Cart and Cwidder by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

another glimpse of Kialan, looking absolutely horrified, in the crowd beyond the fountain. The people near, seeing someone being arrested, drifted quickly away from around the cart. Kialan seemed to get lost in a moving group and was gone the next second. Moril stood by Olob’s head in an empty space, quite irrationally angry with Kialan. Not that anyone could do anything if the Earl took it into his head to have Dagner arrested, but even Kialan would have been better than no one. He looked despairingly at Dagner. Dagner had only time for one hopeless look back before the two men led him away across the square toward the jail. The crowd hurried away from all three—as if Dagner had a disease, Moril thought angrily. He wished Dagner would walk upright, instead of going bent and guilty-looking.
    â€œI’ve never been so furious in my life!” said Brid. “Never! Of all the unjust—” She stopped, and looked uneasily round the empty space by the fountain, realizing she was on the way to getting herself arrested, too.
    The two men vanished with Dagner inside the frowning jail. Moril had never felt more lonely. “I’ve just realized,” he said. “We didn’t have a license to sing, did we?”
    â€œWe’re entitled to operate on Father’s for six months,” said Brid. “Father told me, and I know that’s the law. I hope Dagner remembers. They can’t do this! They’re just trying—”
    A man approached across the empty space, rather grudgingly, carrying what looked like a sack of oats. He stopped some way off the cart. “Your brother ordered this,” he said. “Do I take it away again?”
    â€œYou’ll do no such thing!” Brid said haughtily. “It’s paid for—that I do know. Put it in the cart.”
    â€œPlease yourself,” said the man unpleasantly. He dumped the sack on the flagstones and went away.
    That was nasty, somehow. Moril saw that everyone was going to avoid them now. Angrily he supposed that Kialan had deserted them in the same way. He left Olob, who seemed to be quietening down, and dragged the sack over to the cart. “What shall we do , Brid?”
    â€œDo?” said Brid, more furious than ever. “I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll have to stay here, in case Dagner ordered anything else, but you’re to go over to the jail at once and ask to see Dagner. Go on. Tell them he’s related to the Earl. Say Mother’s Tholian’s niece. Make a fuss. Ask them to send for Ganner. Make it quite clear that we’re well connected. And when you see Dagner, tell him to do the same. Go on. They’re just trying to frighten us into paying for another license, I know they are!”
    Obediently Moril scurried off across the square. He was so shaken that he could think of nothing else to do, even though he knew in his heart that it was no good. In the South, when they arrested people, even for small offenses, it took more than a boy talking about noble relatives to get them out of prison. At the least it took a lot of money. And as they had not got a lot of money, the doors of the jail could well have closed on Dagner for good. Moril wished Ganner had found them, after all. By the time he reached the cold archway into the jail, he was heartily wishing they had never left Markind.
    â€œPlease,” he said to the man on duty there, “I want to see my brother.”
    The man looked down at him, not unkindly. “Clennen the Singer’s son?” Moril nodded. “And how old are you, lad?” asked the man.
    â€œEleven,” said Moril.
    â€œEleven, are you?” said the man. “They don’t hang your kind till they’re fifteen, you know, so you’re lucky.” Moril thought this was meant to be a joke and smiled politely. “Look, lad,” said the man. “Take some good advice. Get in that cart of yours and drive off. You