The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (36 page)

“That’s me done.” Keisyl flung a crust onto the coarse turf and wiped the grease from his fingers on the tail of his mud-stained shirt. “I’ll walk down to the path with you, Jeir.” Keisyl picked up the sack of ore and hefted it over one shoulder.

“Yes, I’ve a few things to say to you.” Jeirran followed him out of the gully to a stack of sacks. Teiriol and the others exchanged glances of mingled apprehension and anticipation.

“There’s a flask of dew in there as well,” Jeirran called back, “but don’t mix it too strong or all you’ll be fit for this afternoon is sleeping!”

Laughter echoed around the defile and Jeirran grinned. When he turned back to Keisyl, his smile vanished. “I need you back at the fess.”

Keisyl sat on the dusty sack of ore, scarred leather trews coated with muck. “You can go on needing. I’ve work here.”

“And I’ve work at home,” snapped Jeirran, “with Aritane.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with your schemes,” Keisyl retorted. “I don’t like your sister either, tormenting Eirys. I found her crying her heart out in the scullery, worrying she was barren!”

“Blame your mother. What of all her talk about Ilgar’s problems breeding those red cattle?” demanded Jeirran. “Wondering if the bull or the heifer was at fault? If I’m going to have some Sheltya asking questions about my tool or technique, I’ll have one of my own kindred do it.”

“But she’s no kin of yours, not now, not since Sheltya took her,” Keisyl challenged him. “You’re an idiot, Jeirran. That woman gets wind of your schemes, we’ll all be neck deep and drowning! Her first loyalty is to Sheltya.”

“Aritane is loyal to her powers and to her people,” said Jeirran confidently. “She’s as eager as me to see glory and liberty restored to the mountains.”

Keisyl snorted. “She’d better have something more impressive up her sleeves than those lily-white arms.”

“Oh, she has,” chuckled Jeirran. “And now that your mother has done enough cooking to ensure none of us starve in the next four days, she’s taking Eirys and Theilyn off to visit their uncle over the crag. That’s what I came up here to tell you. Ari can finally get things moving.”

“What things?” demanded Keisyl suspiciously.

“We need allies against the lowlanders, don’t we? Like Noral said, there are just too many of the rat-spawn.” Jeirran’s face was alive with zeal. “Aritane’s found them— powerful allies, Keis, willing to help us.”

A flurry of little brown birds squabbled over pastry crumbs among the tussocks. “Alyatimm?” Keisyl’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jeirran shrugged. “Their forefathers were, perhaps, generations since. That’s not important. What matters is they are kin, with no more love of the lowlanders than us.”

“Why should they help us?” frowned Keisyl.

“Why not? They share our blood and have been attacked by Tormalin themselves. It’s only the lowlanders who won’t act unless there’s something in it for them!” Jeirran’s words hung in the air. “This isn’t just about me, Keis!” Jeirran gestured toward the diggers. “Half the sokes this side of the Gap are being bled, truth or lie?”

“I won’t be involved in anything that goes against Sheltya.” Keisyl’s tone was uncompromising, but his face betrayed a hint of curiosity.

“All I want is your presence.” Jeirran’s hands were placating. “You don’t even have to speak. But Ari will receive a visitor tonight and I want us both there to show she has men to back her. Someone born to this soke should be present.”

“Where’s this stranger from?” Keisyl gazed down the valley.

“Ari didn’t tell me.” Jeirran waved to Teiriol and the others still watching intently, horn cups in hand.

“What if Sheltya meet him, ask his business?” asked Keisyl. “Have you run mad?”

“Sheltya are no longer the power they would have you believe.” Jeirran shook his head. “Ask Aritane! That’s one reason we’re in this parlous state. Lowlanders have their wizards’ trickery while Sheltya Elders hoard away true magic and take it to their graves unspent!”

Keisyl kicked at the sack with one heel. “I suppose we’ve enough tinstone to get the ore mill ready. The wheel will need checking and I know the stamps want resetting.” He stood. “I’ll come and play Aritane’s bully boy for this visitor but then you can get the mules up here and pack this lot down while I open up the mill. If you’d had the wit Misaen made for a mouse, you’d have brought a mule now rather than wearing out your boot soles!”

“Your mother took the mules, Keisyl.”

“Then you find someone to lend you another, otherwise you carry this ore down on your back.”

