Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

“Otho?” Cullyn called. “Are you here?”

“I am,” a deep voice said from within. “Would I be leaving the door unlocked if I weren’t?”

The owner of the voice shoved aside the blanket and came out. He was the shortest man Jill had ever seen, just about five feet tall, but broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, like a miniature blacksmith. He had a thick shock of gray hair, a tidy gray beard, and piercing black eyes.

“Cullyn of Cerrmor, by the gods! Who’s this with you? Your son, from the look of him.”

“My daughter, in truth. And I want to buy her a trinket for her birthday.”

“A lass, are you?” Otho looked Jill over carefully. “Well, so you are, and one old enough to be thinking about her dowry at that. We’d best turn some of your Da’s coin into jewels, then, before he drinks the lot away.”

Otho led them into the workshop, a thick slice of the house. In the center, just under the smoke hole in the roof, were a hearth and a small forge. Off to one side stood a long low workbench, scattered with tools, wooden boxes, and a half-eaten meal of bread and smoked meat. Lying in the clutter were a handful of small rubies. Cullyn picked one up and held it so that it caught the light.

“Nice stones.”

“They are. But I’ll trouble you to not ask where I got them.”

With a grin Cullyn rolled the ruby back onto the bench. Otho perched on the stool and had a thoughtful bite of bread.

“Brooches, rings, bracelets?” he said with his mouth full. “Or does she want a jeweled coffer? Earrings, maybe?”

“None of those, truly. But a silver dagger.”

Jill laughed, a crow of victory, and threw her arms around him. With a sly smile Cullyn untangled himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Now, that’s a strange gift for a lass,” Otho said.

“Not for this little hellcat here. She’s badgered her old father here into teaching her swordcraft.”

Otho turned to Jill in surprise. The gray gnome popped into existence, squatting on the workbench, and laid one long warty finger on a ruby. Jill reached out and swatted it away, then realized from the way that Otho’s eyes were moving that he, too, could see it. With an injured look, the gnome vanished. Otho gave Jill a bland conspiratorial smile.

“Well, lass, no doubt, you’ll want the same falcon device as your Da.”

“By the asses of the gods, Otho,” Cullyn broke in. “It was fourteen years ago when you made me my dagger. You’ve got a cursed long memory.”

“I do. Memory serves a man well if he’ll only use it. Now, you’re in a bit of luck. I’ve got a dagger all made up, so all I have to do is grave the device on. A year or so ago, another silver dagger brought me a lad to pledge to your band. I got the dagger finished, but cursed if the lad didn’t go and ask questions about the fishing boats, and so he never lived to pay me for it. Luckily I’d never put on the device, or I’d have been out a good bit of coin.”

Late in the afternoon, Jill went back to the smith’s to get the finished dagger. She ran greedy hands over the hilt and a cautious finger down the blade. While an ordinary Deverry craftsman would have drawn a falcon as a circle for a head on top of a pair of triangles for wings, Otho’s work was a lifelike side view, detailed to give the illusion of feathers, and yet it was only an inch tall.

“This is truly beautiful,” Jill said.

The gnome materialized for a look. When Jill obligingly held the dagger up, Otho laughed under his breath.

“You’re a strange one, young Jill,” Otho said. “Seeing the Wildfolk as clear as day.”

“Oh, I’m strange, am I now? Good smith, you see them, too.”

“So I do, so I do, but why I do is my secret, and not for the telling. As. for you, lass, is there elven blood in your mother’s clan? You can tell by looking at him that there’s no such thing in Cullyn’s.”

“What? How could there be? Elves are only a children’s tale.”

“Oh, are they now? Well, the elves you hear about are a tale and no more, perhaps, but that’s because no one round here knows about the true elves. They’re called the Elcyion Lacar, they are, and if you ever meet one, don’t trust him a jot. Flighty, they are, all of that lot.”

Jill smiled politely, but she was sure that Otho must be daft. He put his chin on his hand and considered her.

“Tell me somewhat,” he said at last. “Does it suit you, riding with your father? Cullyn’s a cursed harsh man.”

“Not to me. Well, most of the time, not to me. But it’s splendid, getting to go everywhere and see everything.”

“And what’s going to happen when it’s time for you to marry?”

“I’ll never marry.”

Otho smiled in pronounced skepticism.

“Well, some women never marry,” Jill said. “They get a craft, like spinning or suchlike, and they open a shop.”

“True enough, and maybe you will find the right craft someday. Here, young Jill, I’ll tell you a riddle. If ever you find no one, ask him what craft to take.”

“Your pardons, but what—”

“Told you it was a riddle, didn’t I? Remember, if ever you find nev yn, he’ll tell you more. Now you’d best get back to your Da before he gives you a slap for dawdling.”

All the way back to the inn, Jill puzzled over Otho and his riddle both. Finally she decided that the riddle meant that no one could ever tell her what to do, because she’d do exactly what she wanted. Otho himself, however, was not so easily solved.

“Da?” she asked. “What sort of man is Otho?”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he doesn’t seem like an ordinary man.”

Cullyn shrugged in vague irritation.

“Well, it must be hard on a man, being born that short,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s what makes him so gruff and grasping. Just to begin with, what lass would ever have him?”

Jill supposed that his answer made sense, but still, she was left with the feeling that there was something very odd about Otho the silversmith.

That evening, the tavern room filled up fast with merchants who’d been to the fair and farmers having a last tankard before they went home. Although the room was hot from the fire in the hearth, and clouds of midges swarmed around the candle lanterns, Cullyn showed no inclination to leave after dinner. With coin in his pocket, he would drink all night, Jill knew, and she got ready to argue with him later to keep him from spending the lot. Eventually four riders in the local lord’s warband, wearing fox blazons on their shirts, came in to drink and chivy the serving lass. Jill kept a nervous eye on them. Three of them were laughing and talking, but the fourth stood on the edge of things. Since he looked no older than fifteen, doubtless he had yet to prove himself in battle or in a brawl. Jill hoped that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to challenge Cullyn, because he was a handsome lad in his way. All at once, she realized that he was boldly looking back at her. She grabbed her tankard of ale and buried her nose in it.

“Not so fast,” Cullyn snapped.

“My apologies, Da. Here, shall I fetch you another? The tavernman’s so busy he never looks our way.”

Jill got the ale from the tavernman and began making her way back, carefully keeping her eye on the foaming-full tankard. When she felt a touch on her shoulder, she looked up to find the young rider grinning at her.

“Hold a minute,” he said. “Can I ask you somewhat?”

“You can, but I might not answer.”

The other Fox riders gathered round and snickered. The lad blushed and went on in wavering determination.

“Uh, no insult, mind, but are you a lad or a lass?”

“A lass, but it’s nothing to you.”