Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (read with me TXT) 📕

but by evening he had a rough estimate, and with the men of the Fellowship gathered around the big open square in the center of the encampment—Berard preferred it that way: no one could ever accuse him of holding anything back—he announced it loudly.

The men cheered and applauded and whooped. Off to one side, though, Jehan stood with folded arms, scowling. This was precisely the side of the Fellowship's enterprise that he hated the most. He would rather play at tables than do accounts on them, and if he had wanted to sell cheese, or anything else, he could have stayed in Saint Blaise.

But Jehan was here tonight, and that told Berard that he had at least some interest in the proceedings. Well, that was to be expected. Knightly behavior and knightly equipment were expensive, and as Jehan was passionately devoted to both, he had to make sure that his share of Ypris was sufficient to float his beliefs for another few weeks.

Another few weeks. Though Jehan did not know it, he probably did not have to worry about any more of a future than that. Berard had already made a few private inquiries as to the willingness of some of the other companies to follow him into a certain venture that, though he could not at present reveal any particulars to them, was likely to offer substantial rewards, and he had been elated by their enthusiasm. Now, just a little more information from Jehan, and Berard could dispense with the chivalric little nitwit.

The men were still cheering as Eustache turned to Berard. A handshake, a nod, and that was that. At least as far as Bardi and Peruzzi was concerned. Berard, though, had other plans, other matters to which to attend. He had started a game of chess with Jehan, and now it was time to finish it.

Business being over, it was time for celebration. But as the men gathered around the fire with wine and food and women, Berard called Jehan into his tent to talk about . . . well . . . business. Leadership. Not much of anything really. No need to spare the wine.

Jehan had always been of two minds about brigandage, and he inevitably became maudlin when he was drunk. “I remember my father,” he said, staring at the torchlight that flickered on the walls of Berard's tent. “He always wanted me to do something. He sent me to Saint Blaise because . . . because . . .”

He drank. Berard refilled. He had appointed himself Jehan's personal cup-bearer tonight.

“I don't know why. There was something in Saint Blaise he wanted me to learn.”

“Well,” said Berard, “I think you learned something there.” He glanced at his bed. Joanna was huddled in the sheets, waiting. Those eyes! And that figure! But right now he had Jehan to deal with. “You learned that you didn't want to make cheese.”

“Or sell it.”

“Yes. Yes.”

But I suppose I was supposed to be something more than a robber.” Jehan fell to staring at the torchlight again. “I wonder if he hates me.”

“Oh, I don't think he hates you.”

“He must.”

“No, not at all.”

Jehan snorted.

“Come now,” said Berard pleasantly, refilling Jehan's cup again. “What makes you think he hates you?”

“I didn't do anything noble.” Jehan was lapsing into a sizable depression. “Look at Christopher delAurvre: he went off on a crusade and killed people for God.”

“But he's mad now,” said Berard.

Jehan was undeterred. “And what have I done? Sacked towns, gotten drunk, fornicated . . .”

Off in the bed, Joanna shuddered, balled herself a little tighter in the sheets. Berard was annoyed. He had not hurt her. At least not badly. But he returned to Jehan. “You don't know what your father thinks,” he said smoothly. “For all you know he might well be proud of you. You've never found out.”

“How am I supposed to find out?”

“Well . . .” Berard pretended to think. “You could pay him a visit. We're in Adria. Shrinerock is in Adria . . . It's not that big a country.”

Jehan blinked blearily at the light. From outside came the sound of music: a musette and a drum. A whoop and a shout of higher! told Berard that Petro was dancing.

Girlish laughter. Well, at least some of the women of Ypris were making the most of their new occupation.

“Visit my father?” said Jehan.

Berard glanced at Joanna. She could try to enjoy it a little. “Of course,” he said. “You could ride down to Shrinerock and be back here before we had to move out.”

The lad shook his head. “There'd just be a big fuss. I don't want a fuss. It might not be the kind of fuss I want.”

“Well . . .” Again, Berard pretended to think. “Maybe you could pay your visit in private.”

“How?”

“You've got that . . . ah . . . secret entrance to the castle. You could go in at night, climb up the wall—”

“It's not a wall. It's a spring.”

“Of course,” Berard agreed. “How stupid of me. Well, you could dive under the spring—”

“You don't dive under it, Berard.” Jehan drank deep, drops of wine escaping the rim of his cup and running down his beardless throat. “You just go behind the little waterfall above the pool. It's dark there. No one ever goes back there, and so no one ever sees it.”

“Oh . . . I see. . . .” Berard nodded as he refilled Jehan's cup. “But you see what I mean. You go behind the waterfall, climb the ladder . . .” Jehan was looking at him with an impatient expression. “But . . . I'm getting it all wrong, aren't I?”

“There's no ladder involved.” Jehan's voice was slurring, his eyes drooping. “The cave comes out at the well in the courtyard.”

“Ah, yes.”

“The Elves used it all the time.”

Berard was suddenly speechless. Elves?

“They'd come late at night,” Jehan continued. “It was amazing: you couldn't even see them in the moonlight. Their clothes, you know. Green and gray. Blended in