Jeirran’s beard bristled as Keisyl went back up the gully, shouting to Teiriol, “You’re in charge until I get back, but take heed of the others. They’ve been at this work longer than you have!”

After brief consultation with Cailean and Fytch, Keisyl rejoined Jeirran. “I’ve said I’m going to do an assay. That’ll make some use of the time.”

Jeirran set off in silence. A little way down the track, Keisyl turned off for a hollow where the ashes of a campfire were being stirred by an idle breeze. He fished in his pocket for a ring of keys. “It won’t do the lad any harm to learn that being in charge isn’t all picking the easiest job and counting coin.” Keisyl pulled a bag and a blanket roll from a low stone-built shelter and snapped the lock shut again with a decisive snick. “And at least I’ll get a bath.”

Jeirran laughed but fell silent at an uncompromising look from Keisyl. They walked down the trail in long silence, reaching the sheltering walls of the fess as the sun slid behind the snow-capped peaks. Keisyl rapped on the main gate with an exasperated oath. “Where’s Fithian?”

The gate swung open. “I was wondering how much longer you were going to be,” said Aritane critically.

“Where’s Fithian?” demanded Keisyl.

“I sent him to check on the goats.” Aritane walked toward the rekin past dark and shuttered buildings lining the compound.

Keisyl’s lips thinned. “You insult my father’s brother by ordering him around like some herd-boy?”

Aritane paused where warm firelight spilled out over the threshold. “I wanted him out of the way.”

Keisyl did not enter the house. “What gives you such a right?”

Aritane raised one disdainful eyebrow as she negligently brushed a hand over the breast of her plain gray gown. “A man of his age with no patrimony or marriage to recommend him can hardly expect anyone to polish up his dignity.”

“Fithian chose to stay and support my mother after our father’s death. He made over his portion to Teiriol and me.” Keisyl’s words were clipped with anger. “You know nothing of our history.”

Aritane turned her attention to Jeirran. “You had better eat. You need a bath,” she added to Keisyl.

“I’ll bathe when I’m ready.” He took the basket of ore from Jeirran. “I want a quick look at the mill and I may even do an assay.”

Aritane turned on her heel, leaving the two men at the door.

“Do it tomorrow,” Jeirran urged him. “You’ll have the daylight and I’ll help. Once we’ve finished this business tonight, you can sleep in a real bed and be fresh for the morning.”

Aritane was stirring a pot hung over the fire and Keisyl’s stomach growled unbidden at the savory scent.

Jeirran shrugged. “Sheltya are used to everyone running at their command.”

“That’s the closest I’ve ever heard you come to an apology,” sneered Keisyl. ‘This must be important.”

“It’s important to Eirys and her children,” Jeirran snapped. “Weigh that in your scales against your assaying.”

Keisyl swung the basket of ore in one hand and walked away without a word. The reddish light cast shadows on Jeirran’s face that deepened as he scowled. He slammed the door behind him but Aritane tended the fire in the center of the room unperturbed. “Eat,” she commanded.

Jeirran took a steaming bowl with grunted acknowledgment. Hunched on the long bench, he ate gracelessly, shoveling down stew thick with vegetables and herbs. The slate top of the wide table was marked with a few notes made next to a clutter of leatherwork and sewing was heaped on the far seat.

Aritane peered up into the beaten metal of the hood that hung above the fire. “There’s something wrong with the draw on this.”

“There’s something wrong in every room of this wind-blasted fess,” Jeirran said sourly. “The roof of the rekin leaks, every shutter is warped, most of the upstairs hearths smoke.”

“No wonder Ismenia was so keen to let Eirys take a husband so glib with his promises and free with his patrimony,” Aritane smiled without affection.

“You’re going to help me make good on those promises though,” Jeirran countered in similar vein.

The door opened and both turned, momentarily disconcerted. “I’ll eat then bathe,” Keisyl said slowly. “Wait for the daylight, as you say.” He emptied the pockets of his trews onto the top of a dresser standing against the off-hand wall of the room. There were four such, shelves above packed with oddments, and cupboards below locked shut. Hanging his cloak on a hook, Keisyl took a bowl of stew. “Is there enough hot water?” he asked.

“I lit the copper earlier,” Aritane replied with a certain aloofness. “I’ll go and stoke it.” The two men watched her leave for the scullery.

“Did she always have the charm of a bag of nails?” asked Keisyl through a mouthful of meat. “Or is that something Sheltya teach?” He ate in silence then followed Aritane.

