The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  “I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humors and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?”

  “It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.”

  “She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you—”

  “Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.”

  Salamander was hiding something—Neb was sure of it—but probing for it might insult their benefactor. “Govylla, her name was,” Neb went on. “She lived through the plague. Huh—I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were traveling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.”

  “And some might well be traveling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been traveling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honorable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire, indeed.”

  As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man; cold, ruthless, and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and began singing about lasses and spring flowers.

  Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would pick out wooden swords and wicker shields, then face off in the much-trampled grass. The rest of the troop sat in untidy lines off to either side and yelled comments and insults as the combat progressed. Gerran, the captain of the Red Wolf warband, sat off to one side with Lord Mirryn, Tieryn Cadryc’s son. Brown-haired and blue-eyed, with a liberal dusting of freckles across his broad cheekbones, Mirryn was lounging at full length, propped up on one elbow, and chewing on a long grass stem like a farmer.

  “One of these days our miserly gwerbret’s bound to set up a proper tourney,” Mirryn said. “Although everyone knows you’d win it, so I doubt me if I can get anyone to wager against you.”

  “Oh, here,” Gerran said. “It’s not that much of a sure thing.”

  “Of course it is.” Mirryn grinned at him. “False humility doesn’t become you.”

  Gerran allowed himself a brief smile. Out in the meadow a new fight was starting. The rest of the warband called out jests and jeers, teasing Daumyr for his bad luck in drawing his sparring partner. Daumyr, the tallest man in the troop at well over six feet, stood grinning while he swung his wooden sword in lazy circles to limber up his arm. His opponent, Warryc, was skinny and short—but fast.

  “Ye gods, Daumyr’s got a long reach!” Mirryn said. “It’s truly amazing, the way Warryc beats him every time. Huh—there must be a way we can use this at the next tourney.”

  “Use it for what?” Gerran said.

  “Acquiring some hard coin, that’s what, by setting up a wager, getting some poor dolt to bet high on Daumyr.”

  “The very soul of honor, that’s you.”

  Gerran was about to say more when he heard hoof-beats and shouting. A young page on a bay pony came galloping across the meadow.

  “My lord Mirryn! Captain Gerran!” the page called out. “The tieryn wants you straight away. There’s been a raid on the Great West Road.”

  Mirryn led the warband back at the run. Up at the top of a hill, new walls of pale stone, built at the high king’s expense, circled the fort to protect the tall stone broch tower and its outbuildings. The men dashed through the great iron-bound gates, stopped in the ward to catch their collective breath, then hurried into the great hall. Sunlight fell in dusty shafts from narrow windows, cut directly into stone, and striped the huge round room with shadows. Gerran paused, letting his eyes adjust, then picked his way through the clutter of tables and benches, dogs and servants. The warband followed him, but Mirryn hurried on ahead to his father’s side. When he saw Gerran lingering behind, Mirryn waved him up with an impatient arm.

  By the hearth of honor, Cadryc was pacing back and forth, a tall man, tending toward stout, with a thin band of gray hair clinging to the back of his head and a pair of ratty gray mustaches. Perched on the end of a table was the gerthddyn, Salamander. Mirryn and Gerran exchanged a look of faint disgust at the sight of him, a babbling fool, in their shared opinion, with his tricks and tales. When Gerran started to kneel before the tieryn, Cadryc impatiently waved him to his feet.

  “Raiders,” Cadryc said. “Didn’t the page tell you? We’re riding tomorrow at dawn, so get the men ready.”

  “Well and good, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “How far are they?”

  “Who knows, by now?” Cadryc shook his head in frustrated rage. “Let’s hope they’re still looting the village.”

  “Bastards,” Mirryn said. “I hope to all the gods they are. We’ll make them pay high for this.”

  “You’re staying here, lad,” Cadryc said. “I’m not risking myself and my heir both.”

  Mirryn flushed red, took a step forward, then shoved his hands into his brigga pockets.

  “For all we know, the raiders have set up some sort of ruse or trap,” Cadryc went on. “I’ll be leaving you ten men to command on fort guard. Your foster brother here can handle the rest well enough.”

  “Far be it from me to argue with you,” Mirryn said. “Your Grace.”

  “Just that—don’t argue,” Cadryc snapped. “And don’t sulk either.”

  Mirryn spun on his heel and stalked off, heading back outside. Cadryc muttered a few insults under his breath. Gerran decided a distraction was in order and turned to the gerthddyn.

  “Little did I dream our paths would cross so soon,” Salamander gave him a fatuous smile. “An honor to see you, Captain.”

  “Spare me the horseshit,” Gerran said. “Did you see this raid or only find a burned village or suchlike?”

  “Ah, what a soul of courtesy you are.” Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. “Actually, I found refugees, who escaped by blind luck.”

  When Salamander pointed, Gerran noticed for the first time a tattered dirty lad and an equally ragged little boy, kneeling by the corner of the massive stone hearth. Dirt clotted in hair that was most likely mousy brown, and they shared a certain look about their deep-set blue eyes that marked them for close kin. Skinny as a stick, the older lad was, with fine, small hands, but the younger, though half-starved from the look of him, had broad hands and shoulders that promised strong bones and height one day.

