His mouth half-open in surprise, Maddyn turned around to stare at Branoic, who felt as inarticulate as the ensorcelled prince.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean—”
“You were trying to watch, you bloody little debaucher! I’ll grind your head on the cobbles for this! I’ll—”
Just at that moment Aethan and another two men from the Black Sword troop reached them. Behind them Branoic could see a gaggle of silver daggers and a bunch of black swords rushing forward, too, while all the other men round started taking sides. The experienced and politic women drew back to give them plenty of room as Branoic’s victim threw a punch right at his head. Profoundly relieved that the matter wasn’t going to swordplay, Branoic punched right back and connected with the fellow’s jaw. Women screamed; the fellow went down, out cold; somewhere the old crone was shrieking for the town wardens. He could hear Maddyn shouting and Aethan howling as the rain-washed and slippery tavern yard exploded into a brawl.
In that kind of press it was hard to see who was enemy and who friend, especially as men kept slipping and falling into the mud and clambering back up to fight some more. Branoic squared off with a squint-eyed brown-haired fellow, slammed him once in the stomach and once on the jaw, nearly fell over him as he fell, dodged free and dodged a thrown tankard, paused to catch his breath on the edge of things only to have someone rash straight at him. He grabbed the fellow by one arm, swung him around, and flung him back into the heaving shouting mob, which reminded him at that moment of a bowl of yeast working and bubbling over. Just as he started back in, someone grabbed him from behind. He swung around only to pull his punch barely in time: Aethan.
“Come on, lad—they don’t even remember why they’re fighting. Hurry!”
“I was just starting to enjoy myself!”
“Come along and now! You won’t be enjoying yourself if the captain decides to take the skin off your back, will you?”
Without another word Branoic followed him into the shadows by the open back gate, where Maddyn was riding one horse and holding the reins of two others. Out on the riverbank he could see the rest of the silver daggers, mounted and ready to ride.
“No one can beat a silver dagger when it comes to ducking the law,” Aethan said, grinning. “Mount up, Branno. The town wardens are pounding on the front gate.”
After he mounted, Branoic turned to the bard.
“Maddyn, I’m cursed sorry.”
“Oh, hold your tongue! We’ll sort it all out later, but I tell you, lad, I don’t want to see your ugly face till I’m a good bit calmer, like.”
As they rode back to the inn, at a nice stately trot to avoid suspicion, Branoic was thinking seriously of starving himself to death out of shame.
With all the trouble brewing out in the tavern yard, Nevyn and Maryn easily slipped out the back gate and rode off with barely a soul noticing, As soon as they were back at their own inn, Nevyn turned the horses over to another silver dagger and dragged the prince up to his private chamber. Although he tried to feign embarrassment, Maryn couldn’t quite keep from grinning.
“Listen, lad,” Nevyn said, and he felt defeated before he truly began his little lecture. “It’s your safety I’m worried about. Slipping off into town with only those two bumbling idiots for guards was a very bad idea.”
“Well, t-t-true enough, and I’m sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry in the least. After this, if you simply can’t live without a lass, have your friends bring you one. For enough silver that sort of lass is always willing to take a little walk.”
“No doubt my learned c-c-councillor would know.”
Nevyn restrained the impulse to give the one true king of all Deverry a good slap across the chops. Very dimly he could remember being both that young and that smug about his first lass—some two hundred years earlier or about that, anyway. Such anniversaries had rather lost their importance for him. All at once Maryn let his grin fade and sat down in the one rickety chair to stare at the floor.
“Somewhat wrong?”
“Not tr-tr-truly. I was just thinking. Both you and Father were telling me that I’d have to marry Glyn’s daughter.”
“So we were, and so you do.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen.”
“Well, at least she’s old enough.” He looked up with a worried frown. “Is she pr-pr-pretty?”
“I have no idea.”
“I suppose I’ll have to m-m-marry her even if she’s got twenty wens and a besom squint.”
“Exactly right, Your Highness. She represents the sovereignty of the kingdom.”
Maryn groaned and went back to studying the floor.
