My spirits didn’t flag, but with each step, Rustin grew morose. It took no ritemaster to discern the cause. “He’s not in the Keep, Rust. He’s with Hriskil.”
Rustin’s voice was flat. “Ever more treason.” As always, his father, Llewelyn’s, betrayal gnawed at his soul.
“He couldn’t help it.” I was surprised at the clemency I expressed, and felt. My guardian and I had long assumed, without saying, that Llewelyn’s life must be forfeit.
“As Mar couldn’t help strangling Pytor.” Rust’s tone was acid. “And so we forgive.”
“It’s not the same. Hriskil ...” I stopped for thought. “I don’t think I told you. The night I helped you see your death ...” I explained what Danzik had disclosed: that Hriskil had brought his Rood to Stryx and there undermined Llewelyn’s loyalty.
A flicker of interest. “The Rood’s that potent? We must remember.” Then his face fell. “Yet, what matter? If you excuse it, any traitor may throw himself on your mercy, claiming a Power forced him.” He held up a hand. “Speak of else.”
As midday passed into afternoon, my mood too grew somber. I missed Anavar, Tresa, Elryc. Even Genard. Our army gadded about, sparring, fleeing defeat, growing ever. weaker. I was king of what, now: Verein? In that meager domain, I was liege only of a grieving boy—with more courage than I—whose father I had undone.
It must end. If our foray to Stryx produced no great benefit, I would abdicate.
Just before dusk, we gathered on the wooded hill that overlooked Stryx. Far below lay the harbor, and beyond it, the town. But it was the bay that took one’s breath.
Sail upon sail, vessels of all sizes crowded tight, or so it seemed from our height. Lord of Nature, where did Hriskil gather such a fleet? How vast must the Norland be, to support it? How many more ships had arrived, since we’d gazed down from this hill at Sarazon’s arrival? Only Danzik showed no dismay.
Groenfil said glumly, “We mean to worry at Sarazon’s supply line? Look you: his supplies are without end.”
Rust admitted, “It does seem burning a few wagons here or there hardly throws the balance.”
I sniffed the air. “Comes a storm? Did a soothsayer predict foul weather?”
“Why, Roddy?”
“They’re all in the bay. My eyes are good; yours are better. See you any sails beyond the breakwater?”
“Only a few. That’s not the issue. Do we turn east and seize a handful of wagons, or sneak back to Verein?”
“We ride to Stryx.”
“I beg pardon, my liege?” Rustin’s tone held warning.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, sir, our squadron’s yours to command. I beg pardon. But before we mount an attack we need know what Sarazon’s about.”
“The garrison would overwhelm our four hundred—”
“But not a handful, riding without notice. Yes, glare if you will, but pay heed. We need go to Stryx.” I spoke as to a simpleton. “Why? The enemy’s there. We need learn his numbers, where he stables his horses, who mills his wheat. Why? We can’t defeat him in dark. It’s time, my lords. If Sarazon is free to roam, Verein’s soon taken from us, and Soushire as well. Here I make my stand.”
“How noble, Roddy.” Under Rust’s calm, he seethed. “This is, what, your fifth last stand? Each time we’re decimated, we fall back and—”
“In this I am right. I know it. Do not you?”
Rust rubbed his face, as if weary. “Go down to Stryx? I suppose I could send a few—”
“Us.” My wave took in Rustin, Groenfil, a few others.
“Of course. Your scar would go completely unnoticed.”
“The bandage I’ll wear? Perhaps I won’t scar, when it’s off.” Resolutely, I met his eye.
“The inns are full of Norland soldiers. We speak no—”
“I do. Enough to get by.” I had few enough barbarian words, but spoke them well.
“If you’re taken ...”
“We’d be done at last. But, kill me first, I pray you.” I tried not to think of my life in Hriskil’s hands.
“Why wait? I could kill you now.” Rust tugged at his reins, guided Orwal into the wood.
A grimy bandage ran up my cheek over my ear and hair and down the other side. It was stained with a touch of blood from a chicken soon to go in the pot. Though I had no silver in which to peer, from our troops’ expressions, I must be a sight, but I knew the dressing served its purpose and hid my scar. I tied the bandage under my chin.
