Cart and Cwidder (The Dalemark Quartet 1) - Page 16

“No, he didn’t,” said Dagner. “Stop being stupid, Brid. The thing is, I left without explaining to Mother, and even if I had explained, she wouldn’t have wanted you two to go. So I know she’ll ask Ganner to come after us. If he does catch us up, you and Moril will have to go back, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no!” said Brid, and Moril felt equally mutinous.

“That’s why I hope he doesn’t catch us,” Dagner said. “Because I don’t think I could give a show on my own, and I was wondering how on earth I’d manage.”

This admission mollified Brid greatly. She refrained from grumbling, although they went on until the light was all but gone. Then Dagner at last permitted Olob to select them a spot on top of a hill. This meant their camp was windy, a fact which Brid bitterly pointed out while they were fumbling around trying to put up the tent in the breezy semidark.

“Yes, but we can see people coming,” said Dagner.

“And there are thistles. I’ve just trodden on one,” Brid complained.

“Then why on earth don’t you put your boots on?” demanded Kialan.

“Oh, I couldn’t! I’d spoil them,” Brid said, quite shocked.

Kialan roared with laughter, which seemed to restore Brid’s frayed temper. She took it quite cheerfully when Moril discovered the only food they had was bread and onions.

“I knew we’d need those rabbits,” Kialan said dejectedly.

“We all had a good lunch,” said Brid.

Moril had the notion of frying the bread and onions together. Unfortunately it was then so dark that he could not see to fry. The mixture he turned out of the frying pan was extremely singed, and it was only eaten because everyone was very hungry. Then they settled down to sleep. It seemed to Moril, waking and resettling himself round the wine jar during the night, that Kialan and Dagner kept watch, turn and turn about, until dawn broke. Certainly they both looked very jaded in the morning.

Nevertheless, as soon as the sun was up and Olob fed, Dagner had the cart on the move again. They ate the last of the bread as they went. Brid moaned a little, and Dagner promised they would buy more food in the next village they came to.

“What with?” said Brid.

That was a nasty moment. There was no money in the locker where Lenina usually kept it. She must have taken it out in Markind. And none of them had any money in the pockets of their fine new clothes. For a while, it looked as if they would have to give a show before they could eat. Then Brid thought of going through the clothes locker, turning out pockets. There were a few coins in the pockets of Clennen’s scarlet suit, and a further few fell out of Kialan’s old good coat when Brid picked it up.

“May we use these? We’ll pay you back,” she said.

“Of course,” said Kialan. “I’d forgotten I’d got any.”

When they came to a village, Dagner drew up on the outskirts and sent Brid and Moril shopping, shouting after them at the last minute that there were no more oats for Olob. The rule was that you bought oats first—for where would you be with Olob undernourished?—and they were dear in those parts at that season. Brid and Moril came glumly back with oats, a loaf, half a can of milk, a cold black sausage, and a cabbage. Knowing that Dagner would certainly put off givin

g a performance if he could, Brid prepared to do battle.

“That’s all we could afford. If we don’t give a show tomorrow, we’ll starve,” she announced, dumping the meager purchases in the cart.

“We’re going to,” Dagner said, to her surprise. “Father said we were to be sure to perform in Neathdale, and I think we’ll be there by tomorrow. Have you found it?” he asked Kialan, who was frowning over the map. It was not a good map. Clennen knew Dalemark like the back of his hand and only kept a map for emergencies.

“If this place is Cindow, Neathdale’s quite a way to the northwest,” said Kialan. “Is it worth it? It would be almost as easy to go by the Marshes from here.”

“Yes, I’ve got to go. And he said we’d be bound to get news there,” said Dagner. “Let’s get going. And,” he added, “I suppose we’d better have a bit of a practice this evening.”

As Olob went on, Moril, sighing rather, went and fetched the old cwidder. When he had vowed not to play it, he had been thinking of an idle life in Markind—if he had thought of the future at all—but now, whether Dagner played pipes or treble cwidder, and Brid pipes or panhorn, someone was going to have to play tenor to them. That meant Moril on the big cwidder. And he had always been in awe of it, and never more than now. By way of coming to terms with it, he laid it on his knees and polished it as Clennen had taught him. Brid gave him the note on the panhorn, and he tuned it. And tuned it again. And retuned it. As fast as he got a string to the right pitch, it went off again. All he could produce was the moaning twang of slack strings.

“I think the pegs are slipping,” he said helplessly.

“Let me have a go,” Brid said competently. But she could not get it tuned either.

“Let me look at the pegs,” said Kialan. He looked, and seemed fairly knowledgeable, but he could not see anything wrong. He handed it on to Dagner. Dagner, who knew most of all, hitched the reins round his knees and spent half an hour trying to get the cwidder tuned. In the end he was forced to hand it back to Moril in the same state as before.

“Isn’t that all we needed!” said Brid. “Perhaps it’s in mourning. After all, we all should be, and look at us!”

“Try playing a lament,” Kialan said thoughtfully.

“Why?” said Moril. “Anyway, I hate the old songs.”

Tags: Diana Wynne Jones The Dalemark Quartet Fantasy
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