Lords of the Sky (38 page)

Thom nodded thoughtfully. “Can I pass word,” he said, “I shall…. There might be a boat.”

“He was sent to Karysvar,” I said, “on the Slammerkin.”

Thom said, “Yes.”

I was not sure whether he confirmed my words or his own prior knowledge. I went on: “He might have gone into Ur-Dharbek, to the wild Changed.”

Thom said, “Perhaps,” and his face became masked. “Then he’ll not get word.”

I had gone too far. The features of the Changed are rooted deep enough in their animal ancestors that they are difficult to read; at the same time, they are sufficiently removed from their forebears that their bodies no longer display the clear reactions of beasts. Even so, I had conversed with them enough I saw Thom was perturbed. His reaction was not dissimilar to that of the sorcerers I had questioned on the same subject. I recognized that he would say no more than they, and that did I press him I should lose his confidence altogether. So I shrugged and said, “No, I suppose not. Still, I hope he shall get my message.”

“Yes.”

Thom seemed torn now between the formal “master” and the use of my given name. I was pleased he chose the latter but knew I had made him uncomfortable when he
inquired what further service I might require or if he should bring me to the dining hall.

I was hungry: he guided me to the hall.

Neither the aeldor nor the commur-magus was present, which troubled me not at all, and I was given a cheerful welcome by the warband. The warriors were led by a jennym whose name was Darus, and from him I learned that Nevyn had been some dozen years in the keep and was not popular. I commented on the servants’ tunics—those tending us in the hall wore gray bordered with silver—and Darus advised me that was Nevyn’s doing. He spoke somewhat of the Sky Lords, but save for sightings of a few of the little airboats (Trevyn Keep had encountered no landings), I garnered no more information than I already had. War-engines were constructed, but it was Darus’s belief the west coast was safe. I thought him dangerously wrong but said nothing, suspecting that did I voice my opinion that in a year or two the Sky Lords would likely mount their Great Coming, I should earn Nevyn’s further displeasure and my sojourn in Trevyn Keep be even less pleasant. Instead, the fog yet lingering, I passed the afternoon telling stories to a hall of bored soldiers. I noticed, as I spoke, that the Changed disappeared.

That evening I saw Chrystof escorted into the hall by two burly Changed in the uniforms of body-servants. He seemed not quite aware of his surroundings, as if he were more accustomed to his private chambers, and he sat at the high table with only Nevyn for company. I was not invited to join them, but Nevyn called in a commanding tone that I should demonstrate my talent once the tables were cleared and the servants gone. The warband seemed not to find this unusual but drew their own ale without comment. I was pleased to see that a handful of Changed, Thom amongst them, gave furtive ear from shadowy doorways. I thought this an unhappy keep, and (a small and, I admit, spiteful revenge) that I should mention it on my return to Durbrecht.

That night I found my brazier renewed and a covered jug of wine placed on the table. Thom had set a warming pan in my bed, and my riding gear had been laundered. I thanked him for such services, but when I sought to draw him again into conversation he grew reticent. I feared I had startled
him too much with speaking of the wild Changed and made no more effort to press him.

That night I dreamed once more of the wood beyond Cambar Keep. It was the first time the dream had come in weeks, and as I groped my way amongst the mist-shrouded oaks, I thought I saw the faint shapes of tiny airboats through the gray canopy overhead. I heard again that strange beating sound, as of massive wings, but whatever made it did not disturb the brume, and I could only wander, struggling to discern from which direction came the voices, Rwyan’s and Urt’s, that called to me even as I hid from the spectral shapes of the warriors fighting there.

I woke to dim, gray light, thinking for a moment that I dreamed still. Then Thom knocked, and I realized the fog remained outside, a shroud spread miserable over the hold. It seemed fitting.

I greeted the Changed and refused his ministrations, electing to dress myself as he found small tasks to occupy his hands. I broke my fast and went to visit my mare. She appeared content enough to rest in her stall, and I asked that Thom be my guide into the town. He must get permission for that, which Nevyn granted with some reluctance. I was reassured by the sorcerer’s disinclination—it suggested Thom was not his spy—and had Thom bring me to a tavern, the plazas being emptied of traffic by the weather.

I bought the Changed a tankard, but he would not sit with me, going instead to an area where others of his kind gathered. At least they heard me. I passed the day there, gleaning what news I could (which was little enough) and had no more need to buy my own ale, for as word passed around that the Sword entertained a Storyman, the inn filled up and the landlord refused my coin.

I was three days in Trevyn Keep before the fog lifted and I was able to use Nevyn’s own admonitions to continue on my way. I spoke as much as I was able with Thom, but he was more guarded for all I avoided any mention of Ur-Dharbek or the wild Changed. He spoke freely enough of his own life and the lives of his fellow servants, but not at all of those matters that most intrigued me. Still, I felt I had collected a further piece to the puzzle I saw was my homeland. I hoped to gather more along the way to Mhorvyn. I hoped one day I should find more answers than questions.

I’ve few fond memories of that place, and I was not at all sorry to leave it; only for the Changed who must toil under Nevyn’s command. I was happy to see the fog clear and had my mare saddled immediately I had taken my morning meal. I bade farewell to Thom and to Darus and his warband. The aeldor Chrystof, I was informed, had taken to his bed, and the only good-bye I got from Nevyn was a curt reminder that I should not deviate from the coast road.