Unlike Tantroth’s Eiberians, Hriskil’s army wore no set garb, though they were inclined to homespun woolen tunics and leather leggings. Making the rounds of our four hundred, we borrowed or appropriated enough gear to clothe a motley, if unlikely, Norland squad. In any event, we need seem Norlandic only for the canter down from the hills. Once in Stryx, some of us could be Caled. Unless, of course, the taverns were closed to native folk.
Rustin fussed interminably, until I feared we’d lose the night. I ventured, “Take ease, sir. I’ve done it before.” When Tantroth invaded, before our peace, I’d ridden boldly into Stryx to seek Vessa, speaker of the city.
“You were taken. It was Anavar freed you.”
“Ill fortune.” I shrugged it away. “Come, Rust; a horse is a horse.”
“Now he looks a Norland horse.” He patted Orwal, swung into the saddle.
I’d switched Ebon for another, not caring to risk losing him in case we had to retreat on foot. I repeated my promise to Groenfil, that we would send word or return by night’s end. An encouraging word to Danzik, who seemed disheartened that his Norland comrades were so near yet so far. And we were off.
Evading patrols was easy; we stayed clear of the road. The hard part was picking our way down the rocky hillside without breaking our necks. At last, near twelfth hour, as best I could tell, Rust and I led our disheveled seven down the center of the muddy Potsellers’ Way as if we owned it. For the benefit of any who strolled in the night, I chattered in Norlandic, though too nervous to make an iota of sense. From time to time Rust grunted in reply.
Our precautions were for naught. We ran across no patrol.
“Now what?” Rust’s lips barely moved.
“The Keep.”
“Lord of Nature. Why?”
“Is the gate kept open? How many men? How many horses? Is the wall manned? Do they store fodder—”
“Please!” In his tone, real anguish. “Don’t prattle.”
“This way.” I led them to the harbor road. Bold as magpies we trotted along the cobbles, past the inn, past the swordsmith at whose door I’d first heard of Mother’s death. At this hour, all was dark within.
The main gate of the Keep was closed, though torches aplenty burned on the wall, and the postern was ajar. For a moment I debated dismounting, peering within, but it might earn me Rustin’s knife in the ribs.
Rustin muttered, “Do we have names?”
“Not our own.” I hesitated. “We’re Mar’s men, kicked out by Rodrigo. You’re Garst. Jatho is himself, no harm in that. Pardos, you sound Eiberian. What say—”
“I am Eiberian. Sire, in days of war men of all nations are found—”
“Don’t call me ‘sire’; it’s warrant of death.”
“Call him Genard.” Rust sounded disgusted. “And you, youngsire, answer to it! Now, turn about; if you glance at that gate one more time, I’ll skin you.”
“Aye, m’lor’.” For some reason I found it funny. “Oh, look, a beerhouse. Ol’ Griswold told me ’bout it. What say we—”
“Roddy, for the love—GENARD!” A lash with his crop, that caught my calf. I stifled a yelp. Rubbing my smarting leg, I unhooked my saddlebag and followed him to the alehouse. We dismounted.
Bare two or three mounts were tied to the post, but in the haze of smoke, most of the tables were full of raucous drinkers. We crowded at a splintered table in the corner. I listened, said quietly, “Caled speech, mostly. Except along that wall.”
A plump barmaid set down pitchers at a nearby tab
le, looked us over. “Qa dese?” What do you want?
My eyebrows went up. “Er Norl?”
A harsh laugh. “Han.” No. “Wonde, of Fort town.”
How many were we? Seven. “Doa urne.” Two pitchers.
When she was at the barrel, Jatho said softly, “I thought we were Caled.”
“She wants us to be Norl. You and Koz wander to the table with the dice players. Remember, you’re from Verein. Wonder about local matters. Learn what you can.”
“Aye, si—Genard. But I’m a fish out of water. I’ve no talent as a spy.”
“Learn in haste.”
“Genard ...” Rust’s fingers gripped my knee. “For a stableboy, you give orders like a noble.”
“Aye, m’lor’, I hear ’em when they come for horses. Keep me talkin’ so, and see what the serving girl makes of it.” I glared.
“Exactly. We shouldn’t be here. We speak only Caled; she thinks we’re—Ahh.”
The barmaid set down two pitchers, foam slopping over the sides. “One silver.” She corrected herself. “Sol argen.” I fished out my purse, threw down a coin.
Clutching his mug, Jatho sidled along the flyspecked wall toward the dice players. Glumly, Koz followed.
