3
THE MURAL
Bardon bowed in the magistrate’s direction and then nodded to Kale and Dar. Kale wondered how anyone could gaze upon the festive garden with so little interest. Guests and serving maids wore colorful attire. A sweet fragrance rose from the flowers. Guitarists provided lilting music. Lehman Bardon looked as if nothing made any impression on his wooden soul.
Kale frowned at the grim lehman.
Dar raised a hand, acknowledging the escort from The Hall. “One minute, Bardon,” he said. “I wish to thank the magistrate for his intervention.”
Well now, Bardon can’t like that. Dar is only a leecent and Bardon is a lehman. Surely, Dar should have called him by his title. And shouldn’t a leecent jump to do whatever a lehman wants?
Kale watched Bardon’s face for a reaction. Not a muscle twitched. He nodded solemnly and stepped out of the way of a maid carrying a tray of tall glasses.
Hmm? Our teachers keep reminding Dar of his new humble rank. But I bet Bardon lets Dar do what he wants, then reports his misconduct. He’s an official monitor, and everyone says that’s just a fancy name for a snitch.
Dar approached Magistrate Hyd and engaged the man in conversation. As a diplomat for his region, Wittoom, the doneel had traveled to every large metropolis and visited the courts of many rulers.
Kale admired Dar’s way with words. He could talk to a turnip farmer, a wizard, or a king and never utter an inappropriate comment. Dar could act like a noble, fight like a knight, and play like a peasant. He enjoyed everything he did, and he did most things well.
Gymn and Metta flew off Kale’s shoulders. She was about to call them back when she saw what had attracted their attention. A serving maid stood in the window of the Gander with a platter. She put it down on the broad sill, and the dragons landed on either side.
The blond maid dipped a curtsy to the small dragons and giggled when they inclined their heads toward her, thumping their tails once in a friendly greeting.
“The mayor in the town where I grew up had a minor dragon,” she said. “She was blue and predicted the weather.”
Someone called from inside the inn. The maid smiled at Metta and Gymn. “Enjoy your treat.” She glanced up at Kale and winked before returning to her duties.
Dar was still talking to the magistrate. Bardon stood stiff and unyielding. So, holding the doneel orphan close, Kale joined her dragons. She saw the maid had placed a mound of pudding in the middle of the plate and sprinkled it with shaved cardonut. It looked like an island covered with grass in the middle of a brown lake of ale. With typical dragon enthusiasm for food, Metta and Gymn lapped at what was called poorman’s dessert.
“I’m hungry,” said Toopka.
Kale patted the small child’s back. “I thought your tummy was full of pickle.”
Toopka flashed a mischievous grin. “That was an hour ago.”
“Stealing is not right.”
“I know.” Toopka’s face fell. “Most of the grocers leave food behind the stalls for those who have to forage. Master Tellowmatterden doesn’t.” A grin peeked from under her furry top lip. A twinkle lit her eyes. “And he hollers so loud and gets red. It’s fun to watch him stomp around.”
“It is still wrong to steal.”
“Paladin says to feed the orphans and widows.”
Kale wondered if that was written in one of the books that sat on her desk in The Hall. “Even if he does,” she said slowly, “you should take what is given to you. You shouldn’t steal from Tellowmatterden.”
“I wish you would quit calling it stealing. It was more for fun than stealing.”
“If it’s stealing, it has to be called stealing.”
Toopka gave a great sigh and laid her head on Kale’s shoulder. “I’m still hungry.”
A serving maid passed by just at that moment. Kale suspected Toopka had timed her declaration. The young woman stopped, picked a delicate finger sandwich off her tray, and handed it to the little doneel. Toopka accepted it with one of her winning smiles and a polite, “Thank you.” She nestled in Kale’s arms and chewed with contentment and a great deal of lip-smacking.
