When the man had gone, muttering that he didn’t know what the young were coming to, Moril remembered that Brid would be a prey to murmuring gentlemen. He looked up at the cart, wondering what he would do if she was. There was—or had been—a murmuring gentleman. Brid was glaring at him like a tiger, and the gentleman was retreating, very red in the face. “I do hope Dagner remembers the shopping,” Brid said to Moril, pretending the gentleman had never existed.
So did Moril. They waited, and waited, Moril at Olob’s restive head and Brid in the cart, for well over an hour. Moril saw Kialan at intervals, hanging about in the square, evidently waiting, too. But Kialan made no attempt to come near them. Moril rather irritably wondered why not.
Olob tossed his head furiously. Brid said, “There’s Dagner!” Moril saw Dagner hurrying back across the square with the empty hat rolled up in one hand. “Where’s the shopping?” Brid wondered. Dagner waved cheerfully and came hurrying on. He had almost reached the cart when two large men advanced, quietly and purposefully, on either side of Dagner. One took Dagner’s shoulder in a large hand.
“What—?” said Dagner, trying to shake free.
“You’re under arrest, in the Earl’s name,” said the man. “Come on quietly and don’t make any trouble now.”
For a moment Moril had another glimpse of Kialan, looking absolutely horrified, in the crowd beyond the fountain. The people near, seeing someone being arrested, drifted quickly away from around the cart. Kialan seemed to get lost in a moving group and was gone the next second. Moril stood by Olob’s head in an empty space, quite irrationally angry with Kialan. Not that anyone could do anything if the Earl took it into his head to have Dagner arrested, but even Kialan would have been better than no one. He looked despairingly at Dagner. Dagner had only time for one hopeless look back before the two men led him away across the square toward the jail. The crowd hurried away from all three—as if Dagner had a disease, Moril thought angrily. He wished Dagner would walk upright, instead of going bent and guilty-looking.
“I’ve never been so furious in my life!” said Brid. “Never! Of all the unjust—” She stopped, and looked uneasily round the empty space by the fountain, realizing she was on the way to getting herself arrested, too.
The two men vanished with Dagner inside the frowning jail. Moril had never felt more lonely. “I’ve just realized,” he said. “We didn’t have a license to sing, did we?”
“We’re entitled to operate on Father’s for six months,” said Brid. “Father told me, and I know that’s the law. I hope Dagner remembers. They can’t do this! They’re just trying—”
A man approached across the empty space, rather grudgingly, carrying what looked like a sack of oats. He stopped some way off the cart. “Your brother ordered this,” he said. “Do I take it away again?”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Brid said haughtily. “It’s paid for—that I do know. Put it in the cart.”
“Please yourself,” said the man unpleasantly. He dumped the sack on the flagstones and went away.
That was nasty, somehow. Moril saw that everyone was going to avoid them now. Angrily he supposed that Kialan had deserted them in the same way. He left Olob, who seemed to be quietening down, and dragged the sack over to the cart. “What shall we do, Brid?”
“Do?” said Brid, more furious than ever. “I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll have to stay here, in case Dagner ordered anything else, but you’re to go over to the jail at once and ask to see Dagner. Go on. Tell them he’s related to the Earl. Say Mother’s Tholian’s niece. Make a fuss. Ask them to send for Ganner. Make it quite clear that we’re well connected. And when you see Dagner, tell him to do the same. Go on. They’re just trying to frighten us into paying for another license, I know they are!”
Obediently Moril scurried off across the square. He was so shaken that he could think of nothing else to do, even though he knew in his heart that it was no good. In the South, when they arrested people, even for small offenses, it took more than a boy talking about noble relatives to get them out of prison. At the least it took a lot of money. And as they had not got a lot of money, the doors of the jail could well have closed on Dagner for good. Moril wished Ganner had found them, after all. By the time he reached the cold archway into the jail, he was heartily wishing they had never left Markind.
“Please,” he said to the man on duty there, “I want to see my brother.”
The man looked down at him, not unkindly. “Clennen the Singer’s son?” Moril nodded. “And how old are you, lad?” asked the man.
“Eleven,” said Moril.
“Eleven, are you?” said the man. “They don’t hang your kind till they’re fifteen, you know, so you’re lucky.” Moril thought this was meant to be a joke and smiled politely. “Look, lad,” said the man. “Take some good advice. Get in that cart of yours and drive off. You won’t do any good here.”
Moril looked up at him in helpless irritation. “But—”
“Be off!” said the man, urgently. Footsteps were coming through the dark passage behind him. Moril could see the man meant kindly, but he did not move. He waited to see if the person coming would let him see Dagner.
The man who came was one of the two who had arrested Dagner. He glanced at Moril, without seeming very interested. Then he looked again—sharply. “That’s another of them, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man at the gate, and he gave Moril a reproachful look, as much as to say, “Now see what you’ve done.”
“Come with me, lad,” said the other man. Moril, with his stomach hopping as it had never done before, even before this last show, followed him into the dark passageway, through a dismal courtyard and up some stone stairs. They went into a blank room with yellow walls and a bench by one of the walls, where the man told him to sit and
wait. Then he went out and locked the door.
Moril sat on the bench for some time, feeling terrible. He wondered if he was arrested, too. It looked like it. He tried to see out of the window, but it was high up and barred. He dragged the bench over to it, but he still could not see much except gray walls. There was no hope of wriggling out between the bars. He dragged the bench back to its original position and sat on it again.
Then the most dreadful part began. He could not bear being shut between walls. He was hot. He was trapped. The room seemed to get smaller every second and the ceiling seemed to be moving down on him. He thought he would have to scream. He nearly did scream, when a fortunate stain on the wall opposite caught his attention. It was almost the shape of the mountains between Dropwater and Hannart.
Moril thankfully escaped into a dream. He imagined snow-capped mountains and forgot he was too hot. He imagined wide valleys and the sky overhead, and the small room became easier to bear. He thought of the old green roads of the North and of Osfameron and the Adon walking along them. He became Osfameron himself. He and his friend the Adon made their way to imaginary Hannart. On the mountain, they were ambushed by enemies and fought their way clear. Then they went down into Hannart and strolled under the rowan trees outside the old gray castle, composing a song of victory together.
The door opened, and another man told Moril to come along now, quickly.
Moril came back to the present with a jump. He was scared and vibrating and small. He was aware of every stone and stain in that oppressive room, of the grain in the wood of the door, and the dirt in the fingernails of the man’s hand holding it open. He even knew there were six hairs in the mole on the man’s nose. As he got up, he suddenly remembered Clennen by the lake, saying, “You’re in two halves at present.” And he wondered if this was what Clennen had meant.