Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [3]
“Are you here to buy a dog?” he asked, ignoring Pawldo’s outstretched hand.
“No. I just came down here to see the animals. The castle was too dark and cold for such a lovely day!”
“Did you talk to my father this morning?” Tristan asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw the flash of pain on her face.
“No,” she said quietly, turning her head to the side.
“The king… wanted to be alone.”
“I understand,” replied Tristan. He looked at the mass of Caer Corwell, towering above the commonsfield on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly of his father. If the king would not even see Robyn – his beloved ward – then he would have nothing to do with anyone.
“Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he wants to!” Tristan ignored the hurt look upon Robyn’s face. “Did you see my new prize?”
“He’s a fine animal,” admitted Robyn somewhat coldly. “But so was his price!”
“Yes, indeed,”chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust out his hand again.
Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor notice of a crimson flash to the side – the passing of the Calishite in his bright cloak. And then his hand closed upon air, where the fat pouch had been.
He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed, but then turned and stared. The red cloak was nowhere to be seen.
“Thief!” Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the direction he had last seen the flash of crimson. Robyn and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after him.
Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall stack of kegs, Tristan saw the flash of red some distance away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and then his quarry disappeared.
The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping several low benches and scattering several early imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.
Again the flash of red, and this time the prince closed the distance. The Calishite sprang away with renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into the prince’s path. The thief ran well, but Tristan’s legs carried him quickly over the ground, springing over obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often Arlen, the prince’s frustrated teacher, had forced his student to run across the moors for hours at a time, developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan picked up speed down a straight aisle.
People turned to gape in astonishment at the two runners. Quickly, the chase drew the attention of the festival-goers. Many of the Ffolk, recognizing Tristan and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave shouts and laughter of encouragement; soon the prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng urging him on.
Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desperate dive, he grabbed the crimson cloak and jerked the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over him, rolling once and then springing to his feet. The thief also recovered, but by the time he stood, the pair were surrounded by a mob of festival-goers.
Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the prince with a long, curved dagger. Tristan quickly snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath and stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For several seconds, the pair observed and judged each other.
The thief, about Tristan’s size and not much older, began to grin in anticipation, though it was mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the thief ’s stance beckoned.
As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed outward and up. The prince instinctively blocked the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked by the swiftness of the hissing blade.
The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of the parry. “You use it well,” he acknowledged in heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the heavy knife.
The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from the fight. Their mood was tense and quiet now, as they sensed the danger. But no one dared to intervene.
For the first time, Tristan felt