Leaning against the wall next to the window, Kale surveyed the people around her in the garden. A marione family with small children sat at a table. The father said something, and the others laughed. Their relaxed, friendly faces reminded Kale of the mariones she had met at Lee Ark’s home. Unlike the people in River Away where she was raised, these mariones enjoyed each other and life in general. Even though they lived in the shadow of the evil wizard Risto’s domain, Lee Ark’s family still managed to smile.
Gathered around another smaller table, four kimen women and several children sipped their tea and ate spicy hard cakes known as daggarts. Kale sniffed the air, wishing she could smell the fragrant morsels. Instead the strong odor of malty ale from the dish at her elbow assaulted her. Wrinkling her nose, she frowned as her dragons slurped the treat.
A roar of laughter from inside the Gander caught her attention. Through the window she saw a dozen men lounging around rough wooden tables in a dim room. A cold fireplace stood against one wall, and a mural covered another. Kale leaned in for a better look.
In the tavern in River Away, there had been a similar mural. Kale had thought nothing of the picture. But during her adventure, a quest to find a meech egg and deliver it to Wizard Fenworth, she had found herself in a real scene that looked very much like the picture on that tavern wall.
She squinted at the mural inside the Gander. A boat moved across dark waters. A tapered line of light from a full moon made a path across the water and illuminated the prow. Two figures sat at the front. One looked like her friend Dar. Kale moved to the open door of the Gander. She had to see who else was in the boat.
With Toopka’s thin arms snug around her neck, she slipped along the wall of the busy room. On the other side of the mural wall, the hallway passed through the center of the building. The painting covered the entire length. Gently rolling waves extended from one end to the other. White foam capped some of the waves.
Only in the center had the artist strayed from the persistent, repetitive blue-green waves. Here moonlight danced over the waters. The boat edged into its glowing beam.
She examined the people in the boat. A doneel sat in the prow with a small bundle on his knee. A kimen sat straddling the front tip of the small vessel, with his legs dangling above the water. His clothing either glowed white or reflected the moon. Behind the doneel sat a larger figure in a gray cape. This person leaned against an old man, bearded and wearing a wizard’s hat. With their heads together, they seemed to be whispering. In the widest part of the boat sat a urohm who dipped one oar into the waves. Beside him sat a marione and a young o’rant, both of whom applied their muscles to the other oar.
The light did not reach the back of the boat. Kale moved closer, trying to make out the images in the shadow behind the huge urohm. Possibly a tumanhofer with kimens around him. If so, the kimens had not illuminated their clothing. A fine lady sat beside the squat man who had to be a tumanhofer.
“Why are you looking at that?” asked Toopka.
“It’s like a painting I saw before.”
“Another boat?”
“No.”
“A lake?”
“No. It was a mountain pass.”
“This isn’t like a mountain pass.”
“No, but the people look the same.”
“Leecent Kale?”
“Yes?”
“I think we better get out of here.”
Kale became aware of the silence. She straightened and turned to view the room. The serving maids had stopped in their journeys back and forth to the kitchen. Every man sat or stood motionless. All eyes bored into Kale.
“This is the men’s side of the inn,” whispered Toopka.
Faced with more than a dozen glares, Kale swallowed hard.
Toopka’s little fist shook Kale’s collar. “I really think we better get out of here,” the doneel hissed. “Now!”
Kale gave a brisk bow to her statuelike audience. She had seen Dar do the elegant motion many times. Only when she did it, the gesture felt jerky. Sidestepping along the wall, she came to the corner of the room and had a clear shot to the back door. She hustled toward the bright rectangle of sunlight.
The closer she got to the opening, the faster her feet hit the clapboard floor. Her steps echoed as if she were crossing a wooden bridge. Her lungs ached as she reached the door, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. Gasping, she swung around the corner and out into the crisp, clean air. She also smashed headlong into a broad chest.
A quick step backward put her in the doorway. She tilted her head and saw the obstruction. Bardon. Lehman Bardon. With a face that would freeze water.