Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 02 by A Wizard In Bedlam

Author:A Wizard In Bedlam
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

The rising sun found a party of four wandering down the King’s Highway-an old hedge priest, a young woman in a dark, hooded robe, and two filthy madmen, crusted with dirt and with only a twist of loincloth for clothing. The one might have been very tall, if he ever stood straight; but he was hunched and shambling, shuffling down the roadway.

What the other lacked in height, he made up in energy. He bounded down the road capering and crowing, howling a hymn of glee to the rising sun.

“Quite well done, I’m sure,” Father Fletcher said dryly, “but I think you do it with too little cause and too much will. I would ask you to remember that I am, after all, a Christian priest.” “Of course, Father,” Dirk tossed back over his shoulder, “but any good Christian would agree that only a madman would chant a hymn to the sun.” “Nonetheless, our good Father has a point,” Madelon demurred. “True, we must be disguised from the King’s patrols, and two madmen and a maiden bound for convent will scarcely be noticed in this land, if they travel under a priest’s protection; but I would like to remind you that no Soldiers are watching at the moment.”

Dirk brushed the objection away. “You don’t understand the art of it. The true histrionicist must always be in character; you never know when you’re going to have an audience.”

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t find that argument too compelling,” Gar demurred. “But, since three horsemen have just come into sight ahead of us, I must reluctantly grant it a certain validity.”

Dirk looked up, startled, Far down the road, half-obscured by the morning mist and the sun behind them, three riders stood in silhouette.

“Be easy, my children.” Father Fletcher seemed relaxed around a core of tension. “We are only two poor madmen and their grieving sister, journeying to a Bedlam house under the protection of a priest.”

Dirk filed the fact for ready reference, and whirled around to begin the next act of “Salute to the Sun.”

Halfway through the second stanza, a voice cried, “Hold!”

Just in time, too-Dirk had almost run out of lyrics.

He whirled about, one hand poised over his head like a fountain-statue, staring wide-eyed at the Soldiers.

Father Fletcher came to a halt and looked up, mildly inquisitive. Gar kept shambling on; Madelon tugged at his arm, and he stopped, then turned, slowly, to gaze at the Soldiers with a vacant bovine stare.

The sergeant scowled down at them. “What have we here, Friar? Three geese, plucked bare by the parish?”

“Only two poor madmen, Sergeant,” Father Fletcher intoned, “newly orphaned; and their saner, grieving sister.”

Saner. Dirk wondered about that.

One of the troopers leaned down to yank Madelon’s cowl back; rich auburn hair tumbled down. The Soldier whistled.

“Under my protection, of course,” Father Fletcher murmured. The sergeant glared at the trooper, and the man drew back. Dirk was amazed; he hadn’t realized the clergy had so much influence.

“And where would you be traveling to, Father?” The sergeant was measuring Gar with his eyes.

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