The Shadow Isle (24 page)

“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.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid enough to link up with them.”

“You might not recognize who they were at first, not until it was too late to get out.”

Neb crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Be that as it may,” Salamander continued, “there’s this little matter of the gwerbretal malover. It’s not just some tale I made up to impress that tavernman. If you run away before you give your evidence, his grace will send out messengers to his peers, branding you as a criminal. The branding could become a reality, not a mere metaphor, if they catch you.”

Neb looked sharply away. “I didn’t realize that.”

“I thought perhaps you didn’t. And what about Branna? You’re a married man. Now, a fair many married men have decided they made a grave mistake, and thus have taken themselves away from their wife’s bed and ken, but they’ve not sworn the vows you have.”

Neb turned half-away and blushed scarlet. Salamander realized that he’d scored a sharper hit than he’d intended. He waited, but Neb said nothing. “As well as all that,” Salamander went on, “wouldn’t you miss her?”

“I’d get over it.” Neb spoke so softly that it was hard to hear him. “I’m a man. Love is for women.”

“Ah, so now you’re the hardened and hardhearted warrior type, eh?” Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Oh, hold your tongue!” Neb raised his voice, but it shook with barely-suppressed tears. “Very well, I would miss her. A lot. That’s why I didn’t just leave the Westlands this spring.”

“And are you still thinking of leaving now?”

“I’m not. I won’t go anywhere. Let’s go back to the gwerbret’s blasted dun.”

“Will you promise me you won’t try to bolt again?”

Neb hesitated for so long that Salamander began to fear he’d lost him, but finally Neb nodded his agreement. “I promise,” Neb said finally. “You’re right about being a witness at the malover.”

“You know, if things trouble you, you can always talk them out with me.”

“My thanks.” Neb looked down at the ground, then kicked a pebble so hard that it sailed for some yards across the cropped grass. “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

From his seat at the honor table, Gerran kept a watch for Neb. He finally saw him when the scribe, his arms full of blankets and saddlebags, followed Salamander and Lord Oth into the great hall. Oth conferred with one of the pages and sent him and Neb both up the staircase, doubtless to find Neb a chamber. This time, Gerran noticed, Salamander sat down at one of the riders’ tables rather than ranking himself among the lords. Oth hurried over to the table of honor to stand beside the gwerbret. Gerran rose and greeted him with a bow, which Oth returned.

“I hear you’ve brought coin from Tieryn Cadryc,” Oth said.

“I have,” Gerran said. “It’s the last scot from the Red Wolf.”

“Well and good, then. It will gladden my heart to see that matter tidied away.”

Gerran had been carrying the money in a small pouch tucked inside his shirt. He took it out and handed it to Oth, who clasped it tight in one bony hand.

“No need to count it, I’m sure,” Oth said.

With Branna’s odd warning very much in his mind, it occurred to Gerran how easy it would be for a servitor to pocket one of the coins, then claim a mistake had been made in order to extort another from the person paying a debt.

“No need, but it would be best if you did,” Gerran said, as blandly as possible. “Tieryn Cadryc asked me to make sure it got counted in front of his grace. He was afraid he might have made a mistake in the amount.” Gerran glanced at the gwerbret, then at the prince. “He thinks highly of you both, Your Highness and Your Grace, and he wants this done right.” He looked at Oth and smiled. “It would ache his heart if the prince and the gwerbret thought him miserly.”

Ridvar and Daralanteriel nodded their agreement. Oth smiled, but his eyes had narrowed in some odd fit of feeling. He had trouble looking Gerran in the face and bowed again to cover his reluctance.
What’s this?
Gerran thought.
Shame, mayhap? Fear? It’s not, but rage!

Oth opened the pouch and spread the coins out on the table. “All in order, my lords,” he announced with a brittle sort of cheer. “I’ll just take this up to the treasury.”

Gerran sat down next to Mirryn and watched Oth scoop up the coins and transfer them back to the pouch. The old man bowed to the gwerbret, then hurried away.

Although he kept watch for the chamberlain, Gerran saw no sign of him all that afternoon. At dinner, Lord Oth did appear, but he headed up a table of servitors far from the table of honor. Salamander and Neb took places with the men of Mirryn’s escort on the far side of the great hall. When the food was about to be served, Lady Drwmigga came to the honor table to sit at her lord’s left hand, opposite Prince Dar. With her came the young blonde woman, whose name, Drwmigga announced, was Lady Egriffa.

“My lord Mirryn?” Drwmigga said. “If you’d not mind, may Egriffa share your trencher?”

“I’d be honored, my lady,” Mirryn said.

Egriffa smiled and sat down next to him. She was a pleasant-looking lass, with pale hair, big blue eyes, and a small but full-lipped mouth. Unfortunately, she seemed to lack an intellect. Every time Mirryn spoke to her, she answered as briefly as possible, then giggled at some length. Now and then she would lay her fingertips upon her lips as if stuffing the giggle back in. Mirryn said less and less as the meal went on. When the ladies left the table and went up to their hall, Mirryn sighed in deep relief.

“You’re not going to marry that, are you?” Gerran said.

“Pray to every god I don’t.” Mirryn grabbed his goblet of mead from the table and drank off a long swallow. “I don’t care who her kin may be. I’m cursed glad now that I told Oth I’d camp with my men. This way I won’t have to face her with my breakfast.”

As soon as he decently could, Mirryn left the table with the excuse of making sure his men fared well. Gerran accompanied him out to the gates of the dun. Carrying a candle lantern, Salamander joined them. In a pool of dappled light they stood just out of the hearing of the night gatekeeper.