The Eyes Of The Dragon Part 12

But over the last ten years or so, things had gradually improved. Bankers who had been threatening first became willing to extend the outstanding mortgages, and to even offer new loans at interest rates so cheap they were unheard of. It had hurt An-drew Staad bitterly to see the land of his ancestors whittled away reel by reel, and it had been a happy day for him when he was able to go to Halvay, the owner of the next farm over, and tell him that he had changed his mind about selling him the three reels Halvay had wanted to buy for the last nine years. And he knew who he had to thank for these wonderful changes, too. His son* his son who was a close friend of the prince who also happened to be the King-in-waiting.

Now they were only the unlucky Staads again. If that had been all, only a case of things going back to the way they had been, he could have stood up under it without striking his son at the dinner table* an act of which he was already ashamed.

But things weren't going to go back to the way they had been. Their position had worsened.

He had been lulled when the bankers had stopped behaving like sheep instead of wolves. He had borrowed a great deal of money, some to buy back land which he had already sold, some to install things like the new windmill. Now, he felt sure, the bankers would take off their sheepskins, and instead of losing the farm a piece at a time, he might lose it all at once.

Nor was that all. Some instinct had told him to forbid any of his family members to go to Thomas's coronation and he had listened to that inner voice. Tonight he was glad.

It had happened after the coronation, and he supposed he should have expected it. He went into a meadhouse to have a drink before starting home. He was very depressed by the whole sorry business of the King's murder and Peter's imprisonment; he felt that he needed a drink. He had been recognized as Ben's father.

"Did yer son help his friend do the deed, Staad?" one of the drunks had called, and there had been nasty laughter.

"Did he hold the old man while the prince poured the burnin ' pizen down his thrut?" one of the others called out in turn.

Andrew had put his mug down half empty. This was not a good place to be. He would leave. Quickly.

But before he could get out, a third drunk- a giant of a man who smelled like a pile of moldy cabbages-pulled him back.

"And how much did you know?" this giant had asked in a low, rumbling voice.

"Nothing," Andrew said. "I know nothing about this business, and neither does my son. Let me pa.s.s."

"You'll pa.s.s when-and if-we decide to let yer pa.s.s," the giant said, and shoved him backward into the waiting arms of the other drunks.

The pummeling then began. Andy Staad was pushed from one to the next, sometimes slapped, sometimes elbowed, sometimes tripped. No one quite dared to go as far as punching him, but they came close; he had seen in their eyes how badly the had wanted to. If the hour had been later and they had been drunker, he might have found himself in very serious trouble indeed.

Andrew was not tall, but he was broad-shouldered and well muscled. He calculated that he might be able to dust off any two of these idlers in a fair fight-with the exception of the giant, and he thought that perhaps he could give even that fellow a run for his money. One or two, possibly even three* but there were eight or ten there in all. If he had been Ben's age, full of pride and hot blood, he still might have had a go at them. But he was forty-five, and did not relish the thought of creeping home to his family beaten within an inch of his life. It would hurt him and frighten them, and both things would be to no purpose-it was just the Staad luck come home with a vengeance, and there was nothing to do but endure it. The barkeeper stood watching it all, doing nothing, not attempting to put a stop to it.

At last they had let him escape.

Now he feared for his wife* his daughter* and most of all for his son Ben, who would be the prime target for bullies such as those. If it'd been Ben in there instead of me, he thought, they would have used their fists, all right. They would have used their fists and beaten him unconscious* or worse.

So, because he loved his son and was afraid for him, he had struck him and threatened to drive him from the house if Ben ever mentioned the prince by name again.

People are funny, sometimes.

That Ben Staad didn't already understand abstractly about this strange new state of affairs he discovered very concretely the next day.

He had driven six cows to market and sold them for a goo price (to a stockman who didn't know him, or the price mightn't have been so good). He was walking toward the city gates, when a bunch of loitering men set upon him, calling him murderer and accomplice and names even less pleasant.

Ben did well against them. They beat him quite badly in the end-there were seven of them-but they paid for the privilege with b.l.o.o.d.y noses, black eyes, and lost teeth. Ben picked himself up and went home, arriving after dark. He ached all over, but he was, all things considered, rather pleased with himself.

