yet you are not of them. You have the look and bearing of what we would call a barbarian, an inhabitant of the Wastes – your sun- and wind-darkened hue, your black hair and moustache.’
Kyle eased himself back, straightening slightly. ‘Yes? So?’
Reuth hesitated, then pushed on: ‘You carry that sword with you at all times. You never leave it aside in a bunk or a chest. You keep it hidden from sight, wrapped and covered …’
‘Yes? So?’
‘Well …’ The lad peered warily about then lowered his voice. ‘There are those on board who say you might be Whiteblade.’
Whiteblade. So there it was. No longer
the
Whiteblade, but just Whiteblade itself. A title, or epithet. How things change and transform in the retelling as each speaker slips in one or two embellishments to make tales their own – or to move them in the direction they think they ought to go.
‘You’re doing it again,’ the lad said.
Kyle studied the lad: he appeared serious, worried even, hunched forward as he was, his eyes searching. ‘Doing what?’
Reuth pointed to his neck. Kyle lowered his gaze and jerked a touch ruefully. The lad was right: he’d gotten hold of the amber stone he kept round his neck and was rubbing it as he thought.
‘What is it?’
‘Just an old worn piece of amber. The gift of a friend long ago.’
‘So – are you him? Whiteblade?’
He chose to give an unconcerned shrug. ‘And what if I was?’
Reuth leaned even closer. His long unwashed hair fell forward and he brushed it back with an impatient gesture that was a habit of his. ‘Then you must be careful. There are those here who would like to kill you, I think.’
‘Thank you, Reuth. I’ll have a care.’
The lad nodded earnestly. Edging forward even closer, he pressed his hands together and touched his fingers to his nose. ‘Ah … so … is it true what I hear?’
Kyle simply shook his head, smiling slightly. He picked up the sailor’s dirk he’d taken as his own, honed to a thin sickle-moon, and set to cutting a hemp line to trim it.
Reuth sighed his disappointment and sat back. ‘Well, I had to try.’
‘Thank you for the warning, Reuth. Now I think that the less time you are seen with me the better for you.’
At first the lad look stricken – as if he’d been told to go away – but then the wider implications came to him and he nodded once more. ‘Ah! I see. Well, don’t you worry about me. Tulan’s the Master, remember.’
Kyle waved him away with the short blade. ‘Go on with you now.’
Winking, the lad clambered to his feet and ambled off.
Kyle worked on, unweaving the coarse hemp fibres for a splice. This he could manage with his hands alone and his gaze shifted sidelong down the length of the galley to the raised stern deck where Tulan stood wrapped in layered robes that hung to his ankles. Nearby lingered a knot of the ex-Stormguard in their blue cloaks. With them was Storval, who made no secret of his antagonism. He’d often seen them together and it occurred to him that the lad was right: he would have to keep a closer eye on them. Any deep water crossing is a risky undertaking at the best of times. Tulan might be the Master, but ships are dangerous places. A man can fall overboard any time. Even by accident.
CHAPTER III
ORMAN CROSSED PINE bridge in the night. The trunks of its bed creaked beneath his feet. Frost glimmered over the pale wood as it reflected the stars above. Below, the cold waters of Fool’s Creek rushed past beneath a clear skein of ice. It was still too early in the season to travel up-country – it would be months before the passes cleared – but he was no stranger to the snows. He’d hunted the valleys bordering the Holds through the winter. And with his father he’d wandered the high slopes for a full year.
He knew the territory surrounding the old hunting camp. It was on level ground next to a seasonal run-off stream. High forested ridges overlooked it on two sides. There was no
Kyle eased himself back, straightening slightly. ‘Yes? So?’
Reuth hesitated, then pushed on: ‘You carry that sword with you at all times. You never leave it aside in a bunk or a chest. You keep it hidden from sight, wrapped and covered …’
‘Yes? So?’
‘Well …’ The lad peered warily about then lowered his voice. ‘There are those on board who say you might be Whiteblade.’
Whiteblade. So there it was. No longer
the
Whiteblade, but just Whiteblade itself. A title, or epithet. How things change and transform in the retelling as each speaker slips in one or two embellishments to make tales their own – or to move them in the direction they think they ought to go.
‘You’re doing it again,’ the lad said.
Kyle studied the lad: he appeared serious, worried even, hunched forward as he was, his eyes searching. ‘Doing what?’
Reuth pointed to his neck. Kyle lowered his gaze and jerked a touch ruefully. The lad was right: he’d gotten hold of the amber stone he kept round his neck and was rubbing it as he thought.
‘What is it?’
‘Just an old worn piece of amber. The gift of a friend long ago.’
‘So – are you him? Whiteblade?’
He chose to give an unconcerned shrug. ‘And what if I was?’
Reuth leaned even closer. His long unwashed hair fell forward and he brushed it back with an impatient gesture that was a habit of his. ‘Then you must be careful. There are those here who would like to kill you, I think.’
‘Thank you, Reuth. I’ll have a care.’
The lad nodded earnestly. Edging forward even closer, he pressed his hands together and touched his fingers to his nose. ‘Ah … so … is it true what I hear?’
Kyle simply shook his head, smiling slightly. He picked up the sailor’s dirk he’d taken as his own, honed to a thin sickle-moon, and set to cutting a hemp line to trim it.
Reuth sighed his disappointment and sat back. ‘Well, I had to try.’
‘Thank you for the warning, Reuth. Now I think that the less time you are seen with me the better for you.’
At first the lad look stricken – as if he’d been told to go away – but then the wider implications came to him and he nodded once more. ‘Ah! I see. Well, don’t you worry about me. Tulan’s the Master, remember.’
Kyle waved him away with the short blade. ‘Go on with you now.’
Winking, the lad clambered to his feet and ambled off.
Kyle worked on, unweaving the coarse hemp fibres for a splice. This he could manage with his hands alone and his gaze shifted sidelong down the length of the galley to the raised stern deck where Tulan stood wrapped in layered robes that hung to his ankles. Nearby lingered a knot of the ex-Stormguard in their blue cloaks. With them was Storval, who made no secret of his antagonism. He’d often seen them together and it occurred to him that the lad was right: he would have to keep a closer eye on them. Any deep water crossing is a risky undertaking at the best of times. Tulan might be the Master, but ships are dangerous places. A man can fall overboard any time. Even by accident.
CHAPTER III
ORMAN CROSSED PINE bridge in the night. The trunks of its bed creaked beneath his feet. Frost glimmered over the pale wood as it reflected the stars above. Below, the cold waters of Fool’s Creek rushed past beneath a clear skein of ice. It was still too early in the season to travel up-country – it would be months before the passes cleared – but he was no stranger to the snows. He’d hunted the valleys bordering the Holds through the winter. And with his father he’d wandered the high slopes for a full year.
He knew the territory surrounding the old hunting camp. It was on level ground next to a seasonal run-off stream. High forested ridges overlooked it on two sides. There was no
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