had been the Baron Tolburt’s own armorer in Tulan at one time.
One day the sound of hooves upon cobbles caused Erik to look up from where he held a hot plow blade Nathan was hammering for a local farmer. The slender figure of Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, appeared as he rode his mount around the barn from the rear court of the inn.
Nathan took away the blade and plunged it into water, then set it aside as Erik came to stand next to the horse, holding her bridle as Greylock dismounted.
‘Swordmaster!’ said Erik. ‘She’s not lame again, is she?’
‘No,’ said Owen, indicating that Erik should see for himself.
Erik ran his hand along the horse’s left foreleg as Nathan approached, then motioned the youngster to stand aside. Nathan examined the horse’s leg. ‘This is the horse you told me of?’
Erik nodded.
‘You say it was this suspensor tendon, was it?’
Greylock looked on with approval as Erik said, ‘Yes, Master Smith. She had pulled it slightly.’
‘Slightly!’ said Greylock. He had an angular face, made even more stern by a severe hairstyle – high bangs, with most of the rest cut straight around the nape of his neck – which split into a smile, serving to make him even more unattractive, for his teeth were uneven and yellowing. ‘Totally blown, I should say, Master Smith. Puffed up to the size of my thigh, and the mare could barely stand to put weight on it. I thought I’d have to send for the knackers, for certain. But Erik had a way, and I’d seen his work before, so I gave him the chance and he didn’t disappoint.’ Shaking his head in mock astonishment, he said, ‘“Slightly.” The lad’s too modest for his own good.’
‘What did you do?’ Nathan asked Erik.
‘I wrapped her leg in hot compresses at first. There’s a drawing salve the healing priest at the Temple of Killian makes that makes your skin feel hot. I used that on her leg. I hand-walked her and wouldn’t let her pull again, even if she got rammy. She’s spirited and wanted to bolt more than once, but I put a stud chain over her nose and let her know I’d have none of it.’ Erik reached over and patted the mare on the nose. ‘We became pretty fair friends.’
Nathan stood and shook his head, obviously impresssed. ‘For the four months I’ve been here, Swordmaster, I’ve been hearing of this lad’s skill with horses. Some of it I took to be local pride felt by his friends.’ Turning to Erik, he smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t say this lightly, lad. Perhaps you should put aside your apprenticeship as a smith and turn your hand to healing horses. I am self-admitted indifferent in healing animals, though I will put my shoeing work up against any man’s, but even I can see this horse is completely sound, as if she had never been injured.’
Erik said, ‘It’s a useful skill, and I like to see the horses healthy, but there’s no guild …’
Nathan was forced to agree. ‘True enough. A guild is a mighty fortress and can shelter you when no amount of skill can save you from’ – he suddenly remembered the Baron’s Swordmaster was standing a few feet away – ‘many unexpected ends.’
Erik smiled. He knew what the smith had been about to say had to do with the long-standing rivalry between the nobility and the guilds. Started as a means to certify workmen and guarantee a certain minimum standard of skill, the guilds had become a political force in the Kingdom over the last century, to the point of having their own courts to adjudicate matters within each guild, much to the irritation of the King’s courts and the courts of the other nobles. But the nobles were too dependent upon the quality assurance of the many guilds to do more than grumble about flouting authority. But often one of the craft guilds had saved a member from some injustice at the hands of a noble. Despite a long tradition of responsible nobility in the Kingdom, there were always one or two minor earls or barons who thought they could simply ignore a debt. Having a patent of arms from the King did not ensure wealth, and more than one noble had attempted to use rank and position rather than coin of the realm to settle his debts.
Erik distracted Greylock. ‘Swordmaster, what cause brings you to Ravensburg this day?’
The usually serious Swordmaster’s face returned to its usual dour expression. ‘You, Erik. Your father rides to Krondor on state business. He’ll be here this evening. I came early to see if …’
‘If I could prevail upon my mother to let him alone?’
Greylock nodded. ‘He’s not well, Erik. He shouldn’t be making the journey and …’
‘I’ll do what I can.’ He knew promising was vain should his mother take it into her head to repeat her performance of the last time Otto came through the town. ‘She may have finally gotten over making me the next Baron.’
Greylock made a sour face. ‘I would be out of place to comment on that.’ Then he softened his expression. ‘Trust me on this. If you can, stand by the corner of the town road where the sheep meadow ends and the first vineyard begins, on the east side of the town, before sunset.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t say, but it’s important.’
‘If my father is so ill, Owen, what cause has he to ride to Krondor?’
Greylock mounted his horse. ‘Ill news, I’m afraid. The Prince is dead. It will be announced to the populace by royal messenger later this week.’
Erik said, ‘Arutha is dead?’
Greylock nodded. ‘He fell and broke his hip, I’ve been told, and died of complications. He was an aging man, nearly eighty if I have it right.’
Prince Arutha had been a fixture in Krondor all of Erik’s life and his mother’s before him. Father to the King, Borric, who had succeeded Arutha’s brother Lyam only five years earlier, he had been the man most responsible for peace in the Kingdom, by all accounts.
To Erik he was a distant figure; certainly, Erik had never seen the Prince, but he felt a small stab of regret. By anyone’s measure he was a good ruler and a hero in his youth. As Greylock turned the mare around, Erik said, ‘Tell my father I will stand where he asked.’
Greylock saluted and lightly touched spurs to the mare’s flanks, and she trotted out of the inn courtyard.
Nathan, who had come to understand a great deal of Erik’s history in the months he had been living at the Pintail, said, ‘You’ll want some extra time to clean up.’
Erik said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to leave at suppertime.’
It was late spring, and sunset came close to an hour after supper. Erik would need most of the hour to make it to the other side of Ravensburg, and through the vineyards to the sheep meadow, but only if he went in his dirty clothing.
Nathan playfully hit Erik on the back of the head with his open hand. ‘Dolt. Get yourself cleaned up. Sounds important.’
Erik thanked Nathan and hurried to the forge. Below the pallet in the loft where he slept, behind the ladder, sat a trunk with all of Erik’s belongings. He took out his one good shirt and carried it over to the washbasin. Removing his dirty shirt, he took the harsh soap and some clean rags and worked feverishly to rid himself of as much dirt as possible. At last he felt presentable and put on his good shirt.
He hurried out of the barn and went to the kitchen, where food was being placed upon the table as he entered. Sitting down, he drew a suspicious look from his mother. ‘Why are you wearing your good shirt?’ she asked.
Not willing to share his father’s request for a meeting with his mother, lest she demand to accompany him and force a confrontation, he muttered, ‘I’m meeting someone after supper,’ then started noisily eating the stew placed before him.
Milo, who was sitting at the head of the table, laughed. ‘One of the town girls, is it?’
This brought an alarmed