The Whisperer Page 3

  But with the dancing finished for now and the pretty girl gone at the call of her mother, and despite the general frivolity still bubbling around him, Lute was becoming increasingly anxious about the length of time he’d been gone. Pilo was a man of few words and always calm but Lute could imagine both of those qualities he admired so much about his guardian would disappear once Pilo discovered Lute’s absence…and the lie.

  ‘He’s coming!’ someone suddenly yelled, diverting Lute’s attention, and the crowd erupted into mad cheering.

  Lute couldn’t see much. He wasn’t at the front and there was no way of pushing through any further. He’d just have to wait until his heroic uncle passed by and hope to catch a glimpse. Everyone was waving their colours, and a man not far away from where Lute struggled to remain upright began a rousing chorus of the royal anthem. Before long, all were joining in. It was so stirring to hear his people singing their realm’s special song with such gusto and joy that Lute felt his breath catch with pride. If only his father could be here with him now to witness this. In fact, when he next got the chance he promised himself he would talk to his father about perhaps doing some royal ‘walks’ as some of the neighbouring realms called it. It was becoming increasingly fashionable among the various royal families to be more accessible by touring amidst their people at far closer range than ever before. This parade by Janko was a fine example, Lute thought. Perhaps his uncle had it right, even though his mother seemed to disapprove.

  He could just glimpse the horses of the army in the distance. He felt the excitement level lift around him and Lute was carried along on it—suddenly he was just as eager to see the great, courageous leader of the army enjoy an uproarious welcome home.

  Finally the Duke drew close and Lute could see him. He looked so much like his father in his features and yet he was broader, sat taller in his saddle and was leaner, perhaps meaner, in his countenance. But it was the mouth that brought the Lute most surprise. Where Rodin’s smile was all radiance and joy, there was something about Janko’s smile, so achingly similar, that rang false. To Lute—who knew that expression so well—it was definitely not real. There was none of the sun in Janko’s smile. In fact the smile struck Lute as being cold, almost wintry.

  As the Duke drew level with Lute’s part of the crowd, the people surged forwards in adoring fashion and Lute lost his balance. He was pushed ahead by the swarm and before he knew it he was sprawled on the dust and the Duke’s horse reared. Lute fully anticipated the crunch of the animal’s hooves somewhere on his body and instinctively covered his head with his hands but it seemed the expert skills of the Duke guided the horse away from him.

  ‘What the—?’ he heard someone roar close by, presumably the Duke himself. ‘Get him away from here,’ came next and Lute felt himself hauled up and literally dragged back into the crowd. His uncle didn’t look back but with his face in profile, Lute saw the same fake smile frozen in place and with a sinking heart realised his mother might be right.

  ‘Alright, boy?’ a man asked, dusting Lute off. ‘Nothing hurt?’

  Lute knew that voice. His head snapped up in an instant and he was staring into a face he knew all too well.

  ‘I’m old, not senile,’ the man said in response to Lute’s shocked silence.

  Lute opened his mouth to speak but the man held a finger up. ‘Not now. Come on,’ he said, and grabbed Lute by the sleeve.

  They walked but said nothing, shouldering their way out to where the crowd thinned. Now that the Duke had passed by, most people had turned their attention to the celebrations and feasting anyway, so they passed unnoticed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pilo,’ Lute finally said.

  ‘I’m sure you are. You certainly should be.’

  ‘I just wanted to see him.’

  ‘You’re due to meet him shortly. Why the hurry?’

  Lute shrugged. It did seem rather pointless all of a sudden. ‘I don’t know, I wanted to see him alone and not in a formal situation. My mother’s creating such tension around his homecoming that I know it’s going to be all stiff and difficult when I meet him.’

  His guardian stared ahead, his stride long, his strong jaw clenched. Lute knew Pilo, always so careful to shield his emotions, was disturbed. Anything could have happened in the crowd, he realised. He felt immediately ashamed of his reckless behaviour. ‘Mother seems to hate him,’ he added, the memory of his uncle’s cold expression fresh in his mind.