Rust had poured me scarce a quarter glass. I sipped, licked foam off my Up. “I ain’ a sot, m’lor’. Coulda give me more. I wouldn’—” A shadow loomed. I glanced over my shoulder, finished, “—drink more’n I should.” To the newcomer. “Leng Caledi sper memor.” Caled is a hard tongue to learn.
A big black beard, more wild even than Danzik’s. Small, beady eyes. “Norl?”
“I am,” I said in the same language. “But not my friends.”
“How hurt your face?”
Rust watched each in turn, as at a joust. Coolly he drained his mug.
I made a gesture of disgust. “Faranga Caled patrol. Spear.” Heart pounding, I stood, to meet him eye to eye. I failed, by a good hand’s breadth. “Genard, of household regiment.” I dared not say more; my accent was slipping. One by one, our companions drifted away to mingle in the crowded inn.
“Coth.”
What word was that? My panic soared.
“Pike captain.”
Oh. Perspiration beaded my lip. Coth was a name. Gamely I stuck out a fist, rapped his knuckles in the Norland soldierly salute. Thank Lord of Nature for Danzik’s teaching. “I’m nothing. My brother’s an earl.” I smiled, as depreciatingly as I might. I wanted some rank, but not too high to justify a grimy alehouse.
“What do you here?”
Yes, Roddy. What do you here?
I’m blundering about, waiting to be unmasked. “I bring dispatches for Sarazon.” At the name, Rustin blinked, but I paid no heed. “Rezia.” From the king. “But ... But I’ve run out of nursery tales. Is it my bedtime?
“But he’s not here,” Coth finished for me. “He’s in the hills.”
“Qay.” Yes.
“Tomorrow, he takes Verein. Even now he marches.” The giant Norlander glanced at his empty glass, at our pitcher. Obligingly, I snapped my fingers at Rust. “Sihr.” Pour. With an apologetic shrug to the Norl, “Pour ’im beer, Garst. Coth drink wi’ us.”
“When you get here?” Corn’s query might be idle conversation, or the start of an interrogation.
“Tonight.” Frantically I summoned words, any words. “On Nightwinds. From Ghanz, to coast, then ship.” Still your tongue, Roddy, while you have one. “Harbor full.”
“Mum.” A sharp glance at Rust, who cheerfully raised his mug in salute. “Just landed? And you have Caled friends?”
“Oh, I’ve been here before.” I drew myself up. “Fourth time with dispatches.”
“Where you stayed?”
“His house.” I flicked a finger at Rustin. “Near Keep.”
Beer went down the wrong way; Rust choked. Obligingly, Coth pounded his back, nearly driving him through the rickety table.
“Just landed,” I said, in a mad effort to divert Coth. “Harbor ... so many ships. No ...” I had no word for wharf. Pier. Dock. Try “idiot.”
Coth grinned. “Aye, their fishermen are beside themselves. No fote to repair boats, no fote to land their catch. Bring fish by mule carts from south. But Sarazon won’t risk enemy attack outside the bay.” Focusing my entire wit, I caught the gist of it.
“What enemy?” I made my tone scornful.
Across the room, shouts.
“Exactly. Child king has no ships. Sarazon afraid of his own shadow. When he lived in Keep, it was packed full of guards. In hills, even with army, took all his guards along. Afraid he’ll end like Danzik.” At that, it was my turn to choke. “Their Keep near empty. Vena ot!” I’m coming. He waved his mug at his compatriots. “Vena vos. Kara vos urne.” I’ll buy, you a pitcher.
I grinned. “In a moment.” I shot a mental arrow at our companions, somehow caught their attention. I flicked my eyes toward our table. They drifted back. My lips barely moved. “Outside, a pair at a time. Slowly.”
On the street, I breathed clean air. Our horses pawed the dust. Rustin turned to the rail, bent over it, vomited. Shamefaced, he hauled himself into the saddle.
Startled, I said, “You’re sick?”
“I’m terrified.”
“You, afraid?” An outrage; Rust was the bravest soul I knew. He spurred off, declining further query. Determinedly, I caught him half a furlong down the coast road. “Why, sir?”
“Half for you.” With effort, he met my eye. “But for myself as well. It seemed ... a shabby place to die.” A glance behind him, at the torchlit Keep. “And too close to home.”
I clasped his forearm, held tight until I had his gaze. “Sir, know I esteem you.”