That, I followed southward, the sea never far away, so that I halted in fishing villages as often as in the keeps. I obeyed the orders sent from Durbrecht, never remaining longer than a few days in any one place. Nowhere did I encounter another like Trevyn Keep; everywhere I saw with clearer eyes that the Changed, even when treated kindly, went unseen, faceless servitors to we Truemen.

I rode through the autumn into winter, which was milder on this west coast than those I had known in Whitefish village or Durbrecht, and a day before the dawning of Bannas Eve I came to Mhorvyn. It was the climax of my year’s wandering; it was also, I found, a crossroads.

M
horvyn was the largest hold I had seen since departing Durbrecht, and unlike any other. It sat upon a rocky island that hung like a teardrop from the southernmost tip of Dharbek, connected to the land by a causeway that at high tide was hidden beneath the waves of the southern ocean. Landward, the bailiwick was given over to farms and orchards, and a village of fisherfolk spread along the shore facing the hold. The day I came there was squally, a biting wind driving rafts of gray cloud in off the sea, a wintry sun snatching brief glances through the scud. I halted on the shore, studying the road that ran, it seemed, across the waves. The tide was on the ebb, and water spilled from the stone, leaving behind pools and pungent strings of seaweed. My mare argued my decision to proceed, and it was a while before I could urge her out onto the causeway. It was a strange sensation to ride that path, the sea stretching out sullen and wind-tossed to either side, salt spray lashing us. It seemed almost that my mare trod the waves, like some seahorse out of legend. She liked it not at all, and I must admit I was not sorry to reach the sturdy barbican that granted ingress to the island. Walls of blue-black stone extended from the little tower around the whole of Mhorvyn; within, the buildings of the town seemed to tumble down at random over the flanks of a low hill surmounted by the great tower of the keep. I was brought there by a cheerful soldier, who
led me at a brisk pace through a maze of narrow streets decorated in readiness for Bannas Eve. From him I learned that word had been sent ahead to expect me, and that all Mhorvyn looked forward to enjoying my tales as part of the festival celebrations.

I got no less a cheerful welcome in the keep itself. Yanydd was the aeldor here, a sturdy man in his middle years, handsome and thick-bearded, and he filled me a tankard himself as he introduced me to his family and the folk of the keep. His wife was a woman of startling beauty whose name was Dorae; she seemed too young to have borne three sons. They were named Rhys, Maric, and Ador, the eldest about my own age, his brothers younger by a year apiece. The commur-mage was older, her hair gray and her face, for all it was not unhandsome, lined and weatherbeaten. Her name was Laena.

It was close on dusk, and the hall was redolent of roasting meat and ale. Cypress boughs and sprigs of mistletoe hung about the walls, and on every door was pinned a dried oak leaf and a token of the God. The keep had a festive air that combined with the pleasant manner of Yanydd and his kin to put me at my ease. I saw that the Changed of this place wore no symbols of their station as in Trevyn and appeared comfortable with their lot. I thought this should be a better hold than many in which to pass the midwinter festival.

Courteously, Yanydd invited me to bathe and find my chamber before submitting myself to the inevitable barrage of questions and the dispensation of my duty as a Storyman. I accepted gladly, and a Changed servant was directed to escort me to my quarters.

They were, I found, luxurious. The bed was wide, the stone floor covered with a gaily patterned carpet, and coals glowed in a small hearth, on which a jug of mulled ale steamed. There was a garderobe, and a tall window afforded a view over the rooftops of the town to the sea beyond. I tossed my staff and saddlebags on the bed and flung open the window, inhaling the salt-scented air as I studied the busy streets below.

The Changed—he was feline-bred and named, I had learned, Lan—waited patiently. I contemplated interrogation but decided it was the wiser course to approach gently,
cautiously, lest I scare him as I had done Thom. So I closed the window and gave him a smile.

“Shall you celebrate this Bannas Eve, Lan?” I asked.

Unlike Thom, he met my gaze and answered my smile with his own. “Yes, master,” he said. “Lord Yanydd has all his people celebrate.”

I said, “My name is Daviot, Lan.”

He answered me, “Yes, I know that,” and hesitated a moment before adding, “Daviot.”

That both pleased and surprised me, but I had no wish to frighten him off and so said, “I’d not earn you trouble, Lan. Is it your custom to call me ‘master,’ then so be it; but I’d be happy with ‘Daviot.’”

He nodded, his expression sage, and after a moment said, “Perhaps in private, Daviot. But in the halls, better I title you ‘Master Daviot.’”

I deemed him quicker of wit than Thom and far less cowed, which reinforced my impression that this was a friendly keep. I said, “As you wish.”

He smiled again at that and said, “Yes,” gravely, as if he took the suggestion under consideration and reached his own conclusions.

It came to me that he did; and with that realization another thought: that he accepted what must surely be odd behavior in a Trueman with unusual alacrity. I asked him, “Have you heard of me, Lan?”

“All Mhorvyn knows a Storyman was due this Bannas Eve,” he said, which was prevarication.

“That’s not what I meant.” I said it gently, smiling lest he think it a reprimand. “And I suspect you know that.”

“How should I?” he asked.

His rounded face was bland, his tone subtle, so that the question sounded entirely innocent; or cautious. I saw that he was no simpleton but quick of wit and careful. Also, I sensed in him an air of confidence. I chose to show somewhat of what I knew. I said, “I thought perhaps word had come. In Trevyn Keep I learned you name me Urt’s Friend.”

He said, “Yes,” and his smile grew wider. It was as though a mask dropped from his face. “Word came; and so you are known to us.”