borrowed cloak, its three different brooches, her pair of mismatched signet rings. “What happened to the men who didn’t pass your test?”
Husk stroked Shade tenderly on the flank. “Why we et them, Shielder’s Mark. If a gallant fails an old crone’s test, I wis he weren’t likely to conquer the Keep! And waste’s a sin, tha knows.”
Mark gulped. Beside him, the pot that might have been a helmet slurped and burbled to itself. The old woman’s eyes glinted over the squirrels that seethed around her. “Dinner, dinner, dinner,” she muttered. She squinted at squirrels by the grate, in the thatch, slumbering by her skinny thighs. “We know a wench as failed her mistress, eh, Henrietta?” she murmured, staring at a plump brown squirrel that backed nervously toward the doorway. Husk crept slowly after, crab-stiff and softly crooning. “Thine furry thighs so glossy, eh? Thy cheek so silk. Enspelled by thy own face in the pond, is it? Stuffed with thy own prettiness like a tick full to bursting. Tha’lt be sorry now, won’t tha lass?”
“Please!—Let me help,” Mark said quickly. O god: Henrietta stew. “I’ve cheese in my pack, and bread, and a bit of smoked pig.” Come to think of it, he’d feel safer eating his own food anyway. “I can’t pay much for my dinner, milady. Take this and make my heart easy.”
Husk looked him over as he rummaged in his pack. “A smooth tongue in a rough face, i’ sooth!” Her curtsey as she spoke was deep and strangely graceful; an echo from some gentler life.
Mark sighed with relief. Shielder’s Mark: squirrel-saver. The legend begins .
Old Husk smiled at him her haggish benediction. “A forest-full of gentles have I known, most with more good i’ their faces and less in their hearts. But art tha not cloddish, i’ sooth?”
“Er, what?”
“Base! Churlish! Low!”
“Oh. Am I common?—As dirt,” Mark said with a grin.
“Not yet too fine to break bread with a toothless mazed old bitch, eh? Not like Serimus nor Flavian nor Stargad the Shrewd. Him I remember, crouched like a silk-swaddled toad afore my lintel thruff the whole night, and then sidles by at noon.”
“You—you met Stargad? But that must have been halfway back to grandfather days!”
Husk plucked Mark’s knife from his belt and began shaving slices of pig into the stewpot. “Time, tha knows: time’s foxy in the Wood. They all come by here, this Kingdom’s heroes: brave-braided all, with their medals bouncing to heartdrums’ beat.” She grinned at Mark. “Where are thy ribbands and favours, boy? What hast tha done that harpers sing? Cracked a kingdom? Drank dragon-blood?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Mark admitted.
“Climbed a mountain’s sun-spiring snowpeak?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Arm-wrestled oliphaunt?”
“No.”
“Diced with the Devil on a throw of bones?”
Mark shook his head. “Not as such.”
Husk glared at him. “Were ye nought then but breathing? Dost tha come armoured in air and girt with hoping?”
“That’s me.” Mark fished a hank of haywire from his pocket to fiddle with, unable to meet Husk’s eyes. T’awd bitch is right. How can you expect to win where all the real heroes lost ?
Shade jumped up to Husk’s shoulder. Crone and creature gazed at Mark without enthusiasm. “Shade, Shade, Shade,” Husk muttered. She cut up the last of the smoked pig. “An hundred hundred nights and weeks and years I’ve waned beneath yonder Tower, boy. My weft is ravelled and ony warp’s left. But still I know the Red Keep is perilous; spell-webbed, fear-fangled. Old nuts rot and nothing green grows up from them: magic has withered since grandfather days. You come with no spell sheaf, no flight of impossibles. Many mighty men that were flesh and fearless i’ th’ sun are clay now: their soul-pots cracked and ground to dust.” Stroking Shade, Husk met his eyes. “What can tha do that they could not?”
How many times had Mark asked himself the same
Husk stroked Shade tenderly on the flank. “Why we et them, Shielder’s Mark. If a gallant fails an old crone’s test, I wis he weren’t likely to conquer the Keep! And waste’s a sin, tha knows.”
Mark gulped. Beside him, the pot that might have been a helmet slurped and burbled to itself. The old woman’s eyes glinted over the squirrels that seethed around her. “Dinner, dinner, dinner,” she muttered. She squinted at squirrels by the grate, in the thatch, slumbering by her skinny thighs. “We know a wench as failed her mistress, eh, Henrietta?” she murmured, staring at a plump brown squirrel that backed nervously toward the doorway. Husk crept slowly after, crab-stiff and softly crooning. “Thine furry thighs so glossy, eh? Thy cheek so silk. Enspelled by thy own face in the pond, is it? Stuffed with thy own prettiness like a tick full to bursting. Tha’lt be sorry now, won’t tha lass?”
“Please!—Let me help,” Mark said quickly. O god: Henrietta stew. “I’ve cheese in my pack, and bread, and a bit of smoked pig.” Come to think of it, he’d feel safer eating his own food anyway. “I can’t pay much for my dinner, milady. Take this and make my heart easy.”
Husk looked him over as he rummaged in his pack. “A smooth tongue in a rough face, i’ sooth!” Her curtsey as she spoke was deep and strangely graceful; an echo from some gentler life.
Mark sighed with relief. Shielder’s Mark: squirrel-saver. The legend begins .
Old Husk smiled at him her haggish benediction. “A forest-full of gentles have I known, most with more good i’ their faces and less in their hearts. But art tha not cloddish, i’ sooth?”
“Er, what?”
“Base! Churlish! Low!”
“Oh. Am I common?—As dirt,” Mark said with a grin.
“Not yet too fine to break bread with a toothless mazed old bitch, eh? Not like Serimus nor Flavian nor Stargad the Shrewd. Him I remember, crouched like a silk-swaddled toad afore my lintel thruff the whole night, and then sidles by at noon.”
“You—you met Stargad? But that must have been halfway back to grandfather days!”
Husk plucked Mark’s knife from his belt and began shaving slices of pig into the stewpot. “Time, tha knows: time’s foxy in the Wood. They all come by here, this Kingdom’s heroes: brave-braided all, with their medals bouncing to heartdrums’ beat.” She grinned at Mark. “Where are thy ribbands and favours, boy? What hast tha done that harpers sing? Cracked a kingdom? Drank dragon-blood?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Mark admitted.
“Climbed a mountain’s sun-spiring snowpeak?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Arm-wrestled oliphaunt?”
“No.”
“Diced with the Devil on a throw of bones?”
Mark shook his head. “Not as such.”
Husk glared at him. “Were ye nought then but breathing? Dost tha come armoured in air and girt with hoping?”
“That’s me.” Mark fished a hank of haywire from his pocket to fiddle with, unable to meet Husk’s eyes. T’awd bitch is right. How can you expect to win where all the real heroes lost ?
Shade jumped up to Husk’s shoulder. Crone and creature gazed at Mark without enthusiasm. “Shade, Shade, Shade,” Husk muttered. She cut up the last of the smoked pig. “An hundred hundred nights and weeks and years I’ve waned beneath yonder Tower, boy. My weft is ravelled and ony warp’s left. But still I know the Red Keep is perilous; spell-webbed, fear-fangled. Old nuts rot and nothing green grows up from them: magic has withered since grandfather days. You come with no spell sheaf, no flight of impossibles. Many mighty men that were flesh and fearless i’ th’ sun are clay now: their soul-pots cracked and ground to dust.” Stroking Shade, Husk met his eyes. “What can tha do that they could not?”
How many times had Mark asked himself the same
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