Cart and Cwidder (The Dalemark Quartet 1) - Page 21

The man ushered him into a large, imposing room, with a heavy old table at one end. An elderly man sat behind the table, with a younger one who was taking notes. Moril could see by the gold chain round the elderly one’s neck that he was a justice.

“Stand in front of the table and answer clearly,” said the younger man, pausing in his writing and pointing his pen at Moril.

Moril did as he was told, still vibrating. He knew every bulge in the rather pointless carving on the wall above the justice. He could tell how many wrinkles there were in the forehead of the justice—fifteen yellowish folds.

The justice wrinkled these folds up and looked at Moril. “Full name?”

“Osfameron Tanamoril Clennensson,” said Moril. “I’d like to see my brother, please.”

“Quite a mouthful,” remarked the Justice, while the other man wrote it down. “Osfameron?”

“He’s my ancestor,” said Moril. Seeing that the yellow folds of the justice were lifted toward him with slight interest, he explained, “I was called after him. And could I see Dagner, please?” The yellow folds drew closer together. “My brother,” Moril said patiently.

“Your brother?” said the justice. The other man passed him a sheaf of papers, and he drew the folds of his forehead together over them until it looked like smocking. “Some other mouthful down here,” he said.

Moril, with a little wobble to his stomach, realized the papers must be Dagner’s answers to the questions they had asked him. He wondered what Dagner had said and wished he knew. For if he gave different answers from Dagner’s, the justice might well convict Dagner of all sorts of things he had never done. “We call him Dagner for short,” he explained carefully. “And I’d like to see him, please.”

“You can see him presently, if you answer my questions truthfully,” said the justice. “You come of a family of singers, is that true?”

“Yes,” said Moril.

“And you traveled with your father, giving shows?”

“Yes,” said Moril.

“How long have you been doing that?”

“All my life,” said Moril.

“Which is how long?”

“Eleven years,” said Moril.

The younger man leaned over. “The elder boy said ten years.”

The justice smocked his forehead at Moril, calculating how old he was. He looked weary and shrewd, and Moril was just a doubtful fact to him. Moril saw that to follow Brid’s advice and talk of being related to the Earl and to Ganner would do no good, simply no good at all. He knew Brid would have done it. But he was not going to try.

“I was a baby when we started,” he explained.

“From Hannart?” said the justice sharply.

“Yes, but I don’t remember,” Moril said, knowing well enough that if he admitted to his true feelings about Hannart here, he could convict both himself and Dagner. “My father said he had a quarrel with Earl Keril.”

They checked that off against Dagner’s answers, and it seemed to be right, to Moril’s relief. But they seemed dissatisfied, and they became more dissatisfied as the questions went on.

“Where did you last perform before Neathdale?”

Moril thought. It seemed very long ago. Fledden? Yes, because that was the last place before they were in the Markind lordship and stopped performing. That was where Lenina had mended Kialan’s coat. “Fledden,” he said.

“Who did your brother talk to in Fledden?”

“Nobody,” said Moril. He remembered particularly, because no girls had come up to Dagner for once, and he had talked to Dagner himself.

“But you weren’t with him every moment you were in Fledden, were you?” said the younger man.

“Yes, I was,” said Moril. “We were all in the cart, you see. Father always made us stay in the cart together in towns.”

“Always?” said the justice, smocking his folds severely. “You don’t mean to tell me your brother never went off on his own.”

Tags: Diana Wynne Jones The Dalemark Quartet Fantasy
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