His father took one look at him and knew exactly what had happened. "Tell your mother you fell down," he said.

"Aye, Da '," Ben said, knowing his mother would not believe any such story.

"And after this, I'll take the cows to market, or the corn, or whatever we have to take to market* at least until the bankers come an' take the place out from under us."

"No, Da '," Ben said, just as calmly as he had said Aye. For a young man who had taken a bad beating, he was in a very strange mood indeed-almost cheerful, in fact.

"What do you mean, telling me no?" his father asked, thunderstruck.

"If I run or hide, they'll come after me. If I stand my ground, they'll grow tired soon enough and look for easier sport."

"If someone draws a knife from his boot," Andrew said, voicing his greatest fear, "you'll never live to see them grow tired of it, Benny."

Ben put his arms around his father and hugged him tight.

"A man can't outsmart the G.o.ds," Ben said, quoting one of Delain's oldest proverbs. "You know that, Da '. And I'll fight for P* for him you'd not have me mention."

His father looked at him sadly and said, "You'll never believe it of him, will you?"

"No," Ben said steadfastly. "Never."

"I think you've become a man while I wasn't looking," his father said. "It's a sad way to have to become a man, scufflin in the streets of the market with gutter louts. And these are sad times that have come to Delain."

"Yes," Ben said. "They are sad times."

"G.o.ds help you," Andrew said, "and G.o.ds help this unlucky family.

Thomas had been crowned near the end of along, bitter winter. On the fifteenth day of his reign, the last of that season's great storms fell on Delain. Snow fell fast and thick, and long after dark the wind continued to scream, building drifts like sand dunes.

At nine o'clock on that bitter night, long after anyone sensible should have been out, there was a fist began to fall on the front door of the Staad house. It was not light or timid, that fist; it hammered rapidly and heavily on the stout oak. Answer me and be quick, it said. I haven't all night.

Andrew and Ben sat before the fire, reading. Susan Staad, wife of Andrew and mother of Ben, sat between them, working at a sampler which would read G.o.dS BLESS OUR KING when finished. Emmaline had long since been put to bed. The three of them looked up at the knock, then around at each other. There was only curiosity in Ben's eyes, but both Andrew and Susan were instantly, instinctively afraid.

Andrew rose, putting his reading gla.s.ses in his pocket.

" Da '?" Ben asked.

"I'll go," Andrew said.

Let it only be some traveler, lost in the dark and seeking shelter, he hoped, but when he opened the door a soldier of the King stood there on the stoop, stolid and broad-shouldered. A leather helmet-the helmet of a fighting man-clung to his head. There was a shortsword in his belt, near to hand.

"Your son," he said, and Andrew felt his knees buckle.

"Why do you want him?"

"I come from Peyna," the soldier said, and Andrew under-stood that this was all the answer he was to have.

" Da '?" Ben asked from behind him.

No, Andrew thought miserably, please, this is too much bad luck, not my son, not my son- "Is that the boy?"

Before Andrew could say no-useless as that would have been- Ben had stepped forward.

"I am Ben Staad," he said. "What do you want with me?"

"You must come with me," the soldier said.

"Where?"

"To the house of Anders Peyna."

"No!" his mother cried from the doorway of their small living room. "No, it's late, it's cold, the roads are full of snow-"

"I have a sleigh," the soldier said inexorably, and Andrew Staad saw the man's hand drop to the shaft of his shortsword.

"I'll come," Ben said, getting his coat.

"Ben-" Andrew began, thinking: We'll never see him again, he's to be taken away from us because he knew the prince.

"It will be all right, Da ', " Ben said, and hugged him. And when Andrew felt that young strength embracing him, he could almost believe it. But, he thought, his son had not learned fear yet. He had not learned how cruel the world could be.

Andrew Staad held his wife. The two of them stood in the doorway and watched Ben and the soldier break their way through the drifts toward the sleigh, which was only a shadow in the dark with lanterns glowing eerily on either side. Neither of them spoke as Ben climbed up on one side, the soldier on the other.

