The Sorcerer of the North- Character Reaction

13

"Here, Rodney." The book was passed to the Battlemaster next.

The following morning, Will underwent a transformation from Ranger to jongleur. His mottled brown, gray and green cloak was exchanged for one that was more fitting to his identity as an entertainer. He was glad that Halt and Crowley hadn't opted for anything too outlandish in the way of colors, but had chosen a simple black and white motif for him.

Crowley grinned. "Maybe I should have gotten Halt to make it more colorful, then." Will glared at him.

He swung the cloak, with its deep cowled hood, around his shoulders. There was something vaguely familiar about it, he thought. Then it came to him. The irregular black-and-white pattern woven into the material served the same purpose as the mottling on his Ranger cloak. It broke up the shape of the wearer, making the outline indistinct and disguising the hard edges that would help an observer see him. Halt noticed his interested scrutiny and nodded confirmation.

"At least you noticed that," Halt said, straight-faced.

"Yes, it's a camouflage cloak," he said. "Perhaps not the same as a Ranger cloak, but where you're going, those colors will be more useful."

Realization dawned on Will. Norgate Fief in winter would be covered in thick snow, the colors leached out of the landscape. A closer inspection showed him that the black sections of the cloak weren't true black at all, but a dark shade of gray. It would take little effort for a person skilled in the art of unseen movement to blend with the winter countryside. Indoors, of course, the cloak would appear to be nothing more nor less than the sort of random theatrical patterning and dramatic colors that would be expected of a jongleur.

"Very clever," he said, grinning at Halt and Crowley. The two older Rangers nodded agreement. Next, Crowley handed him a sleeveless jerkin made from glove-thin gray leather.

"You can't wear your double scabbard," he said, nodding to the distinctive arrangement that held Will's two knives.  Will grimaced. "It's too much of a giveaway, seeing how only Rangers use them."

"Oh," said Will uncertainly. He wasn't comfortable at the thought of not having his big saxe knife and the smaller throwing knife close to hand. Crowley quickly reassured him.

"You can keep the saxe," he said. "Plenty of folk carry knives like that. And this jerkin has a scabbard sewn into it for your throwing knife."

"Yeah, let's not do that again," Will said, leaning back. "I'd like to be alive a little longer."

He indicated a concealed leather sheath inside the jerkin, below the collar. Will drew his throwing knife and slid it experimentally into the sheath. It tit perfectly. Yet Halt's next words brought his spirits down once more.

"Wow," Horace said, surprised. "That's a first."

"You know, it might make me feel better if I get to throw you out the window."

"No thanks."

"But I'm afraid the longbow will have to stay behind. A jongleur simply
wouldn't carry one," he said. He took the massive bow from Will and placed it to one side. In its place, he handed him a small, low-powered hunting bow and a quiver of arrows. Will studied the unimpressive weapon critically, flexing it easily. He doubted that the draw weight could be more than twenty or thirty pounds.

"I might as well not have this," he said. "It would hardly shoot arrow out of my shadow at midday. Besides," he added, looking more closely at the arrows, "these arrows are far too heavy for the bow." He was definitely uncomfortable with this turn of events. Halt snorted. The bow had been his principal weapon since he was apprenticed to Halt so many years ago. He would feel naked and vulnerable without one.