Brat E-Book

Ghillian Potts

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: the Naming of Brook Storyteller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 243

Beschreibung

On her twelfth birthday Brat's father disappears. She waits, but he never comes back. When she goes looking she is laughed at, and her belongings stolen. Reduced to begging and determined to find out what has happened to him, she falls in with Gray and Baylock, whom she quickly discovers are outlaws, but there is far more to either of them than a falling out with the law, and Brat find that nothing is simple, nowhere is safe, and being reunited with her family is going to be difficult, and something she may decide must wait as more pressing tasks fall into her path.Ghillian Potts is now 83. She had a number of stories for younger children published in the 1990s, one of which featured on Jackanory. Young adult novels have been written at various stages in her career, but none have been published until now.

Leseprobe

First published in UK 2017 by Arachne Press Limited

100 Grierson Road, London SE23 1NX

www.arachnepress.com

© Ghillian Potts 2017

ISBNs

Print, 978-1-909208-41-4

Mobi/Kindle 978-1-909208-45-2

ePub 978-1-909208-44-5

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Except for short passages for review purposes no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of Arachne Press.

Printed on wood-free paper in the UK by TJ International, Padstow.

BRAT

Also by Ghillian Potts

The Old Woman of Friuli

Forthcoming

Spellbinder and Wolftalker,

Books Two and Three of The Naming of Brook Storyteller

CHAPTER ONE

The marketplace was growing more crowded as the day warmed up. The dirty ragged child watched everything with feverish concentration. Her red-brown hair straggled into her eyes and she pushed it back impatiently. She dared not miss anything.

At last her attention became fixed on one corner of the marketplace.

The young man in brown stood quietly leaning on his staff, hardly moving at all as he waited patiently in the mid-morning sunshine. He looked ordinary. His face, his brown skin, his dark hair, cropped short, peasant-fashion, were no different from the folk around him. Only the watching child saw that while he seemed to be lounging casually, there was something a little too controlled about it. He was keeping himself still with an effort. And his air of assurance and independence did not match his coarse drab tunic and trews.

Abruptly a tall thin woman appeared at the brown man’s shoulder. He could not, thought the child, have heard her over the noise of the market. Was the man about to be attacked? Stiffening treacherously trembling knees and wiping grimy hands down the grubby sack that did duty for a tunic, the child moved carefully closer. The woman spoke to the brown man from behind. The sudden sound should have made him start yet he controlled the movement at once and merely turned his head slightly.

‘Stand there too long, Baylock, and some dog will take you for a tree,’ she said, laughing under her breath. Her voice was so clear that it carried to the sharp-eared watcher crabbing gradually nearer.

Baylock frowned and spoke, too softly to be heard by anyone else. The woman shook her head. She took a bite from the large plum she was holding and slurped loudly in an effort to suck up all the juice. The watching child swallowed. She didn’t feel really hungry any more, just weak. But it was hard to watch others eat. And she couldn’t see clearly. The scene was dimming, swimming... With an effort, the watcher blinked away the haze.

Baylock looked full at his companion at last. He had to tilt his head a little. She was taller by half a head. Were they arguing? wondered the watcher. The man was scolding the woman. She laughed at him and spread out her hands carelessly.

The half-eaten plum shot from her fingers across the roadway. She paid no heed. It would be snatched up by one of the streetskimmers, the beggar children who always hung around the outskirts of the market. Baylock ran his hands over his hair, smoothing the frown from his face as well.

‘You have no news, then?’

‘None. Have a plum.’ She dug into the bag she held in the crook of her arm. She held out a plum to him, then bit into it herself when he shook his head irritably.

‘Then we should leave town today. It is too dangerous for us now. Will you listen to me just this once, Gray? You are the most reckless of idiots but I am too fond of you to leave you to rot in some dungeon. I’d have to try to save you and probably get myself killed in the trying. So for my sake, I beg...’

The child was near enough now. ‘Here is your plum, Lady,’ she said shakily.

Baylock broke off. He and Gray gazed in total astonishment at the bedraggled child who stood solemnly holding out the half-eaten plum. The child stared gravely back at them, not moving. Gray politely took the dusty fruit.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you care to try one yourself?’ She held out the bag and, with a small bow, the child took a plum and ate it with neat careful bites.