  “They lost everything in the raid,” Salamander said. “Kin, house, the lot.” He pointed. “Their names are Neb and Clae.”

  “We’ll give them a place here.” Tieryn Cadryc beckoned to a page. “Go find my wife and ask her to join us.”

  When the page trotted off, Neb, the older lad, watched him go with dead eyes.

  “How many of them were there?” Gerran asked him. “The raiders, I mean.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Neb said. “We were a good distance away, up by the waterfall, so we could see down into the valley. We saw the village burning, and our farm, and then a lot of people just running around.”

  “Cursed lucky thing you were gone.”

  The lad nodded, staring at him, too tired to speak, most likely.

  “The raiding party won’t be traveling fast, not with prisoners to drag along,” Cadryc broke in.
“I’ve sent a message to Lord Pedrys, telling him to meet us on the road with every man he can muster. I’d summon the other vassals as well, but they live too cursed far east, and we’ve got to make speed.”

  “Your Grace?” Gerran said. “Wasn’t there a lord near this village?”

  “There was. What I want to know is this: is there still?”

  Neb watched the captain and the tieryn walk away, talking of their plans, both of them tall men, but red-haired Gerran was as lean as the balding tieryn was stout. Neither would be a good man to cross, Neb decided, nor Lord Mirryn either. Salamander left his perch on the table and joined the two boys.

  “Well, there,” the gerthddyn said. “Your uncle will be avenged, and perhaps they’ll even manage to rescue your aunt.”

  “If they do,” Clae said, “we won’t have to go back to her, will we?”

  “You won’t. Judging from what you told me on our journey here, she doesn’t seem to be a paragon of the female virtues, unlike the tieryn’s good wife.” Salamander glanced over his shoulder. “Who, I might add, is arriving at this very moment.”

  Salamander stepped aside and bowed just as the lady hurried up, a stout little woman, her dark hair streaked with gray. She wore a pair of dresses of fine-woven blue linen, caught in at the waist by a plaid kirtle in yellow, white, and green. Two pages trailed after her, a skinny pale boy with a head of golden curls and a brown-haired lad a few years older.

  “My lady, this is Neb and Clae,” Salamander said. “Lads, this is the honorable Lady Galla, wife to Tieryn Cadryc.”

  Since he was already kneeling, Neb ducked his head in respect and elbowed Clae to make him do the same.

  “You may rise, lads,” she said. “I’ve heard your terrible story from young Coryn, here.” She gestured at the older, brown-haired page. “Now don’t you worry, we’ll find a place for you in the dun. The cook and the grooms can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  “My thanks, my lady,” Neb said. “We’ll be glad to work for our keep, but we might not be staying—”

  “My lady?” Salamander broke in. “Luck has brought you someone more valuable than a mere kitchen lad. Our Neb can read and write.”

  “Luck, indeed!” Lady Galla smiled brilliantly. “My husband’s had need of a scribe for ever so long, him and half the noble-born in Arcodd, of course, but what scribe would be wanting to travel all the way out here, anyway, if he could find a better place down in Deverry? Well and good, young Neb, we’ll see how well you form your letters, but first you need to eat, from the look of you, and a bath wouldn’t hurt either.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Clae looked up with wide eyes. “We’ve been so hungry for so long.”

  “Food first, then. Coryn, take them to the cookhouse and tell Cook I said to feed them well. Then do what you can about getting them clean. Clothes—well, I’ll see what I can find.”

  The food turned out to be generous scraps of roast pork, bread with butter, and some dried apples to chew on for a sweet. The cook let them sit in the straw by the door while she went back to work at her high table, cracking dried oats with a stone roller in a big stone quern. Coryn helped himself to a handful of apples and sat down with them. He seemed a pleasant sort, chatting to the brothers as they wolfed down the meal.

  “I do like our lady,” Coryn said. “She’s ever so kind and cheerful. And our lord’s noble and honorable, too. But watch your step around Gerran. He’s a touchy sort of man, the Falcon, and he’ll slap you daft if you cross him.”

  “The Falcon?” Neb said with his mouth full. “What—”

  “Oh, everyone calls him that. He’s got a falcon device stamped on his gear and suchlike.”

  “Is it his clan mark?”

  “It’s not, because he’s not noble-born.” Coryn frowned in thought. “I don’t know why he carries it, and he probably shouldn’t, ’cause he’s a commoner.”

  The cook turned their way and shoved her sweaty dark hair back from her face with a crooked little finger. “The mark’s just a fancy of Gerran’s,” she said. “After all, he was an orphan, and it’s a comfort, like, to pretend he’s got a family.”

  “Still,” Coryn said, “it’s giving himself airs.”

  “Oh, get along with you!” The cook rolled her eyes. “It comes to him natural, like. He was raised in the dun like Lord Mirryn’s brother, wasn’t he now?”

  “Why?” Clae said with his mouth half full.

