Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

“Who are you?” said a deep male voice.

  “The silver dagger who was asking for Ogwern. He’ll be cheating himself out of coin if he won’t speak to me.”

  With a laugh the questioner swung the door open. He was enormously fat, his belly swelling out of his shirt, his jowls hanging around his bull’s throat.

  “I like your gall. I’m Ogwern. Come in.”

  The half-round tavern room reeked of old straw and wood smoke, and it sported four battered and unsteady tables. At Jill’s insistence they sat down where she could keep her back to the wall. An innkeep, as pale and skinny as Ogwern was fat, brought them tankards of surprisingly good ale, which Jill paid for.

  “So then, fair lady,” Ogwern said. “For fair you are, though, truly, you can’t be a lady if you know the long road. What brings you to me?”

  “A simple matter. Probably you know that I rode a message for his grace from the Cwm Pecl pass.”

  “Oh, I do hear what tidbits are worth knowing.”

  “Well and good, then. I rode into town on a horse belonging to one of the gwerbret’s vassals, but my own mount is coming along behind with a caravan that I was guarding. He’s a valuable horse, and I don’t want him stolen. I was thinking that a bit of coin in the right place would keep him nice and safe.”

  “Naught could be simpler, and you have indeed come to the right place. What kind of horse is it?”

  “A Western Hunter, a gelding, and he’s gold.”

  “Battle trained?”

  “He is.”

  Ogwern considered, waggling one fat hand in the air.

  “Well, if it was a stud, it would cost you ten silvers,” he said at last. “But for a gelding, we’ll say eight.”

  “What? Ye gods! Highway robbery!”

  “Kindly don’t use such nasty terms. They trouble my fat but precious heart. Seven, then.”

  “Three and not a copper more.”

  “Six. Let me remind you that there’s a considerable market for such a valuable animal.”

  “Five—two now and three when we leave town safely.”

  “Four if you hand it over now. I swear to you that my men take my orders.”

  “Hah.”

  “They have to. What do you think this is, silver dagger? The king’s own city or suchlike, all teeming with folk and custom? Not likely by half. I know everything that goes on, and besides, there’s not a lot of us. A small band, but all handpicked and trusty. Well, er, perhaps not. Actually, it’s mostly me and my blood kin.”

  “Well and good, then, and I’ll stand you another tankard to seal the bargain.”

  While Jill paid over the protection money, Ogwern considered her with shrewd brown eyes.

  “Let me give you a bit of a tip,” he said, pocketing the coin. “Our most piously and despicably honest gwerbret’s set up a squad of town wardens, a patrol of six at all times, prowling the streets with naught better to do than to stick their snotty noses into other men’s affairs.”

  “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell!” She feigned disgust. “And do they patrol at night?”

  “They do. Revolting, I calls it. Ah, Blaen’s father was a splendid man—easygoing, much distracted with war, and rather stupid, just as a noble lord should be. Blaen, alas, takes after his clever mother, and life has been grim since he inherited the rhan.”

  “A true pity, though I’ll admit to being pleased that he does his best to wipe out bandits.”

  “True. Cursed louts, I hate them! I sincerely hope that you killed a few when they attacked that caravan of yours.”

  “Now, here, you sound like one of the gwerbret’s men.”

  “Kindly don’t be rude.” Ogwern laid a plump hand on the mound of flesh approximately over his heart. “Bandits are bloodthirsty dolts, cluttering up the roads and forcing honest men to hire guards. Why, if it weren’t for them, a true thief could go sneaking up on a caravan for a bit of real sport. Besides, they won’t pay me taxes.”

  “Oho! So that’s the true thorn in your side, is it?”

  Ogwern snorted in feigned hurt, then went on studying her. Jill began to realize that there was something that he wanted out of her as much as she wanted something out of him.

  “Just an idle wondering,” he said at last. “I heard, of course, that the caravan was coming from Yr Auddglyn. I don’t suppose you were in Marcmwr.”

  “I spent a couple of days there. Why?”

  For a moment he frowned into his tankard.

  “Well, here,” he said at last, “I don’t suppose a silver dagger would have any interest in stealing jewels.”

