“It wouldn’t surprise me to see one,” Neb said, “but it’s not that.” He hesitated briefly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Gerro. Everything seems safe enough.”
Gerran considered probing further, but Neb was looking straight ahead with the sour expression of a man who’s got nothing more to say. Salamander rolled his eyes in mock disgust.
“He’s looking for that raven,” Salamander said, “the one I told you about last summer, the one who stole the crystal from me.”
Neb slewed around in his saddle and started to speak, but Salamander held up one hand for silence.
“There is no use,” Salamander went on, “in keeping secrets from a man who already knows them.”
Neb returned to staring at the road ahead. Gerran made the gerthddyn a half-bow from the saddle, then turned his horse out of line and trotted up to take his position behind the prince.
"Oh for the love of all the gods,” Salamander said, "there’s also no use in sulking.”
Neb glanced his way with a scowl, then replaced it with an expression that revealed no emotion whatsoever. Salamander waited, letting his roan gelding amble along on a slack rein. Around them the countryside burgeoned with spring grass in the meadows and sprouting grain in the fields. They passed white cows with rusty-red ears, grazing busily in a long meadow, while in the distance stood a farmhouse circled by a low packed-mud wall. The sound of barking dogs drifted out to the road.
“Well,” Neb said suddenly. “I don’t see why you’d tell Gerran about dweomer matters.”
“Why not?” Salamander said. “Some of them he needs to know. When it comes to mazrakir, another pair of eyes on watch is always a good thing.”
“I suppose so. Still, I don’t see why he gets to know things I don’t. You never told me that Laz Moj stole that crystal when he was in raven form.”
“My apologies. I thought I had. There were a fair number of things on my mind, you know, what with the war and all just over. What counts after all is the theft, not how it happened. There’s no need for you to resent—”
“Well, how do you think I feel?” Neb said with a snarl in his voice. “I only hear half of what goes on. Dalla dribbles out information like honey out of a spoon.”
“That’s part of being an apprentice.”
“Oh, I suppose, but ye gods! Here I used to be the Master of the Aethyr, and now they don’t even recognize me.”
“They? What?” Salamander looked straight at him. “Have you been trying to contact the Kings of Aethyr?”
“I—” Neb turned scarlet. “Uh, I—”
“You have, haven’t you? I can’t believe that Dalla thinks you’re ready to do so.”
“And I suppose you’re going to run right to her and tell her, you fool of a chattering elf!”
“Ah, alas, Nevyn used to refer to my younger self in just that unflattering manner. Here’s somewhat Neb needs to know. I can still play the chattering fool when I need to, but I’m much less of a fool than I used to be. For one thing, I know a dangerous trick when I see one played.”
Neb set his lips together tight. He slapped his reins on his horse’s neck, turned out of line, and trotted back toward the rear. Salamander twisted in the saddle and watched until he saw Neb guide his horse safely into line behind the wagons. Salamander turned back and let his horse follow the riders ahead while he focused his mind on contacting Dallandra. When he reported his conversation with Neb, Dallandra’s first response was to blame herself for not riding to Cengarn with them.
“Don’t,” Salamander told her. “You would have had to bring the baby, and how much attention could you have paid Neb anyway?”
“That’s very true. Getting pregnant when I did was the worst thing that could have happened. Dari’s going to take more and more of my time and attention.”
“Oh, come now. It’s not like you and the child are all alone in the world. You’ve got as many women around you as the queen herself! ”
Dallandra’s image grinned at him. “Very true,” she said, “and a very bracing thought. I don’t mean to wallow in self-pity. I just wonder if I should have asked you to take Neb on.”
“He would never have listened to me. He remembers too much, though not, alas, enough.”
“Judging from the way he insulted you, I’d have to agree. Of course the Kings of Aethyr won’t recognize him! He hasn’t developed the proper symbols in his aura, and he doesn’t really know how to greet them, either. Wretched little colt!”
“Mayhap we should be glad he doesn’t remember everything.”
“Well, that’s true. He might just leave his apprenticeship and try to strike off on his own.”
