Carra tucked the feather into her kirtle, then hurried after him through the wooden door.
“Inside” turned out to be a tunnel, made of beautifully worked stone blocks, that led deep into the hill. Here and there on small ledges, about six feet from the ground, heaps of fungus in baskets gave off a bluish glow and lit their way. The air, startlingly cool, blew around them in fresh drafts. After a couple of hundred yards, they came at last to a round chamber, some fifty feet across, scattered with low tables and tiny benches round a central open hearth, where a low fire burned and a huge kettle hung from a pair of andirons and a crossbar. Automatically Carra glanced up and saw the smoke rising to a stone flue set in the ceiling, and there were a number of other vents up there, too, that seemed to be the sources of the fresh air. Three doorways in the walls opened to other tunnels leading deeper into the inn. At one of the tables, two men, a little shorter than Otho but younger, muscle-bound, and heavily armed, sat yawning and nodding over metal cups of some sort of drink.
“Everyone else is abed,” Otho said. “But I was tired enough when I finally got here yesterday to sleep the night away.”
He turned and spoke to the two men in still another language that Carra had never heard before. Both jumped up and bowed to her, then spoke in turn.
“They’re the guards for this watch, my lady. Just finishing their breakfast and all. Now, you have a seat over here by the wall. I’ll fetch you somewhat to eat.”
Next to a wooden chest, Carra found a wooden chair with a cushioned seat and a proper back, a low piece, but comfortable. With a canine sigh Lightning flopped down at her feet and laid his head on his front paws. Otho bustled at the hearth, came back with a bowl of porridge, laced with butter, and a hunk of bread, then bustled off again to fetch a tankard of milk sweetened with a little honey.
“Jill says you should be having plenty of milk, for the child, you see,” he said.
While Carra ate, Otho opened the chest beside her and pawed through it, finally bringing out a miscellaneous clutch of things—two oblong wooden trays, a sack that seemed to be filled with sand, some pointed sticks, a bone object that looked like a small comb—and arranged them on the table. The pale white river sand got itself poured into the trays; he used the comb to smooth it out as flat as parchment. With a stick he drew lines on one surface from corner to corner to divide the tray into four triangles. Then, on the outer edges, that is, the bottom of each triangle, he found the midpoint and connected those, overlaying a diamond on the triangles so that the entire surface divided itself into twelve.
“The lands of the map,” he announced. “This is how we dwarves get our omens, my lady, and if ever a man needed an omen or two, it’s me. See, each one is the true home of a metal. Number one here is iron, two copper, and so on. The fifth is gold, and that stands for a man’s art, whether it’s the working of stone or of metals, and nine is tin, for our religion, you see, because like tin the gods are cheap things more often than not.”
“Otho! What an awful thing to say!”
“Oh, you people can swear by your gods all you want, but it’s little good they do for you, for all your sacrificing and chanting and so on. But each land is the home of a metal but the last, number twelve here, right above one, so it all circles back, like. And that one is the home of salt, not a metal at all. And that land stands for all the hidden things in life, feuds and suchlike, and the dweomer.”
“This is fascinating. How do you tell fortunes with it?”
“Watch. I’ll show you.”
Otho took the second stick, held it over the second tray, then turned his head away and began to poke dots into the sand, as fast as he could. When he was done, he had sixteen lines of dots and spaces to mull over.
“Now, these are the mothers, these lines. You take the first lines of each to form the first daughter, and the second lines for the second, and so on. I won’t bother to explain all the rules. It’d take me all day, and you’d find it tedious, no doubt. But here in the land of iron, we’ll put the Head of the Dragon, just for starters.” Deftly he poked a figure into the waiting sand, two dots close together and below them three dots vertically for the dragon’s body. “And humph, I can’t resist looking ahead. Oh, splendid! The Little Luck goes in the land of salt. That gladdens my heart, because it means the omens won’t be horrible. They might not be good, mind, but they won’t be horrible.”