  Jill’s heart thumped once in excitement.

  “Not in the least,” she said. “I know we’re all cousins to thieves, but that’s not the same as being a brother.”

  “Just so. I heard a bit of interesting news from down Deverry way, you see. A certain fellow was supposed to be riding up into Yr Auddglyn with a cursed large packet of stolen jewelry. He sounds like an utter dolt, by the way. Here he is, trying to pass himself off as a merchant, but his horse has a saddle and bridle fit for a gwerbret—a warrior’s saddle at that.”

  Jill did her best to look only mildly interested.

  “Now, if the stones are still in Yr Auddglyn,” Ogwern went on, somewhat meditatively, “it’s none of my affair. But some of the lads there were trying to find this so-called merchant, of course, to relieve him of the weight he was carrying. They tracked him to the Aver Lit, and poof! There he vanished. Just like sorcery!”

  “Aha, and so you’re wondering if perhaps he’s come into your territory. He must have been carrying some valuable things indeed if every thief in the kingdom was keeping track of him.”

  “Very valuable. They say the stones belonged to the king himself.”

  “Now, here, how could anyone steal from the king?”

  “A good question, silver dagger, a very good question indeed. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard. But one of these gems is a ruby as big as your thumbnail. Do you know what a gem like that would be worth? And then there’s supposed to be an opal the size of a walnut. Now, usually an opal’s not worth as much as other gems, but one that size is rare enough to cost a fortune.”

  “No doubt. I did hear someone talking about a sapphire ring when I was in Marcmwr. Do you think it’s part of the same hoard?”

  “Could well be.” Ogwern’s eyes gleamed bright from folds of flesh. “What did you hear?”

  “Well, it was supposed to be cursed.” Jill was thinking fast, trying to put talk of dweomer-stones into terms he could understand. “It sent thoughts to your mind, they said. And there was something about the way it looked—ah, I remember. Sometimes it looked really dull, like a bit of rock, and then other times it would be all shiny.”

  “Now, listen, never mock cursed gems. I’ve handled many a stone in my fat but precious life, and you’d be surprised at the kind of power some of them have. A truly fine gem has a life of its own. Why do you think men covet them so much?” He paused, drumming his fingertips on the table. “A cursed gem, huh? That might explain somewhat. A couple of lads down in Deverry did make a try on this fellow, but they both came to bad ends doing it. One fell to his death from a high window, trying to climb in, just like someone pushed him, said his partner. I don’t know what happened to the other.”

  “The bad Wildfolk tripped him and sent him into a river.” Jill nearly yelped aloud.

  “Is somewhat wrong?” Ogwern said sharply. “You look pale.”

  “Oh, naught, naught. I’m still tired from my long ride.”

  By then the tavern was filling up. A few at a time, nondescript young men slipped in the door, got tankards of ale, and stood together quietly in the shadows. Most of them, judging from the reek of tallow and tanning hides, were honest enough apprentices, having a tankard while their masters’ wives called them to dinner. Others, however, watched with great interest while, at the hearth, the skinny innkeep slipped roast chickens off a spit.

  “Stay a
nd have dinner,” Ogwern said to Jill. “The food here is a blasted sight better than at the Running Fox. The kitchen lass there has been known to pick her nose while stirring the stew.”

  The food was indeed a good bit better than Jill would have guessed. The innkeep brought her a trencher with half a bird and some fresh bread, and one for Ogwern with a whole fowl and a loaf. After some while the warty young man whom Jill had caught slipped in. Ogwern waved him over with an imperious flick of a chicken leg.

  “Jill, this is my son, indeed my only child, alas, alack, and suchlike.” He turned to the lad. “Bocc, this is Jill. I trust there’s no ill will between you?”

  “None on my part,” Jill said.

  “And none on mine.” Bocc made her a small bow.

  Jill considered him carefully. Although he was as lean as his father was fat, she could see the resemblance, particularly in the shape of their tiny eyes and the tilt of their noses. Bocc leaned over and helped himself to a chunk of Ogwern’s chicken.

