Page 41 of Seducing the Sorcerer
He checked he still had the pass Morgrim had given him, put Squab in the mews with the last bit of old tapestry to eat, shut the door with special care and went to the gatehouse. Jasper let him in through the postern door to a simply furnished guardroom. There was a large, but empty, weapons rack, and a solid wooden table with a few plain chairs shoved underneath. Above a fireplace hung the only decoration; a tasselled hatchment, big as a sail. Upon it was an image of a black tower with a red background, the same as the emblem on Fenn’s sleeve. Jasper let him out onto the stone bridge on the other side, and showed him the bell pull to tug to be let back in.
Fenn turned his face to the city and the palace and stepped out of the rain onto the sunlit tower bridge. The bridge had a graceful curve, low stone parapets and not a hint of a wobble as he crossed it. A flock of white seagulls flew beneath, their insistent cries drifting up over the distant roar of the surf and the waterfalls that tumbled from the city to the sea below. It made a change from the sound of the rain.
He knocked at the gatehouse at the palace end and the postern door opened. The guards were armed to the teeth and their gazes raked him. They’d know him again, that was certain. But they saluted at the sight of the pass and let him through into the town.
Fenn was now in a cobbled square in front of the palace’s great green gates, which stood to his left. In the middle of the square a fountain shaped like a dragon spouted water from its mouth. Around the square’s edge were shops and grand tall buildings at least six storeys high, all with balconies and tall roofs with attic windows peeping out. There were a couple of inns: the Tower View, which stood on his right, at the vertiginous edge of the city rock, and the Green Gate that Mr. Anjula had mentioned, which flew the royal flag on the other side of the square. There were lots of fine city folk milling about in fancy clothes and Fenn felt weak-kneed with relief he didn’t have the worple horse blundering about and making him look a fool in front of everyone. In his tower livery, freshly bathed and barbered, no one gave him a second look as he began to explore the city’s narrow, crowded streets and high, wind-whipped bridges.
He found what he wanted for Morgrim: a black kitten, one of a litter playing on the pavement outside a butcher’s shop. The kitten had bright yellow eyes, a strong pounce, and an air of startled self-sufficiency. The woman inside said its mother was a fine mouser, and confirmed that the kitten was old enough to leave home and that he could bring it back if it wasn’t wanted.
Fenn put the kitten in his pocket where it found some ham he’d saved from breakfast. It ate the ham, curled up and went to sleep. Good. It would soon kill those rats in the tower. Plus, a black cat would look at home on the sorcerer’s hearthrug. Or on his knee. And it would be good company too if the tower was always this empty. There was something lonely about Morgrim, rattling around in there by himself.
Next, Fenn found a shop selling rags and second-hand clothes. He bought a sack full of the oldest stuff they had, and the shopkeeper agreed to fill another sack for him to collect in a few days’ time. Fenn paid and was shaking the shopkeeper’s hand when there were shouts and screams in the street outside. The shop went dark and the shopkeeper’s pleasant round face turned a funny shade of grey. Fenn whirled.
The worple horse was shouldering in through the open door like an enthusiastic haystack. Fenn’s stomach dropped through his guts.
“Stand. Stand!” He used his sternest voice. How the blazes had it got through that closed mews’ door?
The horse jigged sideways, eyes rolling, tongue flapping, and knocked over a display of gentlemen’s lacy night-shirts. It snorted, goggled at the mess and jigged back the other way, flirting its hoof-less legs, whisking its tail and snaking its neck. Its ears were pricked towards Fenn and it was plain it was delighted to have found him.
“Blame thing,” Fenn said. “Out of here. Shoo. Go on. Shoo!”
Over his shoulder he said to the shopkeeper, “Thanks, mate. Sorry about the mess. Back in a couple of days.”
He fumbled another two coppers out of his pocket and onto the counter. Then he grabbed the sack of clothes, took Squab’s forelock in his other hand and led it out into the street.
Where, of course, there was an audience of several hundred townsfolk, all staring at him and his ridiculous beastie, and all aghast or delighted, or already bursting into laughter. A couple of children were squealing with joy and one little lad was weeping in terror.
Fenn nearly retreated, horse and all, into the shop.
But he couldn’t. The horse would ruin the place. It would eat the stock.
He glanced huntedly up and down the street for a way out but more and more faces stared back at him. He looked skyward, but there were faces there too, peering from windows and balconies.
And it wasn’t just the faces. There was a roar of voices.
“Mister, mister, where’d you get that, mister?”
“Magic! Look at that rune!”
“That fellow’s in tower livery. Reckon it’s some trick of Morgrim’s, eh?”
“Happen old Mortality’s having an off day, then! Just look at it! Ha ha!”
“Is someone inside? Who’s inside the horse, mam? Is it magic? Can I give it my apple?”
“Damned unchancy looking beast, eh? These magicians. Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Why does its tongue poke out so?”
“Careful, Nan, it might lick you to death!”
Fenn’s face was burning. He had to get away. To the privacy of the tower. He took a step and another. The crowd made way for him, but the horse seemed to have forgotten all his careful training. It jostled into his path. It wore no halter so he wrestled it aside with his arm and took a handful of its mane, trying to keep it walking next to him. But what with the crowds and the narrowness of the street, the horse was pushed back in front of him. It half-reared, slid out backwards from under his arm, turned and waggled its quarters against his chest.
“It wants a dance, mister!”
There was a roar of laughter. Fenn sidestepped, lunged forward and tried to catch the horse by the forelock. It bowed, skittered sideways, and bumped him broadsides. People were lifting children up on their shoulders to see. Three girls at the front of the crowd had linked arms and were kicking their legs out, calling “dance, horse, dance”. Squab goggled at them, then began nodding its head in time to their rhythm. Tears of laughter streamed down the girls’ faces. People were clapping in time.
This was awful. Awful. Fenn looked a right dolt with a badly behaved horse that disrespected him and got away with it. He was burning with shame. He wanted to explain, to say I only just got it, or even to lie and claim it ain’t really mine. But he couldn’t tell that to the whole street. He took another step and was jostled back again. He’d be here forever in the middle of this circus. It’d take an hour to get a hundred yards.
