The Gold Falcon (19 page)

“That’s a lovely lass you were speaking with,” Salamander said. “She seems much taken with you.”

“Horseshit! What would she see in a common-born man like me?”

Salamander seemed to be about to say more, but with a small sigh he turned away and looked across the great hall. From their bench they had a clear view of Cadryc, seated at the gwerbret’s right hand. Across the table were two other men, silent as Cadryc talked urgently to his overlord, who sat at the head of the table in a half-round carved chair. Dark-haired and slender like his sister, Ridvar of Cengarn had just turned fourteen that spring, but he held himself straight and proudly, and every gesture he made was measured and firm.

“Ye gods!” Salamander whispered. “He’s but a lad.”

“He is, but never let it slip that you think him one. He had an elder brother, but he died of a fever a few years after the Horsekin slew their father.”

“Leaving a child in charge of the rhan.”

“These things happen. See those two men at the gwerbret’s left?” Gerran pointed as he spoke. “The graybeard sitting across from Cadryc is the chief councillor, Lord Oth. The young dark-haired one in the next chair down is the gwerbret’s equerry, Lord Blethry.”

A painfully thin man, Oth had sparse gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and an abundant gray mustache that seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of hair elsewhere. Blethry was stocky and not particularly tall, though he wasn’t particularly short either. His narrow eyes, set under full dark brows, and wide mouth spoke of some High Mountain blood in his clan.

“They’re an interesting pair,” Salamander said. “Different as chalk and cheese.”

“They’re both loyal men. That’s what counts.”

“True spoken, of course.”

“Where’s our scribe?” Gerran turned in his chair and addressed his men. “I don’t want him lost.”

“He hared off to the marketplace, Captain,” Daumyr said. “Looking for ink and suchlike.”

“Well and good, then. Let’s hope he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“I’ll go look for him later if you’d like,” Salamander said. “But I think we’d best stay here for the nonce.”

Gerran turned his attention back to the honor table. Even from his distance he could see that Cadryc was fighting to keep his temper. The tieryn leaned forward, left hand balled into a fist, the other clutching the table edge as if he were afraid he’d float to his feet and hit someone.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Gerran said. “But I can’t just go and impose upon the noble-born.”

In a few moments a page solved the problem by coming to fetch him. Salamander tagged along uninvited, walking a few paces behind. Gerran decided that sending him back to the table would make bad manners into an incident and ignored him. When Gerran knelt by Cadryc’s side, the gwerbret acknowledged him with a small nod.

“I’ve been telling his grace here about this last lot of brigands,” Cadryc said. “He thinks sending more riders to Lord Samyc should be adequate. Do you agree, Captain?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t, and besides, Samyc can’t feed any more men.”

Gerran looked only at Cadryc while he spoke, but the gwerbret leaned forward.

“You can speak up, Captain,” Ridvar said. “I intend to maintain the men for Samyc out of my own pocket, and it won’t be some token force. Twenty-five good men and coin to maintain them.”

“Well, truly, Your Grace,” Gerran picked his words carefully. “That would be more than enough to handle ordinary bandits and the like. But these are Horsekin.”

Ridvar sipped mead from a silver goblet and made no answer.

“Twenty-five men won’t be enough.” Cadryc’s voice snapped with barely-concealed frustration. “We need an army.”

“It would be most inconvenient for me to ask the high king for an army.”

Gerran wondered why he’d ever hoped for anything different. The king’s aid brought obligations with it. Even so, given the situation, which threatened the survival of his rhan, the gwerbret’s stubbornness did surprise him. Ridvar took another measured sip of mead.

“If Lord Samyc has the extra men,” Ridvar said, “they can patrol his borders. Then the villagers will have plenty of warning if there’s another raid, and they can get to safety.”

“Leaving their farms and livestock and crops for the cursed raiders.” Cadryc leaned forward. “If the Horsekin steal or burn the crops and the cows, who’s going to feed us all?”

“Even if we have an army, there’s no guarantee we can catch the raiders. We don’t even know where they come from, do we?”

“Then maybe it’s time we blasted well found out.”

“Tieryn Cadryc, you forget yourself.” Ridvar tossed his head, his eyes flaring temper.