Carra leaned on the table to watch while he muttered to himself in a mix of several languages, brooded over the lines of dots, and one at a time poked corresponding figures in the lands of the map. When he was done he stared at the map for a long time, shaking his head.
“Well, come on, Otho, do tell me what it means.”
“Not sure. Humph. That’s the trouble with wretched nonsense like telling fortunes. When you need it the most it’s the least clear. But it looks like everything’ll work out right in the end. You see, I just sent off letters to my kin, asking if I could come home again. I got into a spot of trouble in my youth, but that was . . . well, a good long time ago, let’s just say, and I’ve got some nice little gems that should do to pay a fine or two if they want to levy one.” He paused, chewing on the ends of his mustache. “Now, it seems like they’ll take me back, but this I don’t understand.” With the stick he pointed at the third land. “Quicksilver with The Road in it. Usually means a long journey and not one you were planning to make, either. It troubles my heart, it does.”
Carra leaned forward for a better look, but The Road was a simple line of four dots and not very communicative.
“It wouldn’t just mean the journey you already made, would it? To get here, I mean. I—”
A hiss, a spitting sound like water drops on a griddle—Carra jerked her head up and saw one of the young dwarves, his sword drawn, walking slowly and ever so steadily toward the table. Otho suddenly hissed, as well, an intake of breath.
“Don’t move, my lady. Still as stone, that’s what we want.”
Wrapped in such a false calm that Lightning never barked or moved, the dwarf reached the table, slowly raised his sword, hesitated, then smacked it down blade-flat onto the planks not a foot from Carra’s elbow. Carra jerked back just as something under the blade crunched—and spurted with a trickle of pale ooze. The second guard came running and swearing; Otho hurried round the end of the table to look as the young man lifted his blade and turned the crumpled, long-legged creature over with the point. All three men muttered for a moment.
“See that brown mark on what’s left of its stomach? Looks like a stemmed cup? We call that the goblet of death.” Otho turned to her. “This particular creature’s a spider—well, it used to be, I should say. Big as your fist. Poisonous as you could want. Or not want.”
“Ych! That’s disgusting!” She looked up at the ceiling and shuddered, half expecting to see a whole nest of them ready to drop. “How common are they?”
“They’re not common, my lady. You almost never find them in civilized tunnels and suchlike. They’re shy, like most wild things. Find ’em hiding under rocks in the high mountains, if you find them at all.”
“Then how, I mean, why—” She fell silent, seeing their answer in their faces. “Someone brought it here, didn’t they?”
“They did.” Otho was staring up at the ceding. “And whoever dropped it down through one of them vents is long gone, I’ll wager. There’s another floor up there, a gallery, like, so a workman can get up and clean out the air vents. Anyone could climb up there easy. No one would ever see ’em.” He turned and snarled something in Dwarvish at one of the young men, who rushed off. “I’m sending him to get the landlord and wake this place up. If we make a big fuss about it, whoever this was won’t dare to make more mischief. Don’t you worry, my lady. Safety in numbers and all that.”
Carra let go of Lightning’s collar and sat down, feeling a little sick as she realized the truth. Someone had just tried to kill her, and she didn’t even know why.
/> Thanks to the support of his vassals, Gwerbret Cadmar led out close to two hundred men that morning, far too many to assemble in the ward of his dun. A long swirl of men and horses spread out through the streets of Cengarn, made their way out several different gates, then re-formed into a warband down on the plain at the base of the city’s hills. Although Rhodry and Yraen, silver daggers as they were, expected to ride at the very rear and breathe the army’s dust, one of the gwerbret’s own men sought them out and grudgingly informed them that they were to ride with his grace.
“It’s because of the sorceress, you see, She told our lord that you were the only one who could follow her directions. Cursed if I know what she meant by that.”
“No more do I,” Rhodry said. “Jill has a fine hand with a riddle, I must say, and so blasted early in the morning, too.”