Only one soldier, Andrew thought, that's something. Maybe it's only for questioning that they want him. Pray it's only for questioning that they want my son!

The Staads stood in silence, membranes of snow blowing around their ankles, as the sleigh pulled away from the house, the flames in the lanterns jiggling, the sleigh bells jingling.

When they were gone, Susan burst into tears.

"We'll never see him again," she sobbed. "Never, never! They've taken him! d.a.m.n Peter! d.a.m.n him for what he's brought my son to! d.a.m.n him! d.a.m.n him!"

" Shh, mother, " Andrew said, holding her tightly. " Shh. Shh. We'll see him before morning. By noon at the latest."

But she heard the quiver in his voice and cried all the harder. She cried so hard she woke little Emmaline up (or maybe it was the draft from the open door), and it was a very long time before Emmaline would go back to sleep. At last Susan slept with her, the two of them in the big bed.

Andy Staad did not sleep all that night.

He sat up by the fire, hoping against hope, but in his heart, he believed he would never see his son again.

Ben Staad stood in Anders Peyna's study an hour later. He was curious, even a little awed, but not afraid. He had listened closely to everything Peyna said, and there had been a muted c.h.i.n.k as money changed hands.

"You understand all of this, lad?" Peyna asked in his dry courtroom voice.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I would be sure. This is no child's business I send you on. Tell me again what you are to do."

"I am to go to the castle and speak to Dennis, son of Brandon."

"And if Brandon interferes?" Peyna asked sharply.

"I am to tell him he must speak to you."

"Aye," Peyna said, settling back in his chair.

"I am not to say 'Tell no one of this arrangement.'

"Yes," Peyna said. "Do you know why?"

Ben stood thoughtfully for a moment, head down. Peyna let him think. He liked this boy; he seemed coolheaded and unafraid.

Many others brought before him in the middle of the night would have been gibbering with terror.

"Because if I said such a thing, he would be quicker to tell than if I said nothing," Ben said finally.

A smile touched Peyna's lips. "Good," he said. "Go on."

"You've given me ten guilders. I'm to give two to Dennis, one for himself and one for whoever finds the dollhouse that belonged to Peter's mother. The other eight are for Beson, the Chief Warder. Whoever finds the dollhouse will deliver it to Dennis. Dennis will deliver it to me. I will deliver it to Beson. As for the napkins, Dennis himself will take them to Beson."

"How many?"

"Twenty-one each week," Ben replied promptly. "Napkins of the royal house, but with the crest removed. Your man will engage a woman to remove the royal crests. From time to time you will send someone to me with more money, either for Dennis or for Beson."

"But none for yourself?" Peyna asked. He had already offered; Ben had refused.

"No. I believe that's everything."

"You are quick."

"I only wish I could do more."

Peyna sat up, his face suddenly harsh and forbidding. "You must not and you shall not," he said. "This is dangerous enough. You are procuring favors for a young man who has been convicted of committing a foul murder-the second-foulest murder a man may do."

"Peter is my friend," Ben said, and he spoke with a dignity that was impressive in its simplicity.

Anders Peyna smiled faintly, and raised one finger to point at the fading bruises on Ben's face. "I would guess," he said, "that you are already paying for that friendship."

"I would pay such a price a hundred times over," Ben said. He hesitated just a moment and then went on boldly: "I don't believe he killed his father. He loved King Roland as much as I love my own da '."

"Did he?" Peyna asked, apparently without interest.

"He did!" Ben cried. "Do you believe he murdered his father? Do you really believe he did it?"

Peyna smiled such a dry and ferocious smile then that even Ben's hot blood was cooled.

"If I didn't, I should be careful who I said it to," he said. "Very, very careful. Or I should soon feel the headsman's blade go through my neck."

Ben stared at Peyna silently.

"You say you are his friend, and I believe you." Peyna sat up straighter in his chair and leveled a finger at Ben. "If you would be a true friend, do just the things I have asked, and no more. If you see any hope for Peter's eventual release in your mysterious summons here-and I see by your face that you do-you must give that hope up."

Rather than ring for Arlen, Peyna saw the boy out himself -out the back way. The soldier who had brought him tonight would be on his way to the Western Barony tomorrow.