The two exchanged glances over the child’s head. Gray’s eyebrows asked, his shrug agreed. ‘Are you alone, friend?’ The woman might have been addressing an equal in age and rank. And the child answered in the same style, ‘I am at present alone; I seek my kinfolk.’

Baylock’s face twitched as he tried to smother his amazement. Beggars did not speak so. Gray’s expression of polite interest did not change, but she too was jolted. She crouched, half-kneeling, to bring herself to the child’s level.

‘Do you know where to seek them? May we be of help to you?’ She still spoke formally but her tone warmed it to friendliness.

The child looked away for the first time, swallowing hard. Then she held up her head again defiantly. ‘My kin are all Storytellers. I am – I was with my father, Weaveword. He was to tell his Tales before Lord Eaglon... I cannot find him, but everyone knows Storyteller Weaveword! I have only to ask in the right places.’ Suddenly the composure broke. ‘But it’s a week, now, and when I... When I... The gate guards laughed and said he’d never been there!’

The woman’s arms went around the child, shielding the tears from any onlookers. ‘Of course everyone has heard of Storyteller Weaveword!’

She jerked her head at Baylock and he stepped between her and the marketplace, looking warily around. Nobody seemed to have noticed them and everything was normal for the time of day, with housewives bargaining, dogs and small children getting underfoot and stallholders shouting their wares.

‘We’d better get back to the inn before someone notices us,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘No one is paying attention yet. If we take you with us, child, can we trust you to be quiet?’

The child was indignant. ‘Of course!’

Baylock did not turn from scanning the square and the roads leading from it. ‘You are worn and hungry, too weak to walk far. I’d better carry you.’

The child drew herself up. ‘I can walk!’

‘We shall be more noticeable if you collapse in the street than if Bay carries you,’ Gray told her. ‘You would not wish to put us in danger by drawing attention.’

The child nodded. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly and Baylock at once turned and lifted her to his shoulder. He swept the edge of his shoulder cape so that it covered the unusually bright hair and was heading for the road before Gray had grabbed his staff. She had to juggle the bag of plums and almost dropped it. The child peered between her eyelids. She must see where they went. Not that she didn’t trust them... but suppose they had to leave her suddenly?

They didn’t seem to hurry but they twisted deftly through the crowd and walked briskly down the road that led to the old part of the town, turning off shortly into a maze of alleyways. Here Gray dropped behind, checking for followers and Baylock, keeping most of the child’s weight on his left arm so that he could reach his dagger easily, slipped round corner after corner as quietly as he could without seeming furtive. Presently he waited for Gray. She came silently, as always, smiling.

‘No-one,’ she reported. ‘Shall I take over?’ Baylock looked down at the child, whose head was lolling against his shoulder.

‘No, the brat is asleep. I can manage as far as the inn. You’re better at holding old Barrelbelly’s attention, anyway. He mustn’t see any rag-tag infants entering his precious inn!’

‘Right as usual, Baylock. What should I do without you? Better, probably!’ Gray answered herself and slipped ahead, grinning at his affronted expression.

While Gray kept the innkeeper occupied, Baylock sneaked unnoticed up to their room. He eased his burden gently onto the bed and stood back, rubbing his aching arm. Light as the child was, the weight had seemed to increase with carrying, as weights will, and he had not tried to shift it to the other arm for fear of waking the poor creature.

At this point, the ‘poor creature’ sat up straight in the bed and said furiously, ‘I was not asleep!’

Baylock was taken aback. ‘I thought you were,’ he said feebly.

‘I shut my eyes because your stupid cape kept getting in them. That’s all!’

Gray came softly into the room and shut the door. ‘Gently, child,’ she said. ‘You are not supposed to be here, remember. Now, I’ve wheedled some bread and broth from old Buttertub, and while you eat it – slowly! – we can talk.’

The child giggled weakly. ‘I thought you called him Barrelbelly!’

Gray looked shocked. ‘Sky above, no! Our noble landlord calls himself Goodbarrel. Only vulgar persons would call him Buttertub and Barrelbelly. So you were awake all the time, were you?’

