Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Did you hear what I said?” Rhodry snapped.

“I did. My apologies. Uh, here, my love. I want to take the coast road. I know it’s longer, but—ah, well—there’s somewhat I want to ask Otho the Smith.”

“Very well, then. But do we have enough coin to take the longer way?”

“We would if you’d take that caravan job. They’re going to the coast.” She put her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into his eyes. “Please, my love?”

“I don’t want to.”

She stopped the grumble with a kiss.

“Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll go look up that merchant straightaway.”

After he left, she sipped her ale and wondered about the strange thought that had come into her mind of its own will. She also wondered why she’d given in to it, but that answer came easy: simple curiosity. If they hadn’t gone to Dun Mannannan, she would have been always wondering what would have been there.

Since the High King would have been furious to find his noble-born retainers meddling with Bardek opium, those few who’d acquired this dangerous taste never indulged it inside his dun. Down in the city of Dun Deverry itself was a luxurious inn, the top floor of which was reserved for noble patrons who needed a chamber for some private reason. Many a pretty lass from the town had lost her virtue in that inn, and many a pipeful of opium had tainted its air. For his second meeting with Lord Camdel, Master of the King’s Bath, Sarcyn had rented a chamber there.

Now the young lord was half sitting, half reclining against a pile of cushions on a Bardek-style divan and twirling an empty clay pipe between his long fingers. About twenty, Camdel was slenderly built, with a thick shock of brown hair, deep-set brown eyes, and the most arrogant smile Sarcyn had ever seen pasted upon a man’s face. During their first meeting he’d treated Sarcyn as a servant, snapping his fingers as he demanded drink or a better chair.

“His lordship seems to be the kind of ambitious young man we’ve been looking for,” Sarcyn said. “It could be quite profitable for you to join us.”

With a little nod Camdel looked up, his dilated eyes heavy-lidded.

“I wouldn’t mind being shed of Anghariad altogether,” Camdel said. “The stuff’s cursed dear.”

“Just so, and if you began marketing it yourself, you’d get a much better price from us. I’m sure I can trust you to be discreet, my lord.”

“Of course. My own neck’s in this noose, isn’t it?”

Sarcyn smiled, thinking the image all too apt.

“But before I agree to anything,” Camdel went on, “I insist on speaking to someone more important than a common courier.”

“Of course, Your Lordship. I was sent only to find out if his lordship would be interested. I assure you that the man who commands us will speak to you personally. He’ll reach Dun Deverry in another week.”

“Good. You may tell him that he may arrange a meeting here.”

Sarcyn inclined his head in a little gesture of humility. He’d been wondering how to get the lord together with Alastyr. How nice of Camdel’s arrogance to do the job for him!

It took the slow-moving caravan four days to reach Dun Mannannan, but at last the long line of men and mules straggled into the town’s central, open space that did service as a market square. After Rhodry got his hire, he and Jill led their horses down to the cheap little inn by the river where they’d stayed the fall before—only to find it burned out. A few black withes poked forlornly into the sky where once thatch had lain. A passing townswoman volunteered the information that a couple of the local lads had got into a bit of a fight, which had ended when a candle lantern got knocked into the straw on the floor.

“Oh, blast it,” Jill said. “Now we’ll have to camp by the road.”

“What?” Rhodry snapped. “There’s a perfectly good inn on the other side of town.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I don’t care, my miserly love. After camping in the midst of those stinking mules, I want a bath, and I’m going to have one.”

After a brief squabble she gave in and allowed him to lead the way to the other inn. A stout innkeep came bustling out to meet them as soon as they walked into the yard.

“No silver daggers in my inn!” he snarled.

Jill stepped smoothly between him and Rhodry.

“My good sir,” she said, “there’s nowhere else we can stay in town. Oh, please, don’t make us sleep out in the rain.”

“A lass, are you?”

“I am, and please, sir, can’t we sleep in your hayloft? That way we won’t trouble your other guests.”

“Ah, well, why not, then? A couple of coppers a night, say, and the feed for your horse.”

“Oh, gladly. And our thanks, truly.”

With a curt nod Rhodry’s way, the innkeep strode off and went inside.

“I’ll wager you’re pleased with yourself,” Rhodry said to Jill. “It’s disgusting, begging favors from scum like that.”

“Well, we have to sleep somewhere, don’t we? And the hayloft will save us a couple of coppers, too.”

“I should have known! Ye gods.”

Even Jill had to admit that, expensive drink or not, it was pleasant to sit in a tavern room that didn’t smell of moldy straw and unwashed dogs. They had a table to themselves, because when customers entered, they took one look at Rhodry, another at the pommel of his silver dagger, and sat elsewhere, a double insult when one considered that they were smugglers themselves.

In a few minutes, though, someone entered who seemed to be a traveler, judging from the suspicious way that the locals looked him over. He was dressed in a fine green cloak, gray brigga of the softest wool, and a shirt thick with embroidery; he tipped the innkeep’s lad a couple of coppers to bring in his gear, when one would have done. He also insisted that the innkeep show him the best chamber he had. As he followed the innkeep up the spiral staircase, Jill studied him curiously. Tall and slender, he had the pale hair and handsome features of someone with more than a touch of elven blood in his veins. He also looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen him. The innkeep’s lad noticed her interest and hurried over.

“That fellow’s name is Salamander,” he said. “And he’s a gerthddyn.”

“Is he, now? Well, then, we’ll have a splendid time listening to his tales later.”

Jill supposed that at some point on the long road, she’d seen him perform somewhere. Later, however, he came back downstairs, paused, and looked at Rhodry with a small puzzled frown, as if he were thinking that he should know this silver dagger. Seeing the pair of them in profile made her realize the truth: the gerthddyn looked enough like her man to be his brother. At that point she remembered the strange thought that had driven her to Dun Mannannan, and she shivered.

“Here, good sir,” she called out. “Come join us if you’d like. A gerthddyn’s always welcome to a tankard.”

“My thanks, fair lady.” Salamander bowed to her. “But allow me to stand you a round.”

Once the ale was fetched and paid for, Salamander settled in companionably at their table. He and Rhodry considered each other for a moment, both puzzled. They only looked in a mirror once a day when they shaved, after all, and bronze mirrors never showed a man a good picture of himself.

“Here,” Rhodry said, “have we met before?”

“I was just wondering the same myself, silver dagger.”

“Were you ever in Aberwyn?”

“Oh, many a time. Do you hail from there?”

“I do, so maybe I watched you tell a tale in the marketplace. My name’s Rhodry, and this is Gilyan.”

Salamander laughed and saluted him with his tankard.