“Well, I hope she is pr-pr-pretty,” the prince said at last. “Now that I know what . . . ” And then he did blush, looking at that moment some ten years old. “I’d best get to b-b-bed.”
“So you had. If I were you, I’d pretend to be asleep and snoring when Maddyn comes storming in. Our bard didn’t seem to find the evening’s sport amusing.”
In the morning, over breakfast, Maddyn assembled the silver daggers who’d been at the Tupping Ram to piece out what had happened. He knew that it would be a good bit better for the miscreants if he settled this matter before Caradoc or Owaen took it in hand. As this less-than-pleasant meal progressed, he noticed that Branoic sat at the end of the table as far from him as possible, ate nothing, and spoke only when the others tormented him into doing so. Although Maddyn started out furious, by the time Branoic, stammering as much as the prince and twice as red, repeated the whore’s remark about coring apples, he was laughing as hard as all the other men there.
“Oh, well and good, then,” Maddyn said at last. “No one was killed, and so that’s an end to it. Cheer up, Branno. I can’t lie and say that I’d never have done such if I’d been you.”
Everyone smirked and nodded agreement. Looking a bit less miserable, Branoic grabbed a slab of bread and busied himself in buttering it. Although everyone went on eating, Maddyn could tell that something was still bothering a couple of the men.
“Out with it, Stevyc.”
“Well, by the hells, Maddo, I was just wondering.” He glanced at Branoic. “Did you ever find out what they meant? About coring apples I mean?”
“I didn’t. Everything happened too fast.”
When Stevyc swore in honest regret, everyone howled and hooted. There was the true end to the matter, Maddyn assumed, and he pitched into his breakfast. Yet, as he was leaving the tavern room afterward, his little blue sprite appeared, and with her were two gray gnomes, dancing up and down with their normally slack mouths twisted into frowns. Her mindless blue eyes peered up at him in something like worry.
“What’s all this?” Maddyn whispered. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You’d best run away before Nevyn sees you. Whist!”
Yet they stayed with him, the sprite riding on his shoulder, the gnomes clinging to his brigga leg like frightened children. He considered for a moment, then went upstairs to Nevyn’s chamber with the Wildfolk hurrying after. He found the old man sitting on the windowsill of his chamber and staring idly out across the spring countryside. Although Maddyn hesitated, wondering if he were interrupting some meditation, Nevyn turned to him and started to smile—until he saw the Wildfolk.
“What? You shouldn’t be here!”
All three of them began to jump up and down and point up at the ceiling, their little faces twisted in an agony of concentration.
“Ye gods!” Nevyn sounded truly alarmed. “Someone’s watching us?”
They shook their heads in a no, then frowned again and began pinching and shoving each other.
“Someone saw last night, when the men were fighting.”
They all nodded, then disappeared. Even though Maddyn had no idea of what was happening, he went cold with fear just from tne look on Nevyn’s face—an icy kind of horror mingled with rage.
“This is se
rious, Maddo lad, truly serious. When did they come to you?”
“Just now. I came straight up here.”
“Good, good. You did exactly the right thing.” Nevyn began to pace back and forth across the chamber. “Ye gods, I don’t know what to do!”
Maddyn’s chill of unease deepened. For so long he had so blindly trusted Nevyn to solve every problem that hearing the old man admit helplessness was as bad as a death sentence.
“We’ve got to get out of Dun Trebyc,” the dweomerman said finally. “But we’ve got to do so in the right way. We need to keep up our ruse of being a perfectly ordinary troop of mercenaries.”
“Well, if we were, we wouldn’t be leaving without a proper hire. No single jewel merchant’s rich enough to engage a whole band of mercenaries. If he was, he’d have bodyguards.”
“Just so. We’d best find a better excuse than me. I—who’s that? Come in!”
The footsteps they’d heard turned out to belong to Caradoc, who came in with a bob of a bow for the old man.
“We’ve got to get out of here today, Nevyn. Been lucky so far, but I’ll wager the town warden and his men are going to be coming around soon, asking questions about that brawl last night.”
“I had the same thought myself. Hum. I think I know where I can find us a hire. Since I’m a merchant now, I’d best go pay my respects to my new god, hadn’t I? I’ll be down at the temple of Nwdd if you need me.”