The child nodded, mouth too full to speak. Gray waited for the gulp, and said, ‘Pause a little before you eat more. You will choke. Now, what are we to call you?’

She slipped back into formality for the question. Even a Use-name could be a sensitive point. ‘Brat!’ said the child, with a fierce glare at Baylock.

Gray’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I am called Gray, and this is Baylock.’ She hesitated and added, ‘I am known also as Graycat. Do you still wish to be called Brat?’

There was a startled silence. Graycat, the outlaw, her Use-name reflected her uncanny ability to disappear in a crowd despite her uncommon height; or to slip into shadow and seem to vanish, one shadow among many. Graycat, who could enter and leave almost any place unnoticed if she did not wish to be seen! For a moment the child’s expression softened. Such trust almost demanded a confidence in return. Then she looked at Baylock again.

‘Yes, please,’ she said coldly. ‘Brat.’

Gray shrugged. ‘I shall bring you more food later,’ she said. ‘For now, I suggest you try to sleep. We must wait until the market closes before we leave town and we shall be travelling most of the night.’

‘Leave town? Why? Are you in danger? I can’t leave till I know where my father... You know what has happened to him!’ accused Brat in a shocked whisper.

Gray moved stealthily to the door. She opened it, looked along the passage, closed it again and pushed the bar into place. Baylock was already closing the window. Brat knelt up on the bed, breathing faster and watched in silence.

Gray came to stand by the bed. Softly and distinctly, ‘Your father is dead, Brat,’ she said. ‘Lord Eaglon had him killed two nights since. I have seen his body. You have escaped with your life only because his death is known to very few.’

CHAPTER TWO

Brat did not move or speak, merely stared, rigid. Gray went on, ‘The men who laughed at you when you asked for your father did not know of his arrest and death. I think you did not look like the child of Storyteller Weaveword by then.’

She paused and Brat whispered, ‘The old woman stole my clothes, those I hadn’t sold for food.’

‘So, you were lucky that she did.’ Gray told her. Brat still stared at her with strained attention. ‘But by now you may well be searched for. We can help you out of the town, but you’ll have to do as we say. Will any miss you here?’

‘No-one.’ Brat’s frozen stare did not alter.

‘Good. And will you do as we ask?’ Gray’s tone was neither coaxing nor compelling. A small stiff nod answered her. ‘One of us must buy provisions, discreetly. Since you must not be known to be in this room, the other must stay here for fear of intruders. Would you have me stay, or Baylock?’

‘Baylock,’ said Brat.

Baylock was startled. ‘I thought...’ he began but Gray frowned him to silence.

‘You pack, I’ll purchase and Brat shall rest,’ she said. ‘If anyone tries to come in, you have a hangover and want to sleep.’ She surveyed Brat thoughtfully. ‘We must disguise you, in case anyone remembers you asking for Weaveword. Do you want to be a boy or a girl?’

Brat was surprised out of rigidity. Interest and intelligence returned. ‘The guard said ‘Run along, lad.’ So I’d better be a girl. Only – no lies! Storytellers can’t tell lies.’

‘No, no lies,’ agreed Gray, reassuringly. ‘We’ll do all the talking. You shall seem to be Bay’s little sister. Your features are enough alike if your colouring were similar. I’ll see if I can get hair and skin dye and you may choose a wraparound from my spares. Bay, you cut it down for Brat.’

When Gray had gone, Baylock pulled the curtain across.

‘If I really had a hangover and a headache,’ he explained to Brat, ‘I’d want the room darkened. I shall be able to see well enough to pack, you’ll find it easier to sleep and if anyone outside tries to look in – unlikely, but just possible – this makes it harder. Do you see?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Brat in a small voice.

Baylock turned the key in the big chest built in to the foot of the bed. He pulled out Graycat’s shabby leather pack and began to sort her clothes into it. The three wraparounds he spread out on the bed for Brat to choose from. Brat looked them over carefully. They were all too wide and the armholes were too big, but many girl children wore cut-down wraparounds, and a belt would hold it in. There was a plain brooch-pin for the shoulder as well, which would allow for an overlap.