Red-faced with rage, Cadryc stared him full in the face. Councillor Oth leaned forward, and Lord Blethry half-rose from his chair, ready to intervene. Gerran sighed, seeing the matter turn to the question of who could be more stubborn. He risked laying a warning hand on Cadryc’s arm. Cadryc recovered himself and made a half-bow to the gwerbret.

“So I do,” Cadryc said. “My apologies.”

“Granted. My thanks for your advice, Captain.”

Lord Blethry sat back down with a small sigh of relief.

“Your Grace?” Salamander stepped forward, bowed, and knelt at the gwerbret’s side. “May I have your leave to speak to this point?”

Startled, Ridvar slewed around in his chair to look at the gerthddyn, who smiled blandly up at him.

“I’m a traveling man, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “I hear all sorts of strange rumors and tidbits of news. Has Your Grace ever wondered why the Horsekin would ride so far for so few slaves and so little booty? I’ve gathered a few pieces of information that point to their having an armed camp or the like off to the west, one that they’d rather we didn’t find. If that’s true, it’s no wonder that they want to make sure no one decides to farm out their way.”

Councillor Oth caught his breath in a little gasp.

“Indeed,” Ridvar said. He turned in his chair to give the gerthddyn his full attention. “Do you have any proof of this?”

“Not yet, Your Grace.”

“I’m not about to ask the high king for an army on the strength of a gerthddyn’s word.”

“Fair enough, Your Grace. I did hear it from the Westfolk.”

Ridvar hesitated, visibly annoyed. Everyone knew that the Westfolk never lied and only rarely exaggerated. “That gives it more weight.” Ridvar sounded annoyed as well. “But it’s still hearsay.”

“True, Your Grace, but what if I bring you better proof than that?”

Ridvar crossed his arms over his chest and looked the gerthddyn over for a long cold moment. Councillor Oth leaned forward and murmured a few words in Ridvar’s ear, but the lad never acknowledged them.

“Your Grace, there’s an old saying.” Apparently Cadryc could stand the silence no longer. “When the shepherds go missing, the wolves shit wool.”

The lad set his lips together and considered the tieryn with narrow eyes. The hall had fallen utterly silent as everyone, warrior and servant alike, strained to hear. Finally Ridvar allowed himself a small smile.

“The point’s well taken,” Ridvar said. “I’ll make you a bargain. If anyone, even our gerthddyn here, can bring me proof that the Horsekin have a permanent camp or suchlike out to the west, then I’ll petition the high king.”

“And do I have your word on that?” Cadryc said. “Your Grace?”

“You do.” The gwerbret’s eyes narrowed again, and he hesitated, but only briefly. “I’ll swear it to you.”

“You have my thanks, Your Grace. My heartfelt thanks.”

Salamander seemed inclined to speak up again, but Gerran laid a hand on his shoulder and silenced him. He and the gerthddyn rose, bowed to the noble-born, then went back to the riders’ side of the hall. As they regained their seats, Gerran glanced back to the table of honor, where Ridvar had leaned over to talk with his chamberlain and equerry while Cadryc glowered into his goblet.

“I don’t understand,” Gerran said softly. “Why is the gwerbret being so cursed stubborn, I wonder?”

“I wonder that myself.” Salamander paused for a mouthful of ale. “My worst fear is that Ridvar doesn’t want any more settlers down on the Great West Road. What if the king decides that the area needed a gwerbretrhyn of its own?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Let’s hope Ridvar’s thoughts are more honorable than mine.” Salamander finished his ale in one long swallow. “But gwerbretion rarely cherish the idea of rivals on their borders.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then stood up. “I’ll just be fetching my gear. I’ll keep an eye out for young Neb, too, when I’m down in town.”

 

Salamander was spared the task of searching for the tieryn’s scribe. He was leading his horse and packhorse out of the gates when he saw Neb, carrying a laden basket over one arm, puffing up the hill toward him. Beside him skipped the fat yellow gnome. In a shirt that was too big for him, with his skinny lad’s face glistening with sweat, Neb looked utterly unprepossessing. Yet Salamander knew that locked deep in his soul were latent dweomer powers so great that they bordered on the frightening.

“Ah, there you are,” Salamander said. “I need to say farewell, lad. I’ll be staying in Cengarn when you go back home with the warband.”