Salamander felt a ripple of omen-warning run down his spine. “Just so,” he said. “Wild and stubborn colts have a tendency to bolt. And then they get eaten by wolves.”
“Another good thought.” Dallandra pursed her lips in a sour scowl. “Do share it with Neb, if you’d not mind, and as soon as possible. Anything you can do to help him—I’ll be grateful.”
Late that afternoon Prince Daralanteriel and his escorts reached Cengarn. High on its rocky cliffs the gray city loomed above the green meadows below. The gwerbret’s dun loomed over the city, with its dark towers that rose high from a forest of slate roofs and stone walls. The prince called a halt in the meadow at the south gate, then turned in the saddle to consult with his vassals.
“Gerran,” he said, “I’d rather we all camped out here. Is that going to be acceptable to the gwerbret?”
“It won’t be, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “It’d be taken as an insult to his hospitality.”
Dar muttered something in Elvish under his breath.
“Most of our men can raise tents, if you’d like,” Gerran said. “But you and the banadar—and maybe Mirryn and me—we’ll have to stay in the broch for courtesy’s sake. Well, assuming his grace offers to put me and Mirro up. I’m sure Your Highness and the banadar will be welcome.”
“If my vassals aren’t welcome, then I’ll be leaving suddenly.”
“Your Highness?” Mirryn bowed from the saddle before he spoke. “I’d rather make a camp with my men out here if I can. It’s because of the way the gwerbret insulted my father. I’ll eat at his table tonight for the sake of peace, but cursed if I’ll sleep under his roof.”
“Very well. I’d feel the same, were I you.” Dar looked over the warbands, assembled behind them. “Let’s leave most of the men here now, and just take a minimal escort up with us. I remember how much trouble Oth had trying to cram all the wedding guests into that dun. Mirryn, bring your men, and the banadar and I will take twenty-five of ours. Gerran, well, I guess your page will have to do for an escort at the moment. Oh, and Neb had better come with us.”
As they rode up to the gate at the base of the cliff, Gerran noticed Salamander tagging along uninvited after Neb. At the city gates, the guards raised a cry of “Prince Dar, Prince Dar!” and ushered them into the winding streets of the town. As the prince led his men up the long steep ride to the gwerbret’s dun, the townsfolk turned out to greet this welcome novelty of a royal visit with shouts and cheers.
Despite Gerran’s worries about the sort of reception he’d get in the dun itself, the gatekeeper welcomed him warmly along with the prince and his escort and Mirryn and his. As the men were dismounting in the ward, Lord Oth, the gray-bearded chamberlain, and Lord Blethry, the stout equerry, hurried out of the great hall to greet them, followed by a bevy of pages and grooms. Oth bowed low to Prince Daralanteriel, then to Mirryn and Gerran with one sweep of his arm that included them both.
“His grace Ridvar’s listening to witnesses in his chamber of justice, Your Highness,” Oth said to the prince. “A thousand apologies, but he couldn’t come out to greet you.”
“I quite understand,” Dar said. “Is it an important affair?”
“One of the local farmers has accused a neighbor of stealing his chickens.” Oth smiled briefly. “It may not sound like much of a troubl
e, but his grace has jurisdiction over every little thing that happens in his rhan.”
“Just as I have in mine, so I quite understand.”
“Then do come in, Your Highness, and partake of our hospitality, ” Oth continued. “Ah, here are the grooms to see to your horses. Lord Blethry, if you’ll ensure that our guests get somewhat to drink, I’ll sort out the matter of chambers.”
“My lord?” Mirryn stepped forward. “I’ll be making camp down in the meadow with my escort. I’m the captain of my father’s warband now, and that’s where my duty lies.”
“Oh.” Oth paused in surprise, then nodded. “Well and good, then, as you wish.”
As Oth bustled away, dispensing orders to the flock of pages, Gerran found himself remembering Branna’s strange remarks about this most punctilious of servitors. Once he would have dismissed them, but now that he knew about dweomer and the insights it gave those who could work it, he decided he’d best take the remarks seriously.
“Salamander? Mirryn?” he said. “Don’t mention Solla’s inheritance until Voran gets here.”