‘Not the blue. Too bright. The green one will be least noticed and it is the straightest. It makes it easier to cut,’ Brat added as Baylock looked blank.

‘Oh. Yes. A good choice.’ Baylock gave the child a thoughtful stare, found Gray’s shears and cut the wraparound to the right length for Brat. He folded the cut-off strip and stowed it in the pack, then persuaded Brat to lie down and try to sleep. He went on packing, moving quietly and steadily. Once he thought he heard a muffled sob and peered at the bed but Brat was breathing deeply and he decided that the child was dreaming.

The packing finished, he sat down on the floor with his back against the door and waited for Graycat to return. He let himself relax completely, knowing that her voice would arouse him at once, and fell into a light sleep.

The stallholders were packing away their planks and trestles as the three set out that evening, their long shadows bobbing across the market square before them as they made for the East Gate. Brat carried a basket covered with a cloth. The other two had their packs. Baylock had rigged them so that they hung like the packs the local farmers used. Since they were leaving town so late in the day, they wanted to look like country folk, not townspeople. There were plenty of country folk going home and they must try to merge with them. Gray had somehow made her slenderness appear sturdy. She wore the bright blue wraparound and her drabbest short cape and moved at a steady plod. A farm girl in her best, out for the day with her suitor and his tagalong little sister.

Baylock concentrated on being inconspicuous. He led Brat by the hand, as if his ‘sister’ were too tired to walk alone. Brat, as instructed, trudged along, head down, yawning now and then, face partly hidden by the hood of an old cape. They attracted no attention at all, even at the town gate where, Gray and Baylock noticed, there were three times the usual number of guards stationed. Children on their own were looked over carefully and sometimes questioned, but family parties were ignored.

Brat noticed it, too. When they had passed the last outwall cottages and were about half a mile from the gate, she pushed back the hood and looked up at Gray. ‘Those soldiers were looking for me, weren’t they? They’d have caught me if I’d been on my own.’

‘Yes, Brat,’ agreed Gray. ‘They were looking, but I don’t think they knew exactly who for. Just a boy on his own, probably. You might have been safe in anyone’s company.’

‘No, I mightn’t. You two saved me.’ Brat stood still and tried to see both faces at once. ‘Only, why did you? I didn’t ask before. I wasn’t sure there really was any danger, even after you told me about... my father. I pray you tell me why you should endanger yourselves for me?’

Gray gave Baylock a nod and he said, ‘We owe our lives to your father’s courage. We can never repay that debt to him, but some of it we may repay in helping you.’

‘There are many Stories about Graycat,’ Brat said thoughtfully. ‘My father used to tell some of them, when we were sure of our listeners. Are there any about you?’

Baylock’s already dark complexion darkened still more. Gray was grinning wickedly and he glared at her. ‘No, Brat, there are no Stories about Baylock,’ he said. ‘Baylock is a very quiet, sober, cautious man and no-one sings songs or tells Stories about that sort of person.’

‘Then I’ll tell one.’ Brat was firm. ‘There ought to be a story about you, too.’

Gray was shaking with silent laughter; reluctantly, Baylock began to follow suit.

‘Thank you, Brat,’ he said hurriedly, controlling his voice with a huge effort, ‘but I truly don’t mind if there are no Stories about me. D-don’t you think Gray might be jealous if my story turned out to be more popular than hers?’

With the last words he gave way entirely and after a moment Brat, still not seeing the joke, also caught the infection and they all laughed until they had to sit down on the grass verge to recover themselves.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Brat. ‘I ought to try to reach my kinfolk and tell them about my father.’

‘We sent out messages as soon as we knew of his death,’ Gray said quickly. ‘But they could not go direct since we did not know where Weaveword’s nearest kin might be. Can you tell us?’

Brat was puzzled. ‘Who did you send to, then?’

‘To friends who would pass the word on. But they might not know where to send, either. It would be safer for your folk if they knew as soon as possible.’