Jeirran rose from his seat and made a circuit of the broad room. He checked that each window was locked and then barred the door. Returning a moment later, he unbarred it. Peering up the dark stairwell, he closed and locked that door, fumbling the keys as he shoved them in a pocket, bending to retrieve them with a muffled oath. He crossed to the fire and swung a kettle across the flames.

“I’m going to contact Eresken,” announced Aritane as she reappeared. She moved the kettle off the heat. “I’m not wasting any more time on Keisyl’s convenience!”

“Very well,” said Jeirran slowly. “What am I to do?”

Aritane crossed to a half circle of chairs set around a rag-woven rug on the near-hand side of the room. “Just wait.” She set an embroidered cushion at her back with nervous hands. “He said he would come when I called. He’d be here soon after.”

“Like Sheltya?” Jeirran sat on one end of the long bench. “How is it you people are always where you are wanted, just as you’re needed?”

“That is none of your concern,” retorted Aritane with her habitual iciness. “Be silent and let me work.”

Jeirran cleared his throat but subsided at Aritane’s glare. She settled into the pattern of altered breathing and hid her face in her hands. The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. Jeirran watched intently until a sudden shiver forced him from his seat. Lighting a spill at the hearth, he prowled around the room, lighting lamps in the center of the table, on the dresser by the stairs, two set on stands either side of the door. He started as the scullery door swung open, but it was only Keisyl looking surprised at the flood of light as he toweled his hair.

“Hush.” Jeirran’s voice was tight with tension. “Don’t disturb her.”

Keisyl looked nervously at Aritane and both men froze as she drew a long shuddering breath. She held it for a moment before a long exhalation of satisfaction and pleasure opened her eyes, heavy-lidded, pupils huge and dark.

“Well?” demanded Jeirran eagerly.

Aritane seemed oblivious to Keisyl’s dubious gaze and Jeirran’s question alike.

The latch of the door lifted with a sudden snap.

“May I enter your home?” The figure on the threshold was hidden in a long dark cloak, hood drawn up and face shadowed. His words were harshly accented but fluent in the Mountain tongue.

Aritane sprang to her feet. “You are most welcome,” she said hastily, smoothing the front of her gown.

The stranger entered and lifted his hood back to reveal a long, angular face, at once similar to those facing him and yet outlandish, dominated by eyes green as grass and penetrating in their intensity. His hair was barely light enough to be called blond, more brown than golden, but it framed his face with the same line as Keisyl’s and had much the wiry texture of Jeirran’s. “Aritane!” Her name was a caress on his lips. He caught up her hands, dropping a light kiss on one palm.

She caught her breath, momentarily at a loss.

“My sister is mistress of this house,” Keisyl’s words sounded harsh and he coughed. “I am here to welcome you in her stead,” he concluded with a forced smile and milder tones.

The newcomer bowed low. “I am honored to be received here.”

Jeirran rubbed his hands briskly together. “Have you traveled far? Let me take your cloak. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

A faint smile lit the stranger’s eyes. “It has been a long journey, all in all. I would welcome a drink.” He unpinned the brooch securing his voluminous cloak, black as the shadows outside. Keisyl stepped forward to take it, eyes wary. Beneath the cloak, the visitor was dressed in black leather, ornamented with silver studs on the outer seams of close-cut trews and patterned around the shoulders of a buckled jerkin. A gold gorget protected his throat, and from the tight stiffness of the leather Keisyl guessed metal plates lay beneath the forearms and breast of the garment. The cloak, dark as it was, would have passed anywhere between the mountains and the sea but this bellicose livery was like nothing he had ever seen.

Aritane was busy at a cupboard by the half-circle of chairs. She turned with a tray bearing a crystal flask and small gilded glasses brilliant in the lamplight. As she saw her visitor uncloaked her hands shook for an instant, the glasses ringing like tiny bells. “Please, sit and take your ease.” She poured tiny measures of clear spirit, her hands steady now as a sharp scent of fruit filled the air. “Eresken, this is Jeirran, and Keisyl, the brother of his wife.”

Eresken lifted his glass to all in mute salute before sipping at it. ‘This is very fine,” he said admiringly.

“The women make it.” Jeirran was recovering his bullishness. “My Eirys flavors hers with cloudberries.”

“I must compliment her on her skills,” Eresken said smoothly.

Keisyl did not sit. “What is it that you offer in return for her hospitality?”