  The cook glared, narrow-eyed.

  “Say please,” Neb muttered.

  “Please, good dame,” Clae said. “Why?”

  “That’s better.” The cook smiled at him. “When Gerran was but a little lad, his father was killed in battle saving the tieryn’s life, and the shock drove his poor mother mad. She drowned herself not long after. So our Cadryc took the lad and raised him with his own son, because he’s as generous as a lord should be and as honorable, too.”

  “That’s truly splendid of him,” Neb said. “But I can see why Gerran’s a bit touchy.” He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll do my best to stay out of his way.”

  “Now you’ve got dirt smeared in the grease.” Coryn grinned at him. “We’d better get you that bath.”

  Rather than haul water inside to heat at the hearth, they filled one of the horse troughs and let it warm in the hot sun while Coryn pointed out the various buildings in the fort. Eventually Neb and Clae stripped off their clothes and climbed into the water. Neb knelt on the bottom and kept ducking his head under while he tried to comb the worst of the dirt and leaves out of his hair. They were still splashing around when Salamander came strolling out of the broch with clothing draped over his arm.

  “Well, you look a fair sight more courtly,” the gerthddyn said, grinning. “Lady Galla’s servant lass has turned up these.” He held up a pair of plain linen shirts, both worn but not too badly stained, and two pair of faded gray brigga. “She says you’re to give her the old ones to boil for rags.”

  “My thanks,” Neb said. “Our lady’s being as generous as the noble-born should be, but truly, I’d rather go back to Trev Hael.”

  “Ah, but here is where your wyrd led you. Who can argue with their wyrd?”

  “But—”

  “Or truly, wyrd led you to me, and I led you here, but it’s all the same thing.” Salamander gave him a sunny smile. “Please, lad, stay here for a while, no more than a year and a day, say. And then if you want to move on, move on.”

  “Well and good, then. You saved our lives, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  “No need for eternal gratitude. Just stay here for a little while. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.”

  “Will I?” Neb hesitated, wondering if his benefactor were a bit daft. “You know, I just thought of somewhat. The lady wants to see my writing, but I’ve got no ink and no pens either. I saw some geese over by the stables, but the quills will take a while to cure.”

  “So they will, but I’ve got some reed pens and a bit of ink cake, too.”

  “Splendid! You can write, too?”

  “Oh, a bit, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t fancy having some lord demand I stay and serve him as a scribe. Me for the open road.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, truly. Why have you come all the way to Arcodd? There’s not a lot of folk out here, and most of them are too poor to pay you to tell them tales.”

  “Sharp lad, aren’t you?” Salamander grinned at him. “Well, in truth, I’m looking for my brother, who seems to have got himself lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Just that. He was a silver dagger, you see.”

  “A what?” Clae broke in. “What’s that?”

  “A mercenary soldier of a sort,” Salamander said. “They ride the countryside, looking for a lord who needs extra fighting men badly enough to pay them by the battle.”

  Clae wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Neb leaned forward and grabbed his arm before he could say something rude. “Your hair
’s still filthy,” Neb snapped. “Wash it out.” He turned to Salamander. “I’ll pray your brother still rides on the earth and not in the Otherlands.”

  “My thanks, but I truly do believe he’s still alive. I had a report of him, you see, that he’d been seen up this way.”

  Neb found himself wondering if Salamander were lying. The gerthddyn was studying the distant view with a little too much attention and a fixed smile. He refused to challenge the man who’d saved his life. Besides, having a silver dagger for a brother was such a shameful thing that he couldn’t begrudge Salamander his embarrassment.

  “I’ll just be getting out,” Neb said. “Come on, Clae. We’ll have to help the stableman empty this trough. Horses can’t drink dirty water.”

  Neb hoisted himself over the edge and dropped to the ground. He shook himself to get the worst of the water off, then, still damp, put on the clothes Salamander handed him. The baggy wool brigga fit well enough, but when he pulled the shirt over his head, it billowed around him. The long sleeves draped over his hands. He began rolling them up.

  “We can find you a bit of rope or suchlike for a belt,” Salamander said. “And, eventually, a better shirt.”

  Later that afternoon, with pen and ink in hand, Neb went into the great hall and found Lady Galla waiting, sitting alone at the table of honor. She’d gathered a heap of parchment scraps, splitting into translucent layers from hard use. A good many messages had been written upon them, then scraped off to allow for a new one.

  “Will these do?” Galla was peering at them. “I looked all over, because I did remember that I had the accounts from our old demesne in a sack or suchlike, but I couldn’t find it. These turned up lining a wooden chest.”

  “I’m sure they’ll do, my lady.” Neb searched through them and found at last a scrap with a reasonably smooth surface. “Now, what would you like me to write?”

  “Oh, some simple thing. Our names, say.”

  Neb picked the script his father had always used for important documents, called Half-inch Royal because the scribes of the high king’s court had invented it. Although she couldn’t read in any true sense of the word, Galla did know her letters, and she could spell out her name and Tieryn Cadryc’s when he wrote them.