  ‘No doubt your mother has her reasons,’ Pilo replied.

  ‘Well, what are they?’

  ‘You should ask the Queen. I am not privy to her innermost thoughts.’

  ‘She shares plenty of them with you.’

  ‘Yes, like how good-looking you are, how well you sit your horse, how tall you are suddenly, how—’

  ‘Oh, stop, that’s not fair.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Your parents have put in place measures to keep you safe, Lute. They’re not doing that for fun. One of those things in place is me. I’m disappointed you made the choice you did today. It could have ended badly.’

  ‘But it didn’t!’ Lute argued, knowing Pilo was completely entitled to be angry but feeling obliged to make a stand for his decision. He was tired of the adults always making all of his decisions.

  ‘Right,’ Pilo said sarcastically. ‘I suppose being trampled by a horse is inconsequential. Apologies, majesty.’

  ‘I wasn’t even nearly trampled,’ Lute replied, his tone sour.

  ‘You weren’t watching. You were rightly cowering. And if not for the Duke’s speed and agility and fine horsemanship, you might well be lying in the street with a broken head right now.’

  Lute’s mouth twisted at the reprimand. He kept it shut. He knew that was the best decision he’d made today. They strode on in silence until they were nearly at the palace, no doubt easily reaching it before Janko’s entourage, because Pilo had led them around the shorter back way.

  Lute paused. ‘How did you know?’

  Pilo turned back to face him. He sighed. ‘I have eyes everywhere, Lute, especially for you. You’ve got to understand that the only heir to the throne is never going to be without companions, shall we say.’

  ‘You had me followed?’ Lute asked indignantly, moving again and pushing through one of the smaller gates. In his irritation he inadvertently ignored the guards who, suddenly realising who was moving past them, bowed.

  Pilo’s nod acknowledged the men for both of them. ‘I just had someone keep an eye on you. There’s no saying what mischief a thirteen-year-old boy—who spends all of his time being told what to do—will get up to when left to his own devices.’

  Lute stole a glance at Pilo and realised the man was wearing a soft grin. He was relieved and it was time to be mature rather than keep arguing. ‘I’m sorry again.’

  ‘I know you are. You forget, I was thirteen once; so was your father. And he knows better than most what it is to be groomed for kingship, the restraints and constant monitoring that goes on. I understand, Prince Lute, really I do, but this is your life. You must accept your responsibilities. You will never be alone—much as you crave it. The royal title demands that you are always carefully guarded.’ He frowned. ‘That surely isn’t your jacket?’

  ‘No, I think it’s Berk’s,’ Lute replied, embarrassed.

  ‘Then return it. I’ll see you upstairs, and hurry. Your parents want you present to greet your uncle. Hurry.’

  Lute nodded and watched Pilo disappear into the palace, his long legs covering the distance across the bailey with ease. He sighed. His adventure was over but the taste of freedom had been fun while it lasted. As he trudged towards the stables, he wondered when he’d ever taste such delicious freedom again.

  The bailey was brimming with men. It seemed Duke Janko’s party had arrived. Lute knew his uncle would still be moving through the welcome delegation, including the mayor and endless dignitaries whose hands he would need to shake. Lute wondered how that smile of his uncle’s would hold up. He frown
ed as he remembered its hollowness. He heard a few of the newly arrived men talking; they were senior officers from what he could tell from their uniforms.

  ‘…and said he can’t wait to be getting on with the matter at hand,’ one man said.

  ‘Plenty of time for that. I thought he’d revel in all of this attention,’ his companion replied. ‘You, boy!’

  Lute froze. He turned slightly to regard the two officers.

  ‘Yes, you!’ the man pointed. ‘Hurry up when I call you, boy.’

  Lute was trapped. He walked over, keeping his eyes lowered. ‘Er, yes, sir?’ he asked unused to those words rolling off his tongue.

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  Lute put on his best stableboy brogue. ‘The stables, sir.’

  ‘Thought so. Take this horse, will you. I think he’s got a stone trapped in his shoe. Have the stablemaster sort it out and be readied in a few hours.’