When the old man returned, not more than an hour later, he brought two merchants with him and prosperous ones from the look of the fine wool in their checked brigga and cloaks. Stout men in their thirties, the pair stood uncertainly near the door of the inn chamber as Nevyn introduced them round as Budyc and Wffyn.
“We might have a hire for you, Captain.” Budyc stroked his dark mustaches with a nervous hand. “The jewel merchant here swears you’re reliable.”
“More than most, anyway,” Caradoc said. “And every one of my lads can fight like a fiend from hell. I’ll swear it on Gamyl’s altar if you want.”
The merchants exchanged speculative glances.
“They’ll have to do,” Wffyn said. “This time of year, it’s a stroke of luck to find a free troop that isn’t pledged to a lord already.”
Budyc shrugged in nervous agreement.
“Very well, Captain. Name your price.”
“A silver piece a man on contract, then one a week, two if we see fighting, and you pay full wages for every man killed.”
Again the two looked back and forth, and again Budyc shrugged.
“Done. It’s fair, and there’s no time to haggle. Leave the city gates as soon as you can, Captain. I’ll meet you on the south-running road.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you after we’re well clear of Dun Trebyc.” Budyc allowed himself a scant smile. “This town is full of ears.”
After a solemn handshake all round, the merchants left. Maddyn and Caradoc turned on Nevyn the moment the door swung shut.
“I can’t tell you one blasted thing.” Nevyn held up both hands flat in protest. “All I know is that they’re Cerrmor men going south, and that they’re both rich and reliable.”
“Well, that should be enough, truly.” Caradoc paused, thinking hard while he rubbed his chin with one hand. “Maddyn, make sure our young lad rides in the middle of the pack on the morrow, will you?”
“I will. I might detail Aethan and Branoic to keep an eye on him—personally, like. Give them a chance to redeem themselves.”
“Good idea. Carry it out.” The captain glanced Nevyn’s way. “I was thinking of putting him between me and Owaen, but that’d look too suspicious.”
“I agree. By the way, Captain, I heard all sorts of news down at the temple. I must say that the merchant guilds do themselves proud when it comes to hearing what there is to hear. The Cantrae king seems to be planning a major offensive on the eastern side of the border—round Buccbrael, the rumors say. He’s been stripping the west of men for some big march, anyway.”
“Splendid, if it’s true. Let’s pray it is.”
“Provided he doesn’t strike at Cerrmor before we get there. The extreme west has always been Cerrmor’s weakest point, and it’s doubtless worse now that the Wolf Clan’s had to surrender their lands and go into exile.”
“Uh, you know,” Caradoc said. “The border’s held a long time without the Wolves on it. They went into exile—oh, at least twenty years ago.”
“Has it been that long? When you get to be my age, it’s so easy to lose track of time.”
Just before noon, the silver daggers left Dun Trebyc under a sky striped with scattered clouds that had everyone groaning at the thought of more rain, but it held off till they met their hire. About two miles down the road Budyc was waiting on a splendid roan gelding. When Caradoc slowed the troop, Maddyn fell back beside Nevyn, and the merchant trotted over and took the place beside the captain.
“We’ll be continuing south till midafternoon,” Budyc said. “Then heading west for a ways. Not far, though.”
“How about telling us somewhat about this hire?”
“Not yet.” Budyc rose in the stirrups and looked round the flat view as if scanning for enemies. “Still too soon. Tonight, Captain. Everything will come clear tonight.”
When Maddyn shot Nevyn a nervous glance, the old man merely smiled and shrugged, as if telling him to rest easy in his mind. If it weren’t for the prince, Maddyn might have, but as it was, he kept turning in the saddle and glancing back at Maryn. Since the road here was wide, the troop was riding four abreast, and Maryn was in the second file with Branoic on one side of him, Aethan the other, and Albyn just beyond Aethan—a formidable set of guards by anyone’s standards. No doubt the young prince could swing a sword himself if he had to—he’d certainly had the best teachers that warlike Pyrdon could offer—but all that sunny afternoon Maddyn kept brooding on the painful difference between swordcraft on the practice ground and swordcraft in a scrap. Sooner or later Maryn would have to blood his blade, of course; Maddyn merely prayed with all his heart that it would be later.