  “Here, Jill,” Bocc said. “Since you’ve been over in Yr Auddglyn—”

  “We’ve been discussing that,” Ogwern broke in. “She—”

  Someone knocked loud and hard on the door. As the innkeep hurried over, some of the lads moved closer to the windows. The innkeep peered out and shook his head. Everyone relaxed.

  “It’s not the wardens, you see,” Ogwern whispered to Jill.

  The innkeep stepped back, admitting a tall, broad-shouldered man in plain gray brigga and a sweat-stained shirt, pulled in by a heavy sword belt with an expensive-looking scabbard and sword. The easy, controlled way he moved told her that he knew how to swing his blade, too. When he strode over to Ogwern’s table, Bocc hastily moved out of his way. Jill could understand his reaction. She’d never seen eyes like this blond stranger’s before, ice-blue, utterly cold, utterly driven, as if he’d looked on so many sickening things that there was naught left to him but to see the world with contempt. Hardly thinking, she laid her hand on her sword hilt. When the stranger caught the gesture, he smiled, a thin twitch of his lips.

  “Er, good eve,” Ogwern said. “I take it you wish to speak to me?”

  “Perhaps. It depends on what this silver dagger has to say.”

  His voice was not particularly unpleasant, merely cold and dry, but Jill shivered when he turned to her.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, good sir,” she said.

  “We haven’t. But I understand you’re carrying a stolen jewel. I’ll pay you for it in gold.”

  Jill was aware of Ogwern watching in amused surprise, as if thinking she’d duped him earlier.

  “You’re wrong,” Jill said. “I don’t have any jewels for sale. What do you think I have?”

  “An opal. A rather big opal. I know you thieves haggle, but I promise you I’ll pay a good bit more than any midnight jeweler. It’s in that pouch around your neck. Get it out.”

  “If I had this opal, I’d sell it to you.” Jill felt another force put words in her mouth. “But the only piece of jewelry I have is a ring brooch.”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. Jill brought out the pouch, opened it, and took out—a ring brooch, just as she’d known would be there, a rather plain brass one, at that, set with glass for want of gems, but strangely light in weight for its size.

  “Don’t trifle with me, lass,” the stranger snarled.

  “I swear to you, this is the only piece of jewelry I own.”

  The stranger leaned onto the table and stared directly into her eyes. His glance pierced her in a way that reminded her of Nevyn, as if he were boring into her very soul.

  “Is that truly the only piece of jewelry you own?”

  “It is.” She found it very hard to speak. “It’s the only piece I have.”

  His eyes seemed to darken, and she felt then that he was trying to go even deeper into her soul. With a wrench of will she broke away, tossing her head and taking up her tankard, ready to heave it at him if he tried tricks on her again. The stranger set his hands on his hips and looked around, honestly baffled.

  “Now, what is all this?” Ogwern snapped. “Jill’s telling you the truth.”

  “I know that, hog fat! Do you have the stone? Do you know where it is?”

  “What stone?” Ogwern laid down his chicken leg and wiped his hands on his shirt. Jill saw the little gleam that meant he’d palmed a dagger. “Now, here, you can’t come blustering into an honest inn like this. Kindly state your business, and we’ll see if we can help you.”

  The stranger hesitated, spitting Ogwern with his glance.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “I’m in the market for a particular opal, as big as a walnut but perfectly polished. Now don’t try to tell me you haven’t heard of it. These things spread around.”

  “So they do, and I won’t lie to you. The last I heard, it was in Yr Auddglyn. If it was anywhere in Cwm Pecl, I’d know, and it’s not. I wouldn’t mind having a look at it myself.”

  Again the stranger hesitated, glancing round him with his driven eyes. For all that he was keeping himself tightly under control, Jill could feel the trace of fear in him, feel it so clearly that she knew he’d made some kind of bond between them when he’d stared into her eyes. She felt as revolted as if she’d reached into a nest of spiders.

  “Now, listen, you,” he said to Ogwern. “It has to be on its way to Dun Hiraedd. When it comes through, you get your fat paws on it, and you sell it to me. I’ll pay you well, but I’m the man who gets it, or you die. Do you understand?”

  “My good sir! All I’d want from it would be the profit, and since that’s what you offer me, you’ll have it for sure. No need to threaten.”