  Lute pulled at his cap and took the reins. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And have the saddle oiled,’ the man growled as Lute began turning the horse. He didn’t wait for Lute’s reply. ‘What were we saying?’

  ‘Well, it’s true, anyone would love the attention but Janko hates his brother, you know that. He wants to get it over and done with,’ was all Lute heard, as he led the horse away, stunned.

  3

  Griff ran across the main staging areas. The activity felt frantic as people made their preparations for the first performance in years in this region. Griff loved the colour of the Travelling Show. Life had been tough for a lot of the inhabitants from around these parts—in fact it was the crop failure of the past two seasons that had encouraged the show not to do the vast journey from east to west—but this year it was different. Griff had heard the show folk talking excitedly about this being a bumper year for crops and the whole realm was feeling brighter. Master Tyren had nevertheless taken the precaution of basing the show at Tarrymonger, which meant he could lure the country people but also pull some good audiences out of the capital—they were so close now to Floris. In the capital city, of course, they would settle down and run nightly performances for perhaps two moons.

  ‘Ho, Griff,’ someone called.

  He slowed his trot to a stride and looked over to see Jeb with his flock of rare pufferbirds. Most people would never have seen one of the birds, whose lives could be measured in moons rather than years. The man had raised most of the now-trained troupe from newly hatched bappies and Jeb was very proud of the pale rainbow colours of his flock that now numbered at least thirty, Griff was sure.

  ‘Ho, Jeb. How’s Horis?’

  ‘He’s better. That little welt on his beak has healed and all his feathers are back.’

  ‘Any new chicks?’

  ‘Another batch soon, I reckon. Any day now.’

  ‘And another year of training,’ Griff finished and Jeb grinned.

  ‘I’ve got a new trick. Tell me what you think.’

  Griff paused. ‘Alright.’ He was in a hurry but Jeb was a nice old man; one of the few people in the Travelling Show, Griff had decided, who cared about giving the audience the best performance every time he took to the ring. Some of the others only cared about the takings for the day.

  Jeb gave a command to the babbling birds and they all blew up into their full puffed size on cue; then lifted as one to settle on Jeb’s head. He looked like he was wearing a bonnet of fluffy feathers. And then they sang.

  Griff laughed. ‘The audience, especially the children, will love it, Jeb.’

  Jeb’s chest swelled. ‘Ah you’re too kind, young Griff. Glad you like it but I see you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘I am a bit, sorry to rush off.’

  ‘Go, go.’ Jeb flapped at him, looking much like a pufferbird himself.

  Griff trotted off, resisting the aroma of freshly brewed keraff and the smell of newly baked bread that instantly caused his belly to rumble. It wasn’t even nearly noon and he felt famished. It would have to wait. He ran by the dining tent and saw cook Gwen already ladling out bowls of steaming soup to hungry grunters like him, who had been up before dawn to start erecting the Beracca. Although theirs was the lowliest of work, it was the hardest, most demanding of all. It was also the most invisible—no-one paid much attention to the grunting team. Without it there would be no colourful, amazing Travelling Show…yet few stopped to acknowledge or praise them for their efforts.

  He shrugged off that gripe as he saw Chauncey in the near distance, directing the unloading of crates. Strange, unhappy sounds emanated from the timber-slatted boxes.

  ‘Master Tyren asked me to help with the set-up of the new act,’ he said, as Chauncey wiped his lips from swigging a cup of water from a nearby pail. ‘Did you want me to help with the unloading, Chauncey?’

  The man grimaced. And they both looked towards where the loudest howling was coming from. ‘No.’

  ‘What’s in there?’ Griff asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

  ‘It’s a centaur.’

  ‘What?’

  Chauncey nodded smugly. ‘Didn’t think they existed, did you?’

  Griff shook his head, open-mouthed.

  ‘You’ll be even more surprised when you see all the other new creatures we’ve got in. Hurry up, though, lad. Their owner’s over there. We’ve given her Ilbo’s old place.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Her name’s Tess. She’s your age and Madam Tyren thought your quieter manner would suit her. She’s a bit of a strange one, I’m told. You’re to be a friend to her until she settles in.’

