’d have followed you, too, lady, if this hadn’t happened!”
Maewen realized he was talking to her and managed to shoot a smile in reply. Then the horse was going faster still. The black and white cart went careering away into the distance, raising a cloud of moisture and grass seeds behind its flying wheels.
“What got into him?” Mitt asked.
“I told him Fenna was hurt,” Moril said. “He’s in love with her. He’s going straight to Adenmouth by the green road above Hannart.” It was clear Moril was very pleased by his brother’s devotion.
“And why does he carry a coat of arms?” asked Navis. “It looked like the arms of the South Dales to me.”
Moril grimaced. This was something which did not seem to please him so much. “It is,” he said. “Dagner’s Earl of the South Dales. Since last year, when our cousin got killed. He told me Earl Keril made him put the arms on his cart, but I know Dagner only agreed because it takes up less space than his names do.” He looked fondly after the galloping cart. “Dagner’s only proud of being a Singer,” he said.
Navis had one eyebrow right, right up. “Is Tholian dead then?”
“Yes,” said Moril.
“Well, well,” said Navis. “One hesitates to say good riddance, since he was obviously a near relation of yours, but—”