My speech earned no rousing cheer, but Coddin bowed his head and we had no further mention of baths. A shame, truth be told, because I’d been looking forward to a hot tub ever since I decided to turn for home.
So Coddin left his second to command the garrison, and rode with us. His escort of two dozen riders swelled our numbers to nearly sixty. Makin carried a lance from the Ford armoury now, flying the Ancrath colours and royal crest. The garrison riders spread word through the villages as we passed. “Prince Jorg, Prince Jorg returned from the dead.” The news stole ahead of us, until each town presented a larger and better prepared reception. Captain Coddin sent a rider to the King before we left Chelny Ford, but even without his message, they would know of us in the Tall Castle well before we got there.
At Bains Town the bunting stretched across Main Street, six minstrels, sporting lute and clavichord, played “The King’s Sword” with more gusto than skill, jugglers exchanged twirling fire-brands, and a bear danced before the mill pond. And the crowds! People packed in so tight we’d no hope of riding through. A fat woman in a tent of a dress which was striped like a tourney pavilion saw me amid the van. She pointed and gave a shriek that drowned the minstrels out, “Prince Jorg! The Stolen Prince!” The whole place went mad at that, cheering and crying. They surged forward like wild things. Coddin had his men in quick, though. I forgave him his earlier slight for that. If peasants had reached Rike, we’d have had red slaughter.
On the Lich Road the brothers were more scared, but that’s the only time I’ve seen more fear in them than there at Bains Town. They none of them knew what to make of it. Grumlow’s left hand never left his dagger. Red Kent grinned like a maniac, terror in his eyes. Still, they’d learn fast enough. When they figured out the welcome that lay ahead. When they’d seen the taverns and the whores. Well, there’d be no dragging them out of Bains Town in a week.
One of the minstrels found a horn, and a harsh note cut through the tumult. Guards, red-robed with black chain beneath, cleared a path, and no less a man than Lord Nossar of Elm emerged before us. I recognized the man from court. He looked slightly fatter in his gilded show-plate and velvets, rather more grey in the beard spilling down over his breastplate, but pretty much the same jolly old Nossar who rode me on his shoulders once upon a time.
“Prince Jorg!” The old man’s voice broke for a moment. I could see tears shining in his eyes. It caught at me, that did. I felt it hook something in my chest. I didn’t like it.
“Lord Nossar,” I gave back, and let a smile curl my lip. The same smile I gave Gemt before I let him have my knife. I saw a flicker in Nossar’s eyes then. Just a moment of doubt.
He rallied himself. “Prince Jorg! Beyond all hope, you’ve returned to us. I cursed the messenger for a liar, but here you are.” He had the deepest voice, rich and golden. Old Nossar spoke and you knew it was truth, you knew he liked you, it wrapped you up all warm and safe, that voice did. “Will you honour my house, Prince Jorg, and stay a night?”
I could see the brothers exchanging glances, eyeing women in the crowd. The mill pond burned crimson with the dying sun. North, above the dark line of Rennat Forest, the smoke of Crath City stained a darkening sky.
“My lord, it’s a gracious invitation, but I mean to sleep in the Tall Castle tonight. I’ve been away too long,” I said.
I could see the worry on him. It hung on every crag of the man’s face. He wanted to say more, but not here. I wondered if Father set him to detain me.
“Prince . . .” He lifted a hand, his eyes seeking mine.
I felt that hook in my chest again. He would set me down in his high hall and talk of old times in that golden voice. He’d speak of William, and Mother. If there was a man who could disarm me, Nossar was that man.
“I thank you for the welcome, Lord Nossar.” I gave him court formality, curt and final.
I had to haul on the reins to turn Gerrod. I think even horses liked Nossar. I led the brothers around by the river trail, trampling over some farmer’s autumn turnips. The peasants cheered on, not sure what was happening, but cheering all the same.
We came to the Tall Castle by the cliff path, avoiding the sprawl of Crath City. The lights lay below us. Streets beaded with torchlight, the glow of fire and lamp rising from windows not yet shuttered against the cool of the night. The watchmen’s lanterns picked out the Old City wall, a skewed semicircle, tapering down to the river where the houses spilled out beyond the walls, into the valley, reaching out along the river. We came to the West Gate, the one place we could reach the High City without trailing up through the narrow streets of the Old City. The guards raised the portcullises for us, first one, then the next, then the next. Ten minutes of creaking windlass and clanking chain. I wondered why the three gates were down. Did our foes truly press so close we must triple-gate the High Wall?
The gate captain came out whilst his men sweated to raise the last portcullis. Archers watched from the battlements high above. No bunting here. I recognized the man vaguely, as old as Gomst, salt-and-pepper hair. It was his sour expression I recalled best, pinched around the mouth as if he’d just that moment sucked a lemon.
“Prince Jorg, we are told?” He peered up at me, raising his torch almost to my face. Evidently I had enough of the King’s look about me to satisfy his curiosity. He lowered the torch fast enough and took a step back. I’m told I have my father’s eyes. Maybe I do, though mine are darker. We could both give a stare that made men think again. I’ve always thought I look too girlish. My mouth too much the rosebud, my cheekbones too high and fine. It’s of no great consequence. I’ve learned to wear my face as a mask, and generally I can write what I choose on it.
The captain nodded to Captain Coddin. He passed his gaze over Makin without a flicker, missed Father Gomst in the crowd, and lingered instead on the Nuban, before casting a dubious eye over Rike.
“I can find accommodation for your men in the Low City, Prince Jorg,” he said. By the Low City he meant the sprawl beyond the walls of Old City.
“My companions can board with me at the castle,” I said.
“King Olidan requires only your presence, Prince Jorg,” the gate captain said. “And that of Father Gomst, and Captain Bortha if he is with you?”
Makin raised a mailed hand. Both the gate captain’s eyebrows vanished up beneath his helm at that. “Makin Bortha? No . . . ?”
“One and the same,” Makin said. He gave the man a broad grin, showing altogether too many teeth. “Been a while, Relkin, you old bastard.”
“King Olidan requires” . . . no room for manoeuvre there. A polite little “get your road-scum down to the slums.” At least Relkin made it clear enough from the start, rather than letting me lose face by arguing the odds before over-ruling me with “King Olidan requires.”
“Elban, take the brothers down to the river and find some rooms. There’s a tavern, The Falling Angel, should be big enough for you all,” I said.
Elban looked surprised at having been chosen, surprised but pleased. He smacked his lips over his toothless gums and glared back at the rest of them. “You heard Jorth! Prince Jorth I mean. Move it out!”
“Killing peasants is a hanging offence,” I said as they turned their horses. “Hear me, Little Rikey? Even one. So no killing, no pillage, and no raping. You want a woman, let the Count of Renar buy you one with his coin. Hell, let him buy you three.”