Yet soon enough he found the answer. They followed the rider up to the head of the line of march, where the gwerbret and his lords were sitting on horseback and conferring in low voices. Although Cadmar acknowledged them with a smile and a nod of his head, the two lords, Matyc and Gwinardd, merely looked sour. While they waited for the gwerbret to have time to speak to them, Rhodry glanced idly around, sizing up the men in the warbands. They all had good horses, good weapons, and here and there he spotted men with the confident air of veterans. Off to one side, waiting on horseback for the gwerbret’s orders, sat Dar and his archers, each man with his unstrung longbow tucked under his right leg like a javelin and his short, curved hunting bow close at hand on his saddle peak. Rhodry waved to Dar, happened to glance at the sky, and swore aloud. Hovering above was an enormous bird with the silhouette of a hawk but, as far as he could tell by squinting into a bright morning, of a pale silvery color. It also seemed to be carrying something in its talons, a sack, perhaps, of some sort. As he watched, it circled and began to drift off toward the west. With a cold certainty he knew that Jill had mastered elven dweomer as well as the lore proper to humankind.
“Your Grace? Your pardon for this interruption, but we’re to ride west. Our guide’s just arrived.”
“Um, indeed?” Cadmar looked up automatically and saw the bird, hovering on the wind some distance off, too far for his human vision to judge its size. “What’s that? A trained falcon or suchlike?”
“Just so, Your Grace. Jill always did have a way with animals. No doubt she’s riding off somewhere with its lure. Or somewhat like that, anyway.”
“Whatever she thinks fit. Well, then, let’s ride. My lords, to the west!”
All that morning the hawk led them onward. At times she circled directly overhead, but only for brief moments, as if Jill were ensuring that she had Rhodry’s attention. Most of the time it kept so far off that only elven eyes could spot it, but always, in loops and lazy wind drifts, it moved steadily west and down, as the hills round Cengarn fell toward the high plains. Gradually the terrain opened up to rolling hills, scattered with trees at the crests and thick with underbrush in the shallow valleys between. It was good country for bandits, Rhodry thought. They could hide their camps and their loot in among the scrubby brush, keep guards posted on the open crests, and send scouts along them, too, when they wanted to make a raid. He was blasted glad, he decided, that the gwerbret and his men had dweomer on their side in this little game of hide and seek.
As they rode, he had a chance to study the two lords riding just ahead with the gwerbret. Gwinardd of Brin Coc was no more than nineteen, come to the lordship just last year, or so the dun gossip said, on the death of his father from a fever. Brown-haired and bland, he seemed neither bright nor stupid, an ordinary sort of fellow who was obviously devoted to the gwerbret. Matyc of Dun Mawrvelin was another sort entirely. There might well have been some elven blood in his clan’s veins, because his hair was a moonlight-pale blond, and his eyes a steel-gray, but he had none of that race’s openness or humor. His face, in fact, reminded Rhodry of a mask carved from wood. All day long, he rarely frowned and never smiled, merely seemed to watch and listen to everything around him from some great distance away. Even when the gwerbret spoke directly to him, he answered briefly—always polite, to be sure—merely thrifty to a fault with his words.
Once, when the lords had drifted a fair bit ahead, Rhodry had a chance at a word with Yraen.
“What do you think of Matyc?”
“Not much.”
“Keep your eye on him, will you? There’s just somewhat about him that makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Just how loyal he is to our grace.”
Yraen’s eyes widened with questions, but since the lords ahead had paused to let their men catch up with them, he couldn’t ask them.
There were still some four hours left in the day when the warbands reached the crest of a hill fringed with tall beeches. Rhodry saw the hawk circle round once, then dip lazily down to disappear into a scrubby stand of hazels in the valley below.
“My lord?” he called out. “Jill seems to want us to stop here. There’s water for a camp. Shall I ride on down and see if she’s there?”
“Do that, silver dagger. We’ll wait here for your signal.”
Rhodry dismounted, tossed his reins up to Yraen, then strode on downhill on foot. Sure enough, he found Jill, in human form, kneeling by the streamside and drinking out of cupped hands. Though she was barefoot, she was wearing a thin tunic in the Bardek style over a pair of brigga. An empty sack lay beside her on the ground. It seemed to him that she was as light and fragile as the linen cloth.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m not.” Shaking her hands dry she stood up. “But I’ll beg a blanket from you for tonight, truly. The falcon can’t carry much, you see.”
