out as much as you can. See what you can gather about this Malkallam character. See whether he really exists or whether people are just imagining things. Gain their confidence. Get them talking."
Will frowned. Crowley made it all sound so easy, he thought. "That's easier said than done," he muttered, but Halt replied with just the ghost of a smile.
"It'll be easier for you than for most," he said. "People like to talk to you. You're young. You have a fresh-faced innocent look that disarms them. That's why we chose you. They'll never suspect you're a Ranger."
"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.
"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.
12
"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"
Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.
"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.
Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm not a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."
Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't you forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."
"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.
"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones ..."
He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.
"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.
"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."
"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.
"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.
"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.
"A tinker?" Crowley asked.
"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and—"
"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."
"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"
"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"
"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"
"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."
"It's not a ..." Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.
"Never mind," he muttered.
He took the instrument from its case and removed
Will frowned. Crowley made it all sound so easy, he thought. "That's easier said than done," he muttered, but Halt replied with just the ghost of a smile.
"It'll be easier for you than for most," he said. "People like to talk to you. You're young. You have a fresh-faced innocent look that disarms them. That's why we chose you. They'll never suspect you're a Ranger."
"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.
"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.
12
"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"
Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.
"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.
Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm not a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."
Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't you forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."
"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.
"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones ..."
He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.
"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.
"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."
"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.
"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.
"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.
"A tinker?" Crowley asked.
"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and—"
"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."
"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"
"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"
"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"
"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."
"It's not a ..." Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.
"Never mind," he muttered.
He took the instrument from its case and removed
Similar Books
