Page 42 of Seducing the Sorcerer
He glared at his feet to get a moment’s respite from all the eyes and noticed a step up to a shop just to his right. That was the answer. He’d use it to mount. Ride out of here. Squab was always better behaved under saddle. He gained the step. Squab pirouetted, waggled its tail in his face again, and then pushed up against him. Fenn launched himself off the step across its broad back, got a leg over. Not graceful, but he was up.
From here, here were even more faces.
“Get back, please!” Fenn called. “Get back!”
He set his heels to Squab’s sides. They landed harder than he’d meant, but with all these people gawping, he felt as if his body wasn’t quite his own. Squab surged forwards. People shrieked, without much alarm, and fell back.
Squab leaped straight at the crowd.
It swooped up like a swallow at the last minute and they were flying, careening past balconies, a sea of upturned faces watching them go. The crowd gasped and raised a ragged cheer and Fenn’s shame fell away along with the ground.
Aye, it might be ugly and ridiculous and badly behaved, but it can fly. How about that, eh?
Squab gained height. They shot out into the square in front of the palace and flew over the dragon fountain, the jet wetting Fenn’s leg. And there was the Unket Tower, taller than anything in the vicinity, its blunt tip poking out of its grey veil of clouds. Nothing in between but clear sky. Fenn put Squab towards it. From below came more hoots, whoops and catcalls. He risked a glimpse down and saw the palace guards at the gatehouse, rifles at their shoulders. He waved, hoping they’d recognise him. Perhaps they did, because no shot came.
Squab swooped over the city wall and Fenn’s stomach lurched as they soared over the cliff. The drop was immense, all sheer grey rock, the surf at the bottom just a smudge of white. They passed over the tower bridge in a flash, wheeling in the air, their speed making his eyes stream. He blinked hard to clear them. Somehow, amazingly, he was still clutching the sack of old clothes and rags, and the warm slight weight of the kitten still nestled at his side. Please let it not wake up and think to go exploring just now.
Anyway, they were away. The laughter of the crowd was left behind. Fenn let out a deep breath and sat a bit straighter. The horse, so incalcitrant on the ground, moved smoothly, almost serenely. The drop beneath was alarming, but Fenn knew, with all the instincts of an experienced horseman, that he wouldn’t fall. He did want to get back to the tower though. He tried to concentrate on that—and not on what he’d do if Squab chose to fly off to the other side of the world.
They plunged into the cloud, thick as whipped cream, so dense Fenn could barely see Squab’s ears plucked to the sky above. Wisps of cloud rushed past his face, damp and formless. There came the faint ring of steel on steel. It was faint and regular and seemed to be coming from higher up. Maybe on the tower roof. Could Jasper be practising his fencing? But that couldn’t be, because Jasper’s sword was an umbrella. And Morgrim had said weapons were forbidden beyond the gatehouse.
What if a real fight was going on? Fenn cocked his head, trying to listen through the rush of air in his ears. Whatever was happening, he should go and see.
Squab burst through the top of the cloud into bright sunlight. Beneath lay the crenellated top of the tower, and through the battlements two figures fought, blades flashing in the sun. One was Morgrim. He wore no robe or shirt, only baggy black trousers, stuffed into his red boots, as if surprised while dressing. His hair was tied back in an untidy club and he had a long scratch across his clavicle where the tip of his attacker’s blade had caught him. His assailant, who had his back to Fenn, wore a black leather vest, green guardsman’s breeches and black boots. Fenn couldn’t see his face but had an impression of youth and strength and agility. By comparison, Morgrim looked sweaty and hard-pressed.
It was a fight. And the sorcerer was losing.
Why wasn’t he fighting back with magic?
Fenn put Squab at the battlements. It cleared them and landed neatly on the flat paved roof right between the circling assailants. They saw him coming at the last moment. Morgrim leaped backwards, catlike, but his attacker launched himself at Fenn, grabbing his shirt-front and pressing the edge of his sword against the side of Fenn’s neck.
Fenn dropped the bag of old clothes, fighting to stay astride, but now they were face to face, he saw that Morgrim’s assailant was a woman: young, dark, face gleaming with sweat. She blinked, took in the horse. Her grip loosened and she lowered her sword.
Morgrim said, acidly, “If you’ll allow me, I’ll introduce you. Mella, this is Mr. Fenn Todd, my guest. Mr. Todd, this is the Lady Aramella Castalioni. The Queen.”
Fenn nearly lost his seat. “Aramella—? Gods...I...beg pardon, your ladyship, ma’am.”
She gave a short laugh. “Sacking horse. Flying. Bit obvious, really. Sorry, Mr. Todd, Morgrim’s told me about you. Should have guessed it was you. You startled me.”
“No, no. Should’ve recognised you. Er, your majesty.”
Because now he knew, this was indeed the woman he’d seen pictures of in the news-sheets. He recognised her strong regular features, her wide mouth and the tilt of her chin. He’d expected some grand lady with a crown, wrapped up in silk and fine ways. Not panting and sweaty and mopping her brow on her arm and grinning at him. And certainly not talking the way she did, so plain and ordinary. So, this was the young woman who’d given Morgrim the beautiful Blaze.
This was the young woman people said Morgrim was angling to marry.
She was indicating the worple horse with her sword. “Marvellous, isn’t it? Did you fly up from the courtyard? Didn’t hear you coming. Not a whisper.”
Unlike the townsfolk, she wasn’t laughing. Fenn slid off Squab’s back onto the wide expanse of paving stones, because it didn’t seem right to look down at such a grand person. From the ground all he could see was black battlements and blue sky. And the sodding monarch of the realm, of course. Off to one side, a trapdoor was flung open to reveal a set of stone stairs leading down into the gloom of the tower.
“Flew up from the town,” he said. “Heard swords. Saw the blood. Thought I’d just see. Silly, really. Don’t know what I thought was going on. Didn’t mean to get in your way.”
She waved her hand. “Not at all! Very understandable. Commendable, even. But no, we were just sparring for exercise. He needs to get faster. Eh, Morgrim?”
“A lucky strike,” Morgrim said absently. He was staring at Fenn’s crotch. Wait. No, he wasn’t. He was looking more off to the side. Pity. He said, “Mr. Todd, you have a kitten in your pocket.”
Fenn glanced down. The kitten had thrust its head out under the flap and was gazing about, dishevelled but undaunted. This wasn’t how Fenn had imagined offering it to Morgrim. He’d thought to make more of a presentation out of it, to make it clear he’d thought about it. To make it—well, not romantic, because he wasn’t that sort of bloke—but sort of special. But now, with the queen herself as an audience—
Anyway, the main thing was that Morgrim should be offered the kitten. Fenn pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Morgrim, who took it awkwardly, one-handed, resting the hilt of his sword against the kitten’s side so it couldn’t fall.