“No doubt.” In spite of all the years that he’d lived around dweomer, Rhodry shuddered, just at how casually she took her transformations. “Ah, well, I take it we’re following the right road and all.”
“Just so. The raiders aren’t all that far. I thought the army could camp along this stream and rest their horses, then mount a raid. They’ve got guards on watch, of course, but no doubt you could send some of Dar’s men to silence them.”
“No doubt.” Rhodry smiled briefly. “Let me bring the others down, and then we’ll have a little chat with the gwerbret.”
“Very well. Oh, and tell Cadmar to forbid any fires. I don’t want smoke giving our prey the alarm. I’ll wait until you’ve made camp, and then I’ll fetch you and his grace.”
She gave him a friendly pat on the arm and headed off downstream, disappearing into the trees and brush beyond the power of even his elven eyes to pick her out. Dweomer, he supposed. Swearing under his breath, Rhodry hurried back to the gwerbret and the waiting army.
It turned out that the raiders were camped not five miles away. When Jill reappeared, about an hour before sunset, she led Rhodry and the gwerbret downstream for a ways, to the place where the water tipped itself over the crest of the hill in a gurgle and splash to rush down into a river far below. By peering through the trees, they could see the river twisting, as gray and shiny as a silver riband in the twilight, across a grassy plain. Far to the west, a mist hung pink in the setting sun.
“There!” Rhodry said, pointing. “Smoke from campfires! Right by that big bend in the river off to the west, Your Grace.”
“Don’t tell me there’s elven blood in your veins, silver dagger!” Cadmar was shading his eyes with one hand. “I can’t see anything of the sort. Well, I’ll take your word for it.”
“I’ve scouted them out, Your Grace,” Jill said. “About fifty men, all settled in by the river, as bold as brass, in a proper camp with tents and everything. They’ve even got a couple of wagons with them. For loot, I suppose.”
Cadmar swore under his breath.
“Well, we’ll cut them down to size soon enough. What about the prisoners?”
“They seem to be tied and chained off by themselves, between the camp proper and the wagons.”
“I say we ride before dawn. Won’t be easy, riding at night, but if we fall on them with the sun, we can wipe them out like the vermin they are.”
Although Jill took the blanket and the food that Rhodry had brought her, she refused to come back to camp with them. Rhodry escorted the gwerbret back to Lord Gwinardd’s side, then went looking for Yraen. He found him with Lord Matyc, near the edge of the camp. Since his lordship was telling Yraen a long involved story about the bloodlines of some horses, Rhodry merely waited off to one side. It seemed obvious that Matyc would have preferred to cut the matter short, but Yraen kept asking such civil questions, so very much to the point, that Matyc was forced to answer. Finally, and by then the twilight had replaced the sunset, Yraen thanked his lordship in a flood of courtesies and let him make his escape. Rhodry waited while Matyc picked his way through the camp, until be was well out of earshot.
”What was all that about?” Rhodry said.
“Maybe naught, but you told me to keep an eye on him. So after I spread our bedrolls out and suchlike, I went looking for his lordship. He was just leaving camp, you see, over behind those trees there, and I would have thought he needed to make water or suchlike, except that he had his dagger out.”
“He what?”
“He was holding it in one hand, but up, like he was studying the blade. He’d turn it, too, with a flick of his wrist, like, and every time he did, it flashed, with light.”
“Ye gods! You could signal a man that way, someone who was off to the west when the sun was setting,”
“Exactly what I thought, too.” Yiaen’s smile was grim. “We couldn’t prove a thing, of course, and it could, well be that I’m dead wrong, and, it was just some nervous twitch like men will get, to fiddle with his dagger that way.”
“It could be, truly.”
“But I thought, well, if it’s nerves and naught more, he’ll feel better, won’t he now, for a bit of talk. So I kept him there, chatting about this and that till the sun went down in the mists.”
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 42
