Quiet Magic Read Free Page B

gray crow on his own bridge!-- and it might well
be that Slate would find his last joy here, fighting a stupid last
fight over a stupid mission while the crow laughed for him at his
enemies...
    One of The Bispham's guards, braver
than the rest, or seeking favor, closed on the crow again, this
time raising a stick to jab at him. Grayling lashed out instantly
with a hind foot, knocking the man down and raising and unexpected
murmur of laughter and approval from the gallery on the
bridge.
    "For the sake of rain, man," Slate
roared,"that's a war-horse! Might as well come at him straight on
with a sword and get your head bashed in!"
    The Bispham glared at the proceedings
from his vantage point next to Catania's pitiful pile where he and
a scribe were inventorying the belongings cursorily. A guard stood
beside them, bored. Catania, it was plain, carried nothing worth
consideration on his person.
    "You, there, Captain! You'll need to
control your horse if you wish to keep it!" The Bispham's threats
were becoming more blatant; Slate was not surprised to find his
sword still vibrating low with warning.
    The downed guard rose with a limp,
looked to his corporal, who shrugged and waved him away.
    Slate could hear some of the questions
Catania was answering. Did he have any jewels? None. Where had he
gotten the small silver neck pendant?
    From his dead wife. Did he gamble?
That was answered with a laugh and a quick--"Only by volunteering!"
"Do you carry anything you've stolen?"
    "I do not!" "Where did you get your
horse?" "From the house--it carries DaChauxma's mark, look you,
like my saddle and my weapon and my bedroll and my
life."
    The magician waved several of his
various wands over Catania and his pile, snorted, and said--"Pack
this junk up. Your house does well by you with horse and gear, I
see, and pays you not at all!"
    Stuart Hall was a different matter;
being born out of the Household he had trinkets and geegaws, and a
change of clothing meant for a modest Court. He also had a tongue
in his head, which became unlimbered as his crossbow was inspected.
"Did you make this?" "My uncle did. It was my gift for Twelfth
Year." "What do you carry that you've stolen?" "Not a damn thing!"
"And this jewelry? Hardly what I'd expect of a soldier in the same
troop as that pauper!" "I'm out of house, a younger son. All here
was given me or bought by me, Bridgemaster!" This last was said
with such insulting venom that the guard stepped closer in
warning.
    The Bispham looked Hall in the eye and
said "We shall see, we shall see!" and brought forth some pendulous
and flashy jeweled thing, which he swung over the pile while
muttering. He also said to the scribe, "Make a note of the gold
pieces--they are foreign gold and the ownership harder to be sure
of!"
    Slate winced at that, for even if they
were let go how hard would it be to do their mission with no gold
to buy food or information?
    The scribe said something Slate
couldn't hear, and The Bispham simply said, "Note it all, note it
all," before turning to his next task.
    The Bispham peered dismissively at
Disburno, who was standing quietly beside his painted pony, talking
in his own language as he plaited its mane gently, from saddle
forward. The little man was in his Plain's garb rather than house
clothes; and he was heedless of the magician, even when the awkward
clatter of wands should have told him he was under
scrutiny.
    The wizard made several quick passes
with the wands, and then chose a different one, which he also swung
about energetically while mumbling some magic phrase or
spell.
    Apparently magic spoke not of stolen
goods and The Bispham turned his attention to Arbran, next closest
to Slate, and his curiously large pile. In it, conspicuously, was
the hat that Arbran had worn when he came to the troop. That was
the very hat Slate had told him to get rid of, since it made him an
obvious target for an archer.
    But the rest...the rest was the
bedroll. It was fluffed to amazing proportions