Page 25 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Jasper gathered Fenn’s stinking rags, fumbled and had to pick them up again. Lad was nervous as a cat in a kennels. Maybe he expected a slap or a blow. Fear could look a lot like guilt and Fenn was, after all, a stranger, and a big man with a tough look about him, though he’d thought they’d got on well enough last night. Maybe Jasper was telling the truth; maybe he was just doing the laundry.
Or maybe it wasn’t Fenn that Jasper was afraid of. The sorcerer had been awfully sarcastic to the lad last night. That kind of treatment could wear on a lad, make him twitchy. And Morgrim might do worse to Jasper when there was no one around to see.
Or, of course, Morgrim might have told Jasper to go through Fenn’s pockets. That seemed the sort of underhand thing a court sorcerer might do. Perhaps bumping into Jasper had been a bit of luck in case Morgrim had other tricks in store. This magical mustering ground, for example.
“Hey, you been on this mustering ground?” Fenn asked.
Jasper snapped to attention, his arms full of old clothes, Fenn’s worn boots hanging from one hand. “Yes, sir. I go twice a day to check Blaze. That’s the master’s horse.”
“Oh? Good. Safe, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Other people go?”
“Oh yes.” Jasper seemed to be relaxing, realising, perhaps, that Fenn wasn’t going to give him any trouble. Jasper added, “Stockmen see to the cattle and the sheep, and a groom from the palace sees to the palace horses.”
Fenn nodded. “And this good-fellowship spell—it don’t make people act dozy or do anything they might regret?”
“No, sir. It’s not like that. It’s not like being drunk or anything.”
“Right.” Fenn pulled the piece of pasteboard from his pocket. “And this. It’ll get me through the gatehouse into the town? And back into the tower again, if I want?”
“Yes, sir.”
That seemed plain. And that about the palace groom was valuable information. Now, there was a person Fenn would like to meet. Being the court sorcerer’s guest wasn’t the same as having a letter of recommendation, but perhaps it would get Fenn a foot in the door at the palace stables. If he really was a guest and not a prisoner. He ought to try that pass out smartish. Although, perhaps not until he’d taught the horse not to chew through its lead rope. He didn’t want it blundering around him in the town.
“I’d better get on, sir,” Jasper said. He ducked his head in a sketchy bow and scuttled off with Fenn’s dirty clothes before Fenn could say anything about getting Blaze ready for this ride on the mustering ground. Fenn shook his head. Thief or victim, Jasper was only a lad. He wanted watching out for and taking in hand by someone responsible. Maybe this palace groom would agree to keep an eye on the boy.
Fenn walked back across the stable yard to the tack room, the horse trying to barge past him all the while. Really, instead of riding it, he ought to be teaching it to walk nicely at his shoulder, but that would have to wait.
Inside, the tack room was redolent with leather and linseed oil and he took a few deep breaths before picking out an old saddle and bridle that were roughly the right size. He chose a saddle blanket too: blood red with a black tower embroidered at each corner. Very fancy, but Morgrim had said he might use one. Then he turned, rather diffidently, to the worple horse. If it had turned a spit, it might never have taken a bit before, nor been accustomed to a saddle. But, to his surprise, it let him tack up like it was an old hand.
He led it back to the empty courtyard and halted under the loggia so they should not get wet. The horse stood nicely for once, not fidgeting. It seemed content to watch the rain along with him. But it was a gloomy place to wait. Right in front of them was a great stone trough, one of four which stood at the corners of the courtyard. Once they’d likely held ornamental trees and flowers, now there were just a few black sticks, rotting into nothing in the rain.
Unease clawed at Fenn’s belly.
Was he really a guest of the royal sorcerer? Surely that wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to blokes like Fenn. It was too good to be true. Too lucky. It must be some sort of trap. Even if Fenn did have a flying worple horse. Even if he was now a magician—which he very much doubted. No, the sorcerer must have ulterior motives.
Maybe Morgrim wanted the worple horse for himself? It could fly, after all, and no one yet had invented a flying velocipede.
But the picture of Morgrim upon the worple horse simply would not form in Fenn’s imagination. Because a man like Morgrim couldn’t want such a ridiculous creature. No, if the great sorcerer Morgrim wanted to fly somewhere, he could do it himself with magic, easy as kiss your hand. He could turn himself into an eagle or simply pick up a broom. Or weren’t there flying carpets in the old stories? Morgrim probably had dozens. Fenn sighed.
The fact remained that Morgrim seemed decent enough so far, if alarmingly sharp and a bit sarcastic with young Jasper. Everything else Fenn knew about the sorcerer were rumours and supposition, stories bandied about in pubs and so on. Fenn knew next to nothing of Morgrim’s true character.
Somewhere in the gatehouse, a bell rang. Moments later, Jasper came running out of it, rolling down his sleeves and buttoning his jacket as he went. He slowed as he passed Fenn, bowed, and stopped at the bottom of the tower steps. He stood to attention. About a minute later, when Jasper’s fair hair was plastered flat to his head with rain, the tower door opened, the torches flared in the cressets, and Morgrim appeared at the top of the stairs.
He’d dressed for riding in black robes nearly identical to the ones he’d been wearing earlier. The only difference seemed to be that these ones were slit up the middle and fell to his calf rather than to the floor. He wore black trousers beneath his robe and a tight-fitting black leather cap with a peak at the forehead that imitated his hairline and made his resemblance to a bird of prey all the more marked. He was putting on black leather gloves.
He nodded to Fenn. “Mr. Todd. Thank you for your patience.” He closed the tower door and locked it with a large iron key. “Jasper, get Blaze ready, please.”
Jasper ran past Fenn towards the tack room, but Morgrim went in the opposite direction to the large double doors on the western side of the courtyard. He flung them open to reveal a sunlit meadow glowing green and gold through the rain. Fenn led the horse towards it, squinting into the brightness, full of wonder that a meadow should be there at all, but at the same time steeling himself against the effects of this spell.
The mustering ground led off as far as the eye could see, all waving grasses, pink and yellow wildflowers and the occasional spreading oak. The whole thing didn’t ought to be there and yet sheep and cattle and goats grazed contentedly. And it wasn’t raining. Not a bit.
Off to the right rose a small white, marble pavilion. Perhaps this was where the generals had once stood to oversee the troops. Beyond the pavilion, several horses grazed in a fenced area. Most of them must belong to the palace. They looked like beauties, every one, and Fenn longed to examine them. But despite all the assurances he’d heard, he couldn’t feel at ease. He followed Morgrim in the direction of the horses, crossing a rivulet of rainwater that snaked off from the courtyard into the grass. It was good grass too.
Fenn felt nothing. That is, he felt the same: twitchy, suspicious, sure that this was all too good to be true. And amazed that there should be grazing of this calibre somehow accessible from the lofty tower courtyard. He hadn’t noticed any huge fields last night when he’d flown in. But perhaps you couldn’t see it unless you came in the right gate.
