Standing outside, in the weak late-morning light, Dapplegrim and Caewen considered the object in hand. Caewen had half-wrapped it inside a rag, so that the face of the old man showed as if he were a beggar bundled against a cold night. Although nothing like the merchant’s charmed protection, the greasy old cloth would at least keep the carving hidden from prying eyes and any curious chancers-by.
“Well,” said Dapplegrim, “hurm… now that we have it, what do we do with it?”
“Keep it secret and hidden. I can’t think what else.” She studied the face of the old sleeping man, the lines and the soft relaxed expression. He didn’t look evil. He looked as if he would make a good grandfather. He looked… well… kindly, even. The sort of man who gave gifts to poor strangers whilst genuinely expecting nothing in return. And what was the relationship between old man and babe? Was the Winter King a title? Maybe it entailed a whole family line, and not some singular entity at all? “I wonder if it would be safe to use again? The spying might work both ways?”
“That seems extraordinarily foolhardy. Hur. Even for you.”
“Yes. Yeah. No, you’re right. The truth of it is, I slipped free only because I surprised the doorman. To go back would be to walk into a cage.” She yanked at the hem of the cloth, drawing it around the face, burying the old man, pulling the fabric tight. Then she fished out some twine. “I’ll bind it up and put it at the bottom of my satchel, under everything else. That’s the best we do, for now at least.”
“Out of sight, out of mind. Hurm. One hopes.” Though he was probably trying to sound buoyant, Dapplegrim did not seem to have much convinced himself of this. He gave one of the rolling shivers down his fore-flanks that he used for a shrug, and left it at that. After Caewen was finished shoving the statuette down under all the other odds and ends that were either precious enough or personal enough to carry about, Dapplegrim snorted. “Fafmuir?”
“Yeah. Fafmuir. I still want to talk to him. I’ve too much of a sense that he knows much more than he’s been letting on. Which way? I’ve been to his tent only the once.” A look around. “Where do the bigwig sun-magus pitch their camps?”
“Up over there, most usually. Come on.”
Soon enough, Caewen recognised the wide boulevard of grass that ran along the low ridge, and the lines of spacious tents, most with sun-symbols in various and diverse traditional designs emblazoned on them. Although Samarkarantha’s tent was certainly large, by comparison many of the pavilions on the ridge were outright sumptuous. Fafmuir’s lodgings stood about half-way along the row, and was among the least ornate of these edifices of cloth and self-importance. And yet, his tent stood a little apart, and right at the heart of the row: as if the other’s were grudgingly showing respect by giving up some valuable turf to him. Its colours too remained bright under the swelling late morning light. A slight fog of steam was lifting from the canvas, drifting heavenward. The spindle of smoke that eased upwards from a hole at the mid-pole looked like a strangely braided shoot of ivy, grown from a grassland of drifting steam.
Once they were at the tent’s front portico Caewen called out, “Hello, Fafmuir. Are you in?”
There was a shuffling and clatter, and Fafmuir’s voice came back to them, half-muffled behind canvas. “One moment.”
The drape of fabric eased aside, and Fafmuir bobbed his head out, smiled, and squinted. “You two?” Ambling out then, he gave them his round-cheeked and rosy grin. “Wotcha.”
“You keep saying that. Does it mean hello, or goodbye?” said Caewen.
“A little of both. Now, what can I do for you? I’m afraid you’ve caught me at an inopportune time. I’m about to get dressed up in formal rags for the gift-giving ceremony. All a lot of nonsense–you ask me–but we are expected to dress up fancy for it.” His smile broadened. “And then the night of flames of the living, the embers for the dead. That at least should be memorable. They do know how to put on a show, all them fire-magi and cinder-priests.”
“I see.” Something was bothering Caewen, but she couldn’t quite nail it down. Nothing immediately seemed out of place. The sky was clearing. All was calm and quiet. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the tent with Fafmuir. She couldn’t work out why she was suddenly feeling so off-kilter, so suspicious.
Putting the thought out of mind, she said, “I wanted to ask you directly: what do you know about all of what’s been happening here? What do you know about the assassin and the murders? What do you know about the Winter King?” She frowned. “You seem to be aware of a great deal more than you’ve been letting on.”
“And who appointed you Grand Thief-Taker of the moot?” he asked, with a wry grin.
“I did,” replied Dapplagrim, flatly. “I’ve some official papers in my mouth. Lean in and take a look.”
“Easy, easy.” He laughed. “I was only joking.” To Caewen he said, out of the side of his mouth, “Your horse may have a voice, but I’ve met donkeys with a better sense of humour.”
Dapplegrim snarled, softly.
Fafmuir only rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “Seeing as you have asked so politely. Of course I am keeping secrets. After all, wizards must have secrets. We wouldn’t be wizards, otherwise, would we?” His smile seemed a bit more forced.
Caewen and Dapplegrim just stared at him wordlessly. Caewen crossed her arms in front of her and tilted her head as if to say, and so?
Eventually he flagged and the grin faded. “Alright–neither of you have a jot of humour between you, do you? So, let me see. What was it you wanted to know about, again? What was the question?”
Caewen felt a growing suspicion that he was stalling. “The Winter King for a start. You said earlier that he was real?”
“Yes, the Winter King is quite real. That is true enough, and he is a threat to all the free folk of the sunlit lands. A watchful and ancient threat. He has kept himself to himself these last many hundreds of years, but now, he stirs. He calls allies and servants. Why? I think he means war, much as you have supposed.” His voice found some more thoughtful intonations. “It can be difficult to see the truth sometimes, you know. I understand that as much as anyone. But still, there are a lot of blind fools here. A lot of people trying their best to pretend that there is no mustering in the north.” He looked at Caewen, then to Dapplegrim and back. “Though I think you’ve seen some of the truth, perhaps more than most of these blithering magicians and wizards here, hmm?”
“We know there is a plot at work. Some murky scheme.” She held her breath a moment, then added, “And I know that armies are gathered in the north. Vast armies. Although, I confess I am unconvinced of the Winter King’s outright malice. I’ve had stories of armies in the south too. It is not clear to me who is provoking, whom.”
Dapplegrim snorted. “Hurm. And we don’t know who is to blame for all the killings at the moot either,” he added. “It would be convenient to blame this Winter’s King, but, hur, that might just be convenience.”
“Oh no. I assure you, he is to blame. That is the truth of it. The Winter King is very much at the root of all this. The assassin belongs to him, of course.” Fafmuir’s beatific smile faded, but did not entirely go away. It never entirely disappeared. “I knew that man was up to mischief, but I never guessed so much death would be the fruit that fell from his fingers. If I had known… I ought have ordered him hauled before the Broadtable. I might have saved many lives. Ah, well. No. There is no point in dwelling on the past. As they say, living in the past is a betrayal of the present.” He shook his head, slowly. “I thought to give him a chance. I fell back on my own pitiable pity, and so I mistook warnings for action.” A soft undercurrent of an out-breath. “Now, I see it was not so. Foolish of me.”