The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [136]
Despite the evening breeze beyond the walls, inside them the windless humid air draped itself over Gerran like a winter cloak. Men and horses stood so thick in the ward that pushing through them reminded Gerran of trying to walk through a flock of sheep. Inevitably the Red Wolf warband split up into twos and threes as they tried to follow their captain. Some of the men in his path tried to move out of Gerran’s way at once. Others merely stared at him with eyes turned witless by the gwerbret’s ale until one of their fellows said, “It’s the Falcon. Move, lad! Haven’t you seen him fight?” Then they’d step out of his way, and fast. Gerran thus reached the hall before the rest of his men.
On the top step of the doorway he turned and looked over the ward just as shouting erupted some twenty yards back toward the gates. The mob swirled and swelled as some men tried to get away from what appeared to be a fistfight. As man pushed against man, apologies met curses. Raised voices and clenched fists threatened to spread the trouble further. The horses nearest to the disturbance began pulling at their tethers and trying to rear; grooms began yelling as they worked their way through the clotted crowd. The inadvertent shoves and curses increased. The men hung at the edge of a cliff over chaos, Gerran realized. Drawing his sword would only make them drop. Fortunately a groom stood nearby, a heavy quirt dangling from his lax grasp. Gerran snatched it from him and plunged into the mob.
“It’s the Falcon!” someone yelled. “Ware, lads!”
Men tried to part and let him through, but Gerran ended up brandishing the quirt and even using it on a few of the slower-moving lads before he finally got himself to the edge of the brawl. Perhaps half a dozen men were throwing punches, and three or four more were wrestling on the cobbles, all of them yelling insults and threats. By then, only a last few bystanders blocked his path.
“Move back!” Gerran held up the quirt. “Get away, all of you! Now!”
Those who could followed orders; those at the edge of the mob began to fall back as well; grooms grabbed whatever tether ropes they could reach and began leading horses away. Although the ward was quieting down, the original brawlers went on fighting in a moving tangle of men.
Gerran dodged into the melee and swung the quirt to good purpose, yelling “hold and stand!” the entire time. The Red Wolf men among the miscreants followed his orders straightaway, more afraid of him than of their temporary enemies. The other men, too, began to devote themselves to ducking under Gerran’s blows rather than continuing to fight. A few lucky ones even managed to run out of range.
Behind them more shouting erupted, but of a very different sort. “It’s His Grace! He’s trying to get through. And ye gods, the prince is with him! Make way!”
The last of the brawl stopped cold. The rest of the watching mob found it could indeed move and quickly at that. The ward cleared remarkably easily as Gwerbret Ridvar elbowed his way to Gerran’s side. Right behind him came Prince Voran. Ridvar crossed his arms over his chest, and stood scowling at the cowed brawlers. The ward grew oddly silent; even the remaining horses stopped their stamping and snorting.
“I’m cursed glad that this didn’t happen on the morrow,” Ridvar said, and his voice brimmed with fury ready to spill. “It’s bad enough that one prince of the blood royal has had to see this! I’ll remind you all that another’s on his way here. If anyone dares break the peace in front of them again—” He let the thought sizzle unfinished on the humid air.
Apologies came as fast as summer rain. When Ridvar said nothing more, the men slunk away, heading to the barracks, the hall,