Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“The Chattering Magpie would be even better. Ye gods, it’s hard to believe that the lad has the true dweomer.”

“Well, what do you expect from the son of an elven bard? But our Ebañy has his uses, wild lad or not.”

Nevyn’s image winked out. His hands clasped behind his back, Elaeno paced back and forth. If Nevyn was afraid of spies, the situation must be grave indeed. He felt angry, as he always did at the thought of the dark dweomer. It would be very satisfying to get his massive hands around the neck of a foul master one fine day, but of course, it was better to fight them with subtler weapons.

It was just three days later that Sarcyn was loitering outside a tavern just on the edge of the Bilge. With his aura wrapped tight around him, he leaned against the building and waited for the courier. He never told any of the various men who smuggled drugs and poisons into Deverry where he was actually staying in Cerrmor; they knew to find him here, and he would lead them to a safe place for their transaction. In some minutes he saw Dryn’s stout figure coming along the narrow street. Sarcyn was just about to release his aura and reveal himself when six city wardens appeared from an alley and surrounded the merchant.

“Hold!” one barked. “In the gwerbret’s name!”

“What’s all this, good warden?” Dryn tried to muster a smile.

“You’ll find out back in the wardroom.”

Sarcyn waited to hear no more. He slipped back around the tavern, then walked fast through the maze of the Bilge. Down alleyways, between buildings, in the front door of Gwenca’s and out the back, his route twisted and turned until at last he was through the Bilge on the north side and heading back to his inn. He had no doubt that Dryn would spill everything he knew in an attempt to save his own skin.

But long before the wardens had beaten Sarcyn’s name and description out of the merchant, Sarcyn was riding out the city gates and heading north to safety.

In his chamber of justice, Gwerbret Ladoic was holding full malover. At a polished ebony table he sat under the ship banner to his rhan, while the gold ceremonial sword lay in front of him. To either side sat priests of Bel. The witness stood to the right, Lord Merryn, three city wardens, Nevyn, and Elaeno. Before him knelt the accused, the spice merchant Dryn, and Edycl, captain of the merchantman Bright Star. The gwerbret leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he thought over the testimony that had been laid before him. At thirty, Ladoic was an imposing man, tall and muscled, with steely gray eyes and the high cheekbones common to southern men.

“The evidence is clear enough,” he said. “Dryn, you approached the herbman and offered to sell him some forbidden merchandise. Fortunately, Nevyn is an honorable man and consulted with Elaeno, who immediately contacted the chief customs officer.”

“I didn’t approach the cursed old man, Your Grace,” Dryn snarled. “He’s the one who made hints to me.”

“A likely tale, indeed, and it wouldn’t matter if it were true. Can you possibly deny that the city wardens found four different kinds of poison on your person when you were arrested?”

Dryn slumped and stared miserably at the floor.

“As for you, Edycl”—the gwerbret turned cold eyes his way—“it’s all very well to claim that Dryn shipped the foul herbs without your knowledge, but why did the customs men find a cache of opium in the walls of your personal cabin?”

Edycl trembled all over, and sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I’ll confess, Your Grace. You don’t need to put me to the torture, Your Grace. It was the coin. He offered me so much cursed coin, and the ship needed repairs, and I—”

“That’s enough.” Ladoic turned to the priest. “Your Holiness?”

The aged priest rose and cleared his throat, then stared into space as he recited from the laws.

“Poisons are an abomination to the gods. Why? Because they can only be used for murder, never in self-defense, and so no man would want them unless there was murder in his heart. Therefore, let none of these foul substances be found in our lands. From the Edicts of King Cynan, 1048.” He cleared his throat again. “What is the fit punishment for the smuggler of poisons? None fitter than that he eat some of his own foul goods. The ruling of Mabyn, high priest in Dun Deverry.”

As the priest sat down, Dryn wept, a silent trickle of tears. Nevyn felt sorry for him; he wasn’t an evil man, merely a greedy one who’d been corrupted by the truly evil. The matter, however, was now out of his hands. Ladoic took the golden sword and held it point upright.

“The laws have spoken. Dryn, as an act of mercy, you will be allowed to pick the least painful poison from your stock. As for you, Edycl, I have been informed that you have four young children and that, indeed, poverty did drive you to this trade. You will be given twenty lashes in the public square.”

Dryn raised his head, then broke, sobbing aloud, throwing himself from side to side as if he already felt the poison gnawing at him. A guard stepped forward, slapped him into silence, then hauled him to his feet. Ladoic rose and knocked the pommel of the sword onto the table.

“The gwerbret has spoken. The malover has ended.”

Although the guards dragged Dryn away, they left Edycl crouched at the gwerbret’s feet. Quickly the hall cleared until only Nevyn and Elaeno remained with the lord and the prisoner. Ladoic looked down on Edycl as if he were contemplating a bit of filth on the streets.

“Twenty lashes can kill a man,” he remarked in a conversational tone of voice. “But if you tell these gentlemen what they want to hear, I’ll reduce your sentence to ten.”

“My thanks, Your Grace, oh, ye gods, my thanks. I’ll tell them anything I can.”

“Last year you wintered in Orystinna,” Elaeno said. “After making a very late crossing. Why?”

“Well, now, that was a cursed strange thing.” Edycl frowned in thought. “It truly was late, and I was thinking about putting the Star in dry dock, when this Bardek man approaches me and says that a friend of his, a very rich man, had to reach Myleton before winter. He offered me a cursed lot of coin to take them over, enough to turn a big profit even with the expense of wintering in Bardek, so I took them on. I wintered in Orystinna because it’s cheaper than Myleton.”

“I see. What were these men like?”

“Well, the one who hired me was your typical Myleton man, on the pale side, and his face paint marked him for a member of House Onodanna. The other fellow was a Deverry man. Called himself Procyr, but I doubt me if that was his real name. There was somewhat about him that creeped my flesh, but cursed if I know why, because he was well-spoken and no trouble. He stayed in his cabin mostly, because it was a rough crossing, and I’ll wager that he was as sick as a pig the whole way across.”

“What did this Procyr look like?” Nevyn broke in.

“Well, good sir, I’m not cursed sure. It’s cold out to sea that time of year, and whenever he was on deck, he was muffled up in a hooded cloak. But he was about fifty, I’d say, a solid sort of man, gray hair, thinnish sort of mouth, blue eyes. But I remember his voice well. It was oily, like, and too soft for a man. It creeped my flesh.”

“No doubt,” Nevyn muttered. “Well, there you are, Your Grace. Elaeno and I are as sure as we can be that this man Edycl described is very important to the drug trade.”

“Then I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Ladoic said. “Or perhaps, considering his voice, keep my ears out.”

The supposed Procyr was, of course, likely to be more than merely a drug courier. Nevyn was fairly sure that he must have been the dark dweomerman who started Loddlaen’s war the summer before and who seemed to be determined to kill Rhodry. As he thought it over, he wondered why for perhaps the thousandth time.