Salamander’s eyes widened. “Very well,” the gerthddyn said, “but may I ask why?”
“When we get somewhere private.”
The gerthddyn’s eyes grew wider, and his nose twitched as if he smelled the secret.
As they walked into the great hall, the gwerbret’s wife, Drwmigga, dressed in flowing blue, was just coming down the winding stone staircase. The flowered scarf of a married woman wrapped her raven-dark hair. Around her flocked her unmarried servingwomen, each with their hair caught back in a simple clasp.
Mirryn elbowed Gerran in the ribs and whispered. “That blonde lass there in the green dress. I think that’s Lady Egriffa.”
“And she’s the game your mother’s marked out for your hunt?”
“The very one. Should I go speak to her right now?”
“Wait till dinner, I’d say, lest you appear too eager.” Salamander broke into the conversation. “I see we have somewhat to celebrate. Drwmigga’s with child.”
“How can you tell?” Mirryn said.
“Dolt!” Gerran said. “Look at her kirtle. It’s tied up high.”
“Oh, I suppose you know everything, now that you’ve got a wife!” But Mirryn dutifully looked. “You’re right, I suppose.”
“Of course he’s right,” Salamander said. “She’s not got a waist anymore, and it gladdens my heart to see it. Or not see it, I mean. Let’s hope she’s carrying a son for the rhan’s sake.”
Lord Blethry seated the prince, the banadar, and the two lords at the table of honor, which stood in front of the enormous dragon hearth. He gave Salamander a scowl when the gerthddyn sat down with them, then trotted off to assign tables on the riders’ side of the hall to the men of the escorts. Lady Drwmigga and her women arranged themselves at the table next to the table of honor but engrossed themselves in conversation to give the men their privacy. Servant lasses appeared and brought mead in silver goblets.
“Where’s Neb?” Salamander said abruptly.
Gerran looked over the warbands, just settling themselves among a flurry of servants. “Huh!” He stood up for a better view. “No sign of him.”
Salamander cursed under his breath in Elvish and got up, grabbing his goblet. He downed a mouthful of mead, then carried the goblet with him when he hurried over to the other side of the hall. Gerran sat down again, but he turned in his chair to watch the gerthddyn, moving among the men and asking questions in between sips of mead. Finally Salamander handed his goblet to a servant and ran out of the great hall.
“What in the icy hells is that all about?” Calonderiel leaned across the table.
“He’s looking for Neb,” Gerran said.
“Oh.” Cal shrugged the problem away. “Well, no doubt he’ll find him.”
Gerran thought of going after Salamander to help him search, then remembered that the gerthddyn doubtless had his own ways of finding someone.
A small procession was coming down the staircase. Two guards in tabards decorated with the golden sun blazon of Cengarn led the way, followed by Gwerbret Ridvar and a shaved-bald priest of Bel. Bringing up the rear were two roughly-dressed men, one of them sullen and scowling, the other triumphant, bearing a wicker cage full of squawking chickens.
“I take it that justice has been done,” Prince Dar said, grinning.
“So it seems, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “And the lwdd paid.”
The guards ushered the farmers out, then more courteously escorted the priest. Ridvar paused at the door to bid the priest farewell. He’d grown taller over the winter, Gerran noticed, and his upper lip sported a dark shadow, the beginnings of a moustache. With a last word to the guards, Ridvar came over and bowed to Prince Dar.
“My apologies for not being here to greet you, Your Highness.” He glanced around the table. “Banadar, it gladdens my heart to see you again. My lords, welcome to my hall.”
Nicely put, Gerran thought. “My thanks, Your Grace,” he said aloud. “I’ve come to bring you the last scot due from the Red Wolf.”
“Then my thanks to you.” Ridvar sat down at the head of the honor table. “You can give it to Lord Oth when he joins us.” He turned to the prince. “Well, Your Highness, I hope you’ve fared well over the winter.”
“I have indeed, Your Grace, and the same to you,” Dar said. “But alas, I fear I’m the bringer of evil news. The Horsekin are pushing into the wilderness north of your borders. The silver wyrm spotted them and flew to tell me.”
