Maze of Moonlight Read Free Page A

reached for his purse, but Ernest shook his head. With a nod of thanks, Pytor turned for the door.
    Night had fallen firmly by now, the darkness weighed down by the heavy rain, and Pytor had almost reached the castle gate before he realized that the beggarman had followed him, creeping along in the shadows of the overhanging solars and wading through the torrents of muck that poured out of the alleyways.
    “Go back,” said Pytor. “Go back to the inn. There is supper and a place by the fire for you there.”
    The man was shivering—chattering teeth, spasmodic jerks of his arms and legs—but he crouched a few yards from the seneschal like a hungry dog and did not move.
    “Go on.”
    “Mastermaster. Oh! How he pinches me! Black and blue I am and—”
    “Blue with cold, damn you!” said Pytor, and he would have seized the man and dragged him back to shelter, but for all his cold and weakness, the beggar was nimble enough to dodge away.
    “Don't send me back there, mastermaster,” he yelped. “They make me dance, they do. They prick me with burning needles and red-hot guilts, and there's no Grandpa Roger to keep them away.”
    Grandpa Roger? Pytor's eyes narrowed. Baron Roger had been dead for seven years. Was this beggar making fun of the old man? Well, half-wits had to be forgiven. “Come on, man,” he said gruffly, for the water was seeping into his boots and his cloak was as heavy as if it had been made of granite. “Come on. I'll take you to the castle. You can sleep there.”
    “Thankee,” said the beggar. “Thankee. I'll sleep by a good fire in the castle, with stuffed shoes and statues all about. Thankee.”
    He allowed Pytor to take him by the arm, and together they slogged up to the gatehouse. The guards saluted Pytor, but looked dubiously at his companion. “My lord,” said one, “have you taken to picking up rags in the street?”
    “I myself was a rag in the street once,” said Pytor. “Baron Roger picked me up, washed me up, and patched me with Aurverelle cloth. I'm here today because of that. This man is a child of God like you and me.”
    “But, he's a—”
    “Beggar,” said Pytor. “Tramp. Commoner. Peasant. Yes, he is all that and more. But as Baron Roger treated me, so shall I treat him.”
    The beggar had been standing owl-eyed throughout the conversation, but now he nodded and capered oddly. “Grandpa Roger! Grandpa Roger!” He bobbed up and down, splashed through the puddles in an antic dance. “He had the Free Towns in his pouch and let them go again!”
    The guards stared. “Forgive him,” said Pytor. “He's mad, that is all.” He took up a lit torch, took the beggar by the hand and drew him into the courtyard. “Come on, man,” he said. “We'll have you dry and fed in a moment. It is lucky for you that Russians have an affection for madmen.” But the beggar had abruptly ceased his capering and was walking quietly at his side, head first down, then up, regarding muddy cobbles and tall towers with equal wonderment.
    But Pytor found that there was something about the beggar's gait, something almost familiar, that struck him with a sense of unease. And it seemed suddenly not at all remarkable to hear this second set of footsteps—quick and light, even through the rain—blending with his own.
    Grandpa Roger? What?
    The guards on duty threw open the door of the keep, and torchlight spilled into the night. The beggar blinked. “ Fiat lux! ”
    “Now, now . . .” Pytor took him into the vestibule. “Let's get you something warm, for the love of God.” He lifted his head. “Raffalda! Where are you? Someone call Raffalda!”
    The beggar was bobbing his head. The gaunt irony had left his eyes, and he regarded the room sadly, a little dazed. “Will I . . . will I sleep in my own bed tonight?” he said in a small voice.
    “You'll have a straw mattress in the hall just like—” Pytor broke off as though something had caught in his throat, for the beggar's daft tone