Brat nodded. ‘My great-uncle Silkentongue will be in the City until the end of next month with his wife, Sweetvoice. My grandmother Gentle – she usually travels with us, you know – went to visit my aunt Galewind because she is going to have a baby soon and she lost her first. They will be in Westrin village in Southmoor Shire until after the baby is born. My mother’s half-brother, Speaksilver, should be somewhere between Notrel and Brightside at the moment; he ought to reach Brightside within twenty days. His eldest son, Speakstream, has taken a wife from among the Wilders and will be visiting her relatives in Gildenforest for at least six weeks. Speaksilver’s daughter, my cousin Fleet, has gone north through Vanna Shire and will spend the autumn there, on the Long Circuit. My second cousin...’

‘Hold, enough!’ Baylock had been frantically trying to memorize this flood of information, while Gray made hasty notes in a series of dots punched with a dagger point in a broad leaf she pulled from the wayside.

Brat looked offended. ‘You asked!’

‘Yes, indeed. However, we did not expect quite so many answers,’ Baylock told her, apologetically. Brat watched Gray interestedly.

‘I’ve never seen that done before. It’s writing, isn’t it? Grandmother says it ruins the memory and never lets me watch when there are scribes about.’

‘Your grandmother is right,’ agreed Gray, gazing ruefully at her leaf. ‘On the other hand, we being none of your family or kinfolk, you cannot expect us to have your memory. Think of our memories as sieves, if you like!’

‘Well, which of my family and folk do you want?’ Brat asked. ‘I can tell you where most of them are.’

‘Better you do not know which,’ said Gray, soberly. ‘What you do not know can not be forced from you.’

Brat paled under the skin dye. ‘You did not say how my father died.’

Gray looked at her steadily. ‘No. It is enough for you to know that none of his knowledge was forced from him. Thus do Baylock and I – and others – owe our lives to Storyteller Weaveword.’

Brat swallowed hard and, after a moment, continued the roll call of Storytellers very soberly indeed, while Gray made notes.

A mile further on, Brat said, ‘Graycat, you have told me who you are. That knowledge could be forced from me.’

‘Do not trouble yourself for that, child,’ Gray answered calmly. ‘I, Graycat, give you my word to bring you safe to your kin. If you are taken, I shall be dead.’

CHAPTER THREE

Next morning, Brat awoke in a haystack, with almost no recollection of lying down there. They had walked for miles the night before to get as far as possible from Lord Eaglon, and Brat had been far too tired and footsore to care what the bed was like so long as it meant rest. Baylock, on the far side of the stack, was yawning and combing strands of hay and grass seeds from his hair with his fingers. There was no sign of Graycat.

‘Where’s Gray?’ demanded Brat, looking anxiously around.

‘She’s gone to see a friend a few miles off who may be able to lend us horses. He will also pass on the messages for your folk. She’ll come back for us in a while. How would you like to ride for a few days?’

Brat considered. ‘My feet hurt now, but I daresay other bits would hurt if I rode. I’ve never ridden a horse so I don’t really know. I’ve heard that you feel very stiff and sore at first.’

Baylock nodded, solemnly. ‘Absolutely correct. Gray likes big horses, too, which would make it even more uncomfortable for you. Perhaps she will be able to borrow a pony. We need to hurry even though we are no longer in Eaglon’s Lordship. This is part of old Lord Sternhand’s land. But although he likes Eaglon as little as Eaglon likes him, he still would not help us if Eaglon’s men should catch us. Do you know the story of why Eaglon hates Sternhand?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Brat grinned at the reminder. ‘Everyone knows it, I think, but they still ask for it. And laugh at the bit where Lord Eaglon has to go home with his tail between his legs. Father always...’ She stopped suddenly.

Baylock looked up quickly and looked away again. He was unwrapping some bread and cheese from the basket Brat had carried the evening before. ‘Come and break your fast,’ he said. ‘I ate with Gray, an hour ago. Now, tell me,’ as Brat made short work of the food, ‘do you tell Stories yourself yet?’

Brat hesitated over the last chunk of bread. ‘Yes. Tales, mostly. Of course I’m not allowed to tell many Stories. I know lots that I can’t recite; not yet, anyway. People wouldn’t listen to a child telling any of the Great Cycle, like, for instance, The Sorceress and the Dragon.’