A weak smile. “Thank you, Roddy.”
“Genard. It’s nothin’, m’lor’.” Our other riders slowed as they reached us.
We’d come upon that part of the harbor where steps led to the water. Two score or so of sailors lounged about, some with bottles. It wasn’t a good place to tarry. “Let’s go.”
Fingers snatched at Rust’s reins. “Caled pigs don’t need horses!” Grinning friends jumped up to see the fun.
I reared in my saddle. “VAN ATRA!” Stand back! I snatched out my dagger.
The drunken sailor dropped the thongs. “I didn’t—I thought you were Caled, I—”
“What ship?”
“Pardon, my lord, I meant no—”
“QUA VES?” WHAT SHIP?
“What goes here?” A Norland officer.
I made my voice ice. “Your man is drunk. Almost, he lost his fingers.”
The officer rounded on the unfortunate seaman. A string of oaths. I spurred my mount; we trotted on. My band knotted close, as if there was safety in our small numbers.
I took the first turnoff, reined in at a closed stall. “Let’s pool what we know.”
Jatho shrugged. “All I heard was talk of the castle. When Sarazon gets back, they think he’ll mount an attack.”
Koz nudged him. “Stables.”
“Aye. The Norlanders crowd every stable in Stryx. They even quarter their animals in homes, if the doors are wide.
Someone left huge stacks of fodder out on the quay, and it rained. Now there’s a shortage.”
Pardos had asked how many men were in the Keep and had gotten a scowl for an answer. From the lot of them, no more useful information.
I said, “That business with the drunken sailor tells us ...”
“That we oughtn’t be here.” Rust.
“That the Norlanders aren’t well liked. Our fishermen are crowded out of harbor, and resent it. Their sailors are arrogant, probably their soldiers too. It’s unusual for Norls to consort with Caledi; it made Coth suspicious.” Careful, Roddy. You’re sounding ever more Norl. Er, Norlandic.
“Of what use is that?”
“I’m not done. You heard Coth ... pardon, sir. I forget we spoke his tongue. Let’s see, now: Sarazon has taken his command to the hills. He attacks Verein in the morn.�
��
Rust stiffened. “WHAT?”
“He marches even now.” Poor Anavar; another friend lost. Thrusting aside gloom, I focused on the job at hand. “And why is there no dockage for our fishermen? Because Sarazon’s entire fleet is crowded into the bay. He fears attack, though we have no Caled ships. He’s afraid of his shadow. I told you he was cautious. Norland soldiers frequent the tavern, enough so barmaids learn their tongue. Let’s see, what else? Oh. They’re cautious, but not expecting attack. And the Keep’s half empty; Sarazon’s so afraid we’ll capture him as we did Danzik, he only moves with a massive headquarters guard.”
Rustin’s eyes fixed on mine. He chewed his lip.
I scratched, shifted from foot to foot, finally managed with great effort to still myself.
At last he said, “You learned all that?”
“Yes, my lord. We ought go now to that seedy tavern you never used to let me in, the one in that village at harbor’s edge. Where the fisherfolk gather.” Still, he stared. I added meekly, “If it please you, sir.”
A defeated wave. “As you will, my prince.” As we made our way, his perplexed gaze sought mine, as if in contemplation.
It was past second hour of the morn, by the tavern’s hour candle. The place was small and squalid, as befit the village of Stoneshore, no match for the inn by the docks. Even at that hour—or perhaps, because it was that hour—a dozen men, two or three bleary-eyed women sat hunched over bottles of strong brew.
The keeper stood by his barrels, arms folded. “Norl?”
I grinned. “Aye, an’ you be a horse’s cock. Norl, my buttock.” I slapped the part I’d named. “Hey, Garst, he says we look Norlandic.” I dumped my saddlebag on the grimy table.
Rustin snorted. “Insult us, we take our trade elsewhere.”
The innkeeper unbent a notch. “Asking, was all. Sometime, they come in.”
I hauled out a chair. “Any Cumber ale?”
The keeper looked mournful. “Two barrels left. Half a silver a pitcher; dunno when I’ll see more.”
I peered into my purse, ordered two despite the price. The keeper brought them himself; no plump perspiring barmaid here. At least one of the frowsy women hunching over her bottle looked to be a whore; of the other, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps she was a fisher’s wife, sharing her mate’s sullen leisure.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 44