  “You might well be approached by someone else. Understand? Sell it to anyone but me, and I’ll cut you open and trim out some of that lard while you beg me to let you die.”

  The calm way he spoke made it clear the threat was no idle one. His jowls trembling in terror, Ogwern nodded agreement.

  “I’ll return every now and then to see if you have it. Save it for me. It should be soon.”

  The stranger contemptuously turned his back and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Bocc tried to speak, but only gulped.

  “By all the hells,” Ogwern whispered. “Did I truly see that?”

  “I’m afraid you did,” Jill said. “I hope he’s not staying at the Running Fox. I don’t want to go back only to find him in the tavern room.”

  “We’ll find that out easily enough. Bocc, take a couple of the lads. Don’t risk following the bastard; just ask around.”

  “Someone must have seen him,” Bocc said. “I’ll wager he stands out in a crowd.”

  With a couple of friends, Bocc left by the back window. Ogwern sighed and contemplated the remains of the fowl.

  “I’ve quite lost my appetite,” he said. “Do you fancy a bit of this, Jill?”

  “None, my thanks. It’s a marvel and a half if you’re not hungry.”

  “Kindly don’t be rude.” He laid his hand over his injured heart and sheathed his dagger with the same gesture. “A man can take only so many insults. Lard? Hah!”

  It was over an hour before a more than usually furtive Bocc returned. His face was quite pale as he told Ogwern that search as they might, he and the lads had found no trace of the stranger.

  “Are you daft?” Ogwern sputtered. “Dun Hiraedd’s not very big.”

  “I know, but he isn’t here, and no one ever saw him come in or nothing. And here’s the cursed strangest thing. We caught one glimpse of him, walking toward the city wall. Then he turned down an alley and just seemed to melt away somehow. Da, I swear it! He just disappeared.”

  “Oh, by the pink asses of the gods,” Ogwern said feebly. “Let us pray that this jewel turns up soon so we can take his wretched gold and be done with him.”

  Soon after, Jill went back to her inn. She walked quickly, keeping close to buildings and looking constantly around her, pausing at the door to make s
ure that the stranger wasn’t waiting for her before she went inside. Once she was up in her chamber, she barred door and shutters alike from the inside. Although she slept with her sword beside her on the floor, nothing disturbed her but her dreams, which were full of severed heads, dark caves, and the eyes of the stranger, glaring at her.

  Rhodry passed that same day in a fury of impatience. There was Jill, off alone and in danger, and here was he, honor bound to play nursemaid to a wounded merchant and his stinking mules. Since he’d given his word to Seryl that he’d escort them to the city, he saw no alternative but to stay with him until he was fit to ride. Toward noon the wounded bandit died. Rhodry helped bury him just to have something to pass his time. Finally, about an hour before sunset, the patrol returned.

  “We followed them toward Yr Auddglyn,” the captain said. “I can’t go over the border without authorization, so we’ll have to wait until his grace gets a message to us.”

  “Then by every god in the Otherlands, I cursed well hope it gets here soon.”

  The message arrived more quickly than anyone expected. Just as the patrol was sitting down to dinner, Comyn led in fifty men with as many spare horses. In the confusion it was easy for Rhodry to slip away. The last thing he wanted was for Comyn to recognize him. For want of a better hiding place, he went into the kitchen hut, where the frantic servants were too busy getting fifty unexpected meals to notice him standing in the curve of the wall by the hearth. The fire blazed up hot as a servant stuck a spit full of pork chunks on to roast, and grease dripped down.

  Rhodry watched the dancing flames and cursed his wretched Wyrd. Here he was, hiding from a man he respected and who once had honored him. The golden play of flames seemed to mock him as they flickered this way and that, flaring up only to die in an instant, just as a man’s honor and glory could do. The glowing coals seemed to form pictures, as if in them he could see Aberwyn and his beloved Dun Cannobaen. As if he could see Nevyn. Rhodry suddenly felt a cold shiver down his back. He could see Nevyn, or rather a clear image of the old man’s face, floating above the fire. A thought came to his mind, the sound of the old man’s voice.

  “You’re not going daft, lad. I truly am talking to you. Think your answers back to me.”