Ridvar went icy still for a moment, then swore. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said at last. “How far away are they?”
“A good distance, thank all the gods. I doubt me if they’ll stay far away.”
“I doubt it, too. It’s a good thing, then, that Prince Voran’s on his way. One of his men rode in this morning with the news that he and his retinue will be here on the morrow.” Ridvar’s voice turned sour. “Have you heard about his highness’ new title and appointment?”
“I have,” Dar said. “I don’t know much about Cerrgonney affairs, but I gather the province is a troubled one.”
“Well, Cerrgonney is, truly.” Ridvar clamped his lips as if he were sucking back words. He cleared his throat. “Now, about these Horsekin. What precisely did the dragon see?”
Since Calonderiel had already given him the substance of the dragon’s report, Gerran only half listened to their talk. That Neb had gone missing troubled him. Finally he murmured an excuse and left the table. He stopped at the riders’ side of the great hall, found Daumyr, and asked him if Salamander had mentioned where he might have been going.
“Down to town, my lord,” Daumyr said. “The scribe might have gone looking for inks and suchlike.”
“That’s a good guess,” Gerran said. “Well, no doubt the gerthddyn can find him.”
Daumyr raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Gerran walked away without saying more. He sat down at the table of honor again, but as the talk and the mead flowed, he drank but little, just on the off chance that Salamander might need him.
As soon as he left the dun behind, Salamander stopped in the shelter of a narrow alley and scried for Neb. He found him easily, standing in front of a shabby tavern. Salamander took off at a dead run and reached it just as Neb was bargaining with the tavernman, a stout fellow in a greasy leather apron, for the right to sleep in his hayloft.
“This won’t be necessary,” Salamander said briskly. “Just a slight misunderstanding.”
Neb whirled around and glared at him.
“Now here.” The tavernman set massive hands on his hips. “A bargain’s a bargain.”
Neb opened his mouth to agree, but Salamander got in first.
“Are you going to argue with the gwerbret, my good man?” Salamander said. “This lad is a witness in an upcoming proceeding in Ridvar’s court.” He turned to Neb and smiled. “I take it you didn’t realize that you’d been offered shelter in the broch itself.”
“Oh, well, then!” the tavernman took a hasty step back. “Never you mind, lad. You’ve got better quarters waiting for you than my loft.”
Salamander laid a firm hand on Neb’s arm. “Come along,” he said, “I’ll take you back.” He switched to Elvish, sticking to the words Neb would know. “You made a vow. Dallandra said stay with us. You promised to do what she said.”
“Oh, well and good, then!” Neb’s voice hovered near a snarl.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
As a precaution Salamander took the reins of Neb’s horse and led it. The yellow gnome materialized, standing on the saddle. It bowed to Salamander with a gape-mouthed grin, as if saying thank you. The gnome has more sense than the man! Salamander thought with a certain sourness. Neb strode away, walking fast ahead of him toward the dun at the top of the hill, but soon the steepness of the street made him slow down. When Salamander caught up with him, he stopped walking altogether.
“We need to have a chat,” Salamander said in Deverrian. “There’s no market today, so let’s go up to the commons.”
On the grassy hilltop a few white cows with rusty-red ears stood grazing or lay down in the shade of a cluster of trees to rest and ruminate. A sleepy-looking lad with a dog and a long stick sat nearby and watched over the cows. Salamander made sure that they stopped where the lad couldn’t overhear. He slacked the bit of Neb’s horse to let it snack on the spring grass, then stood facing Neb, who looked steadily back with his mouth twisted in anger.
“Now then, let me guess,” Salamander began. “You were going to lurk in that tavern overnight, and in the morning ride out on your own. I’ll guess further. You want a different master in our craft and think you can find one.”
“Oh, curse you!” Neb snapped.
“Ah, I see that I was perspicacious, sharp-eyed, and just plain correct. You know, every now and then an unruly colt will stray from its herd. It always ends up eaten by wolves. Dweomer has its own pack of wolves, you know. They’d welcome a smart lad like you, but you wouldn’t care for what they’d do to you.”
The Shadow Isle Page 20
