The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [16]
“That’s not right,” he murmured.
“You can play, can’t you?” the mounted man challenged.
“Don’t interrupt me,” Leoff said absently, closing his eyes. Yes, there it was, though he’d lost the end.
He started into it, a single line on the top string, rising in three notes, dropping into two, then tripping up the scale. He added a bass accompaniment, but something about it didn’t fit.
He stopped and started again.
“That’s not very good,” the man said.
That was too much, spear or no. Leovigild turned his eyes on the fellow. “It would be quite good if you hadn’t interrupted me,” he said. “I almost had this in my head, you know, perfect, and then along you come with your great long spear and . . . What do you want with me, anyway? Who are you?” He noticed distantly that his voice wasn’t shaking anymore.
“Who are you?” the man asked placidly.
Leoff drew himself up straight. “I am Leovigild Ackenzal,” he said.
“And why do you approach Eslen?”
“I have an appointment to the court of His Highness, William the Second, as a composer. The emperor has a better opinion of my music than you do, it seems.”
Bizarrely, the man actually smiled. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dead, that’s what I mean.”
Leoff blinked. “I . . . I didn’t know.”
“Well, he is. Along with half the royal family.” He shifted in his saddle. “Ackenzal. That’s a Hanzish-sounding name.”
“It is not,” Leoff replied. “My father was from Herilanz. I myself was born in Tremar.” He pursed his lips. “You aren’t a bandit, are you?”
“I never said I was,” the fellow replied. “I haet Artwair.”
“You are a knight, Sir Artwair?”
Again, that ghost of a smile. “Artwair will do. Do you have a letter proving your claim?”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I do.”
“I would very much like to see it.”
Wondering why Artwair should care, Leoff nevertheless rummaged through his saddle pack until he found a parchment with the royal seal. He handed it to the warrior, who examined it briefly.
“This looks in order,” he said. “I’m returning to Eslen just now. I’ll escort you there.”
Leoff felt the muscles of his neck unknotting. “Very kind of you,” he said.
“Sorry if I gave you a fright. You shouldn’t have been traveling alone, anyway—not in these times.”
By noon, the infant-eyed sky of morning was cataracted an oppressive gray. This did nothing to improve Leoff’s mood. The landscape had changed; no longer totally flat, the road now ran alongside some sort of embankment or ridge of earth. It was so regular in shape, it seemed to him that it must be man-made. In the distance he could see similar ridges. The strangest things were the towers that stood on some of them. They looked as if they had huge wheels fixed to them, but with no rims, only four big spokes covered in what looked like sailcloth. They turned slowly in the breeze.
“What is that?” Leoff asked, gesturing at the nearest.
“First time in Newland, eh? It’s a malend. The wind turns it.”
“Yes, I can see that. For what purpose?”
“That one pumps water. Some are used to grind grain.”
“It pumps water?”
“Auy. If it didn’t, we’d be talking fishling right now.” Sir Artwair gestured broadly at the landscape. “Why do you think they call this Newland? It used to be underwater. It would be now, but the malenden keep pumping it out.” He pointed to the top of the embankment. “The water is up there. That’s the great northern canal.”
“I should have known that,” Leoff said. “I’ve heard of the canals, of course. I knew that Newland was below the level of the sea. I just—I suppose I thought I wasn’t that far along yet. I thought it would be more obvious, somehow.”
He glanced at his companion. “Does it ever make you nervous?”
Sir Artwair nodded. “Auy, a bit. Still, it’s a wonder, and good protection against invasion.”
“How so?”
“We can always let the water out through the dikes, of course, so any army marching on Eslen would have to swim. Eslen itself is high and dry.”
“What about the people who live out here?”
“We’d tell them first. Everyone knows the way to the nearest safe birm,