Baylock nodded encouragingly and Brat went on, around the crusty end of the loaf, ‘I can tell Tales like Weatherchild and The Lady Who Loved the Sky and The Clever Maidservant, all the ones the women like to hear. Men mostly won’t pay to hear a child, but the women often give extra.’

‘I don’t think I know Weatherchild’, said Baylock. ‘Would I like it?’

Brat looked at him measuringly. ‘No. Nor would Gray, I think. It is too sweet for you.’ This was clearly a professional judgement, professionally delivered. Baylock nodded, accepting it.

‘Have you any objection to doing a little storytelling as we go?’ he asked. ‘We don’t want you recognised, of course, but it is always useful to have an obvious profession. People take less notice of you if they know what you are.’

Brat frowned. ‘You’re not a Storyteller.’

‘No,’ agreed Baylock. ‘You think I would spoil your act? I am an entertainer of sorts, however!’ He reached forward and drew an egg from Brat’s ear. The egg at once appeared to turn into a coin, then into a kerchief and lastly became a pebble.

Brat’s eyes were round. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know! Will I do, Storyteller?’

‘Yes! You’re very good,’ said Brat, admiringly. ‘Can Gray do that, too?’

‘Gray is a tumbler. We both juggle,’ said Baylock. ‘We sing as well.’

‘I can sing,’ said Brat eagerly. ‘If I tell some of the Tales that have songs in them, we can all sing the songs. That will make us seem to belong together, won’t it?’

Baylock’s look was genuinely respectful. ‘That is very well thought of. Would you like to learn a little juggling, too?’ Brat hesitated. A Storyteller of Weaveword’s standing would never condescend to juggling. But in the interest of disguise... and Brat had always secretly envied jugglers...

Baylock watched the changing expressions on Brat’s face for a moment, and bent to rummage in his pack. He drew out three balls, one scarlet, one bright blue and one golden and began casually throwing and catching them.

A little after noon, a young man riding a big chestnut mare and leading a bay gelding came to the field gate. He whistled, three clear notes like a bird call and Baylock ran to open the gate. The young man rode through, slid to the ground, pushed back his hood and became Gray.

Brat gave a whoop and ran shouting to Gray, ‘Watch me! I can juggle! Baylock says I’ve learned fast!’

Gray obediently watched, still talking low-voiced to Baylock, and all the while absently rubbing the mare’s neck. She broke off to applaud Brat’s performance, apologised for cutting it short and asked them both to get ready to ride. ‘You’ll have to ride pillion, lazy-lady style,’ she told Brat. ‘I did try to find you a pony, but the only one was too fat and slow. We must travel cross-country for awhile.’

Brat crouched down to put the balls away in Baylock’s pack and, carefully not looking at Gray, asked, ‘Is there danger?’ in a casual voice.

‘Not immediately. There is now a rumour of a search but it is for a copper-haired boy, on his own. For the present we are safe enough. Indeed, I think if we went to Lord Sternhand we could even claim his protection for you against Eaglon. He is an honourable man and makes no war upon children. The difficulty would be to reach him; and, of course, it would not bring you to your family.’

‘Would it – would it make you and Baylock any safer?’ asked Brat.

‘To leave you with Sternhand? I don’t think it would make much difference. In a way, you help to disguise us. We can’t move quite so fast with you, it’s true, but you are excellent cover. Nothing appears so innocent as a family group!’

‘I suppose that was why Father brought me with him,’ said Brat, bleakly. ‘To cover whatever he was doing... and I don’t even know what it was.’

‘Nor may I tell you,’ said Gray. She turned from buckling her pack to the mare’s saddle. ‘Listen to me and take this comfort to you, Brat. Weaveword brought you because he believed you to be safer with him than with any of your family. He did not know that he was already betrayed.’

‘How do you know?’ began Brat, but Gray was already swinging up onto the mare’s broad back. ‘Help Brat mount,’ she told Baylock, briskly.

Baylock lifted Brat to sit sideways behind Gray. The pillion had a footrest, but Brat’s legs were too short to reach it. She clutched at the sides of the pillion, feeling wobbly and Gray, looking over her shoulder, said, ‘Can you rig this strap to act as a stirrup, somehow?’