  ‘Don’t you think Abby or one of the other girls in the show would—’

  ‘They’re all too old to be bothered with her. She needs someone her own age. You’re it.’

  Griff nodded unhappily and, glancing again at the crate where a doleful whine had now cranked up, he moved towards the blue-painted wagon where Ilbo the Hairy Man had been accommodated. He had died quietly in his sleep on the night of the last full moon and it had not only upset all the show folk but Tyren had lost one of his most popular acts.

  Griff knocked gently on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded a female voice.

  ‘My name’s Griff, I’ve been—’

  The door was flung open and he was confronted by a girl, smaller and much skinnier than himself, with golden hair, slightly sun-browned skin, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her large grey-green eyes regarded him with interest. ‘You’ve been sent to mind me, have you?’

  Griff didn’t answer immediately, entranced by the striped, hissing creature in her arms.

  ‘Is that a veercat?’ he asked, his tone filled with awe. He wanted to stroke its light red fur but it gave him a look of warning. ‘I saw one once,’ he continued, his fingers twitching to touch it. ‘A black one. My brothers never believed me. They say veercats are just myth.’

  ‘Well, they’re not,’ she admonished in a haughty tone. ‘Tell your brothers you’ve just seen your second veercat and the rarest kind, the red one.’

  Griff shook his head with wonder. ‘Can I see his wings?’

  Reluctantly the girl, who had soothed the veercat’s surprise at Griff’s arrival, stretched out the animal’s shiny, almost transparent wings, revealing the patterned network of dark thread-like veins. ‘They don’t fly, you know,’ she said. ‘They glide.’

  ‘Like bats?’

  ‘Better than bats. But they are related to the winged dragoncats. And those do fly.’

  ‘You’ve seen one?’ Griff asked, incredulous.

  She grinned at his eagerness but then sighed. ‘No. But I know a few still exist. I want to find one.’ She stepped back. ‘I’m Tess. I suppose you want to come in.’

  Griff followed her, closing the door gently behind him. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to do but Chauncey had urged him to be the girl’s friend. He looked around, desperate to find something meaningful to say. ‘Would you like me to open the windows?’ He felt stupid for asking. If she
’d wanted the windows open, surely she’d already have done so.

  But Tess didn’t dismiss him. Instead she shook her head gently, her mouth twisting in concern. ‘Not immediately. Rix is not comfortable here yet,’ she said, stroking the cat’s dark, striped tail. ‘He might make a dash for the woods.’ As if to reinforce his determination to flee, Rix’s cat-like whiskers twitched and his pointed feline face looked as though it were gathering up its features to snarl.

  Griff looked over at Rix, noticing the veercat’s huge pointed ears, the same striped dark colour of his tail, erect and moving to catch every sound they could. ‘He seems happy.’

  She cocked her head to one side. ‘What did they tell you about me?’

  He shrugged. ‘That you’re a bit strange.’

  Tess grinned but Griff saw the sadness in it. ‘I am. Like my animals. Not sure I like being cooped up here.’

  Griff looked around. ‘You know if we set to and painted these walls a lighter colour, it would feel bigger, less gloomy,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘That’s kind, Griff. But it’s not that. I’m just not sure I want to do this.’

  ‘The Travelling Show do you mean?’

  She put Rix down and the veercat immediately scurried beneath a low bench seat and into the shadows.

  ‘I was living in a hut in the Night Forest on—’

  ‘The Night Forest,’ Griff murmured, impressed. ‘We lived about six miles from its eastern rim. People were scared of it.’

  She made a soft sound of disgust. ‘I lived there for years.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Griff saw her lips purse.

  ‘No, with my sister. But she died of the wasting fever. I was happy to live alone but I got careless and people saw me, saw Rix. They began to talk. They became scared and suspicious. Before long the Stalkers came looking.’

  ‘Stalkers!’ he repeated. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re vile, just big bullies really, in red gloves and black capes.’