A couple of hours before sunset the silver daggers came to a trail that led west off the main road, and Budyc pointed it out to Caradoc with a wave. Yelling orders, Owaen rode down the line and sorted the troop out into single file, with Maryn between Branoic and Aethan about halfway along. Although Maddyn was less than pleased with this vulnerable arrangement, the countryside around was certainly peaceful enough. As they jingled their way along, they saw two farmsteads, one herd of cows, and naught else but field after field of cabbages and turnips sprouting under the watchful eyes of crow-chasing small girls. At last, just when the sun was so low in the sky that everyone in the troop was squinting and cursing, they came to a deep-running stream, bordered by willows and hazels. Standing beside his black horse, Wffyn the merchant was waiting for them, and through a clearing in the trees Maddyn could see what seemed to be a canal barge tethered to the bank.
“There you are!” Wffyn sang out. “Good! First shipment just pulled in.”
As Budyc trotted forward to meet him, it dawned on Maddyn that these men were smugglers of some sort, a suspicion that was confirmed later that evening, after the silver daggers had made camp. Along with Owaen, Maddyn followed Caradoc upstream to confer with the merchants on the morrow’s route and found a line of four barges being loaded from a parade of wagons. Stripped to the waist and sweating in the torchlight, Budyc and Wffyn were bounding from barge to shore and back again as they gave orders to the crew or even leant a hand themselves to haul the cargo on board.
“Those look like ale barrels,” Owaen remarked. “But I never heard of ale that heavy. Look at those poor bastards sweat!”
“Just so, and ale doesn’t clank, either—it sloshes.”
“What in the three hells is going on?” Caradoc muttered, somewhat waspishly. “And what?! Look at that lead barge!”
The
cattle barge had slatted wooden sides, and just visible above was a row of cows’ skulls stuck on poles and padded with wisps of straw. As the three silver daggers watched, openmouthed with amazement, a bargeman began wrapping the skulls with bits of leather, humming as he worked and stepping back now and again for a good look at his handicraft.
“At night and from a distance they look a good bit like cows,” Budyc remarked as he joined them. “Enough to convince the passersby that we’re a perfectly ordinary line of barges.”
“All right, good sir,” Caradoc snapped. “Just what is all this?”
“Know how the smelter masters weigh out raw iron up north? They say they have so many bulls’ worth of weight—the measure’s actually as much iron as you could trade a bull for back in the Dawntime, or so the guildmaster tells me. So that’s what we’ve got—a load of bulls, and barrels of the darkest ale in the kingdom.”
With a bark of laughter, Maddyn got the point of the joke and the journey both, but Owaen merely looked baffled.
“Iron, lad,” Maddyn told him. “They’re carrying smuggled iron down to Dun Cerrmor, and I’ll wager they’re getting a good bit more for it than a bull in trade.”
“You could say that.” Budyc preened a little. “But we’re not making some splendid profit, mind. Think about it—we have to hire wagons for the dry parts of the journey, barges for the wet, and the country folk’s silence, and then guards like you fof the border crossing—it’s worth our while, but only just, lads, only just. Then count in the danger. Why do you think we hired you? The Cantrae men’ll stop us if they can, and they won’t be making an honorable prisoner out of the likes of me. If it weren’t helping to save Cerrmor, I doubt me if I’d make these runs.”
“Tell me somewhat,” Caradoc said. “Think there’s going to be much left of Cerrmor to save by the end of the summer?”
“I don’t know.” Budyc’s eyes turned dark. “We’re living on hope alone now that the king’s dead. Hope and omens—every cursed day you hear someone prattling about the true king coming to claim the throne, and the city still believes it, well, for the most part, anyway, but I ask you, Captain—how much longer can we hold out? The regent’s a great man, and if it weren’t for him, we’d have all surrendered to Cantrae by now, but even so, he’s just a regent. Too bad he’s so blasted honorable—if he’d marry the king’s daughter and give her a son, we’d all cheer him as king soon enough.”
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 6