“Then may you fare well indeed,” Neb said. “I need to thank you yet once again. Clae and I owe you our lives.”

“Well, it’s a strange thing, this question of lives and gratitude.”

Neb stared at him.

“I mean,” Salamander said, “who knows whether you found me by luck or by wyrd? Sometimes the most random-seeming acts have hidden causes.”

“Er, I suppose so.”

“Consider the river Melyn, a broad and fast-flowing waterway, isn’t it? Yet its source must be some tiny spring or rivulet hidden from our eyes deep in the primeval forest. Wyrd may have such a secret font.”

“Well, true spoken, but—” Neb paused briefly. “But why are you rattling on about this?”

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? While I’m gone, you might ponder, reflect, contemplate, even meditate upon it.”

Neb’s mouth curled in a twist of anger. Salamander laughed and with a wave of his hand, clucked to his horses and led them away. He had to admit that he was enjoying this small bit of revenge upon Nevyn.
And yet,
Salamander reminded himself,
Nevyn was right, wasn’t he? So was Jill, but you wouldn’t listen to either of them.
The memories of his long years of madness rose up strong and made him shudder.

 

Neb stood staring after the gerthddyn as Salamander led his horse and packhorse down the steep road into town.
Now what was all that about?
Neb asked himself.
Utter drivel, most like.
During their ride north, Salamander had made other cryptic remarks centering around wyrd and memory. None of them had made any more sense than this set. And yet the gerthddyn’s talk had touched something in his mind—he could recognize an odd sort of truth in it even though he couldn’t quite understand what that truth might be. He did have the distinct feeling that this truth was somehow linked to his dreams about the most beautiful lass in all Deverry, though he couldn’t say where this feeling came from.
Ponder it,
Salamander had said.
Meditate upon it.
Neb decided that he’d best do just that.

The gatekeeper recognized him and let him into the keep without any challenge. As he was crossing the ward, the yellow gnome appeared and pointed at the sky with a skinny little hand. Neb looked up and saw only a solitary raven, circling far above the ward. With servants nearby, Neb decided that he’d best not try to speak to the gnome.
It can’t be the raven that’s troubling him,
Neb thought. There were always plenty of birds overhead all summer long. A spirit, perhaps, that only the gnome could see might have been hovering in the air, but there was nothing that Neb could do about it if so.

Since he’d been spending the tieryn’s money, Neb went looking for Cadryc. In his basket he had big chunks of dry ink, a proper grinding stone, a packet of sealing wax, and other such scribal treasures, all of which had cost plenty, out here on the border. He found the tieryn in the great hall, sitting alone at the honor table and nursing a goblet of mead. Neb bowed and started to kneel, but Cadryc waved him up.

“I take it you found what you needed,” the tieryn said.

“I did, Your Grace.” Neb set the basket on the table. “If you’d like to see—”

“No need, lad. I trust you to know your craft.”

“My thanks, Your Grace.” Neb bowed to him. “I’ll put the purchases with my blankets and suchlike out in the barracks. Er, if I may ask, did the gwerbret—”

“He did not.” Cadryc pitched his voice low. “Infuriating young cub! Here, I daren’t say more. He and his councillor will be back down in a moment, no doubt. They’re off discussing the matter twixt themselves.”

Neb started to speak, but his voice choked on utterly unexpected tears. Cadryc laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Thinking about your kin, are you? Well, lad, I’ve not given up hope of avenging them yet. Gerran can tell you what happened—” Cadryc glanced around, “—in private, like.”

A page told Neb that the tieryn’s men had gone to their quarters. When Neb joined them there, most were sound asleep on their bunks or kneeling on the floor dicing for coppers. Gerran himself was sitting in the only chair in the room with his feet up on the nearest bunk. He waved vaguely in Neb’s direction.

“Back, are you?” Gerran said.

“I am. Here, his grace told me to ask you about this afternoon.”

“Not much to tell. Gwerbret Ridvar has no intention of going to the king.”

“Did he say why?”

“He didn’t. He did come up with another plan, but it won’t work. Then we had a surprise of sorts. The gerthddyn thinks he might know why the Horsekin are raiding, to keep us from finding a fortress or suchlike further west.”