Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  “I do.”

  “Well, he walks into the trees and disappears. I mean, he truly disappears! He walks into the trees, you see, and I wait. And wait and wait. I never see him come out, and birch thickets aren’t dense like hazels or somewhat, you know. So finally I walk into the thicket, and he’s not there.”

  “Now, here! You’re letting your nerves get out of hand. You must have just missed seeing him leave.”

  “Would I have the position I do if I couldn’t even see a man in broad daylight? And don’t tell me I’m getting old. That would be very rude.”

  Jill shuddered in cold fear. He has to be dweomer, she thought. She knew how dangerous dweomer could be in the hands of a madman; now she was faced with a man coldly using it for evil ends.

  “I want to offer you a hire,” Ogwern went on. “Guarding precious me. A dagger won’t be much good against this fellow, and if I have a sword at my side, that sword had better be in someone else’s hand if it’s going to do me any good. A silver piece a night, silver dagger.”

  “I’m on, then. He might have eyes like the Lord of Hell, but I wager he bleeds like any other man.”

  “Let us profoundly hope that we don’t have him bleeding all over my floor. Ugh! How I hate all these nasty threats.”

  A rainy sundown caught Rhodry a good twenty miles from Dun Hiraedd. Mindful of Nevyn’s warning about traveling at night, he offered a farmer a couple of coppers for the right to sleep out in the cow barn. For two coppers more the farmer’s wife threw in a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. Rhodry accepted them gratefully and ate with the family at a long plank table before the hearth. The gray straw on the floor smelled of pigs, and the farmers ate with dirty hands, saying not a word to each other or to Rhodry until the last crumb was washed down with watery ale, but much to his surprise, Rhodry was glad of their company. When he was finished eating, he lingered awhile, idly listening to the talk of the next day’s hard work, staring into the fire while he both hoped for and feared another message from Nevyn. None came.

  All at once the dogs leaped up from the straw and charged through the open door in a barking, snarling pack. The farmer glanced at Rhodry’s sword.

  “You’re a good bit more welcome than I thought. Come outside with me, silver dagger?”

  “Gladly.”

  The farmer grabbed a pitchy torch, shoved it briefly into the fire to light it, then hurried out with Rhodry right behind, his sword in hand. Down at the gate in the earthen wall, the dogs were barking furiously at a man standing outside. He was leading a horse, and Rhodry noticed that he was wearing a sword. When the farmer swore at the dogs, they stopped barking, but they snarled and growled with bared teeth at the stranger the entire time he remained. No amount of kicks or curses could silence them.

  “What’s all this?” the farmer said.

  “Naught that concerns you, my good man,” the stranger said with an unpleasant smile. “I just want a word with this silver dagger.”

  Rhodry felt a little coldness in his stomach. How had this fellow known where he was? The stranger looked him over with a twisted intensity. All at once Rhodry realized that the fellow was sexually interested in him; he’d probably smiled like that himself at many a pretty lass. He was so revolted that he stepped back.

  “I’m looking for a stolen gem,” the stranger said. “I had a tip from someone in Marcmwr that you might be carrying it.”

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “Of course not, but if you’ve got this opal, I’ll give you a gold piece for it. That’s more than you can get from any midnight jeweler.”

  “I’m not carrying any gems.”

  The stranger leaned forward and stared him full in the face. For a moment Rhodry felt as muddled as if he’d had too much mead.

  “You’re not carrying any gems?”

  “I’m not.”

  With a brisk nod the stranger stepped back and released him.

  “So you’re not,” he said. “My thanks.”

  Before Rhodry could say another word, he mounted and rode away. The dogs snarled until he was well out of sight. With a shake of his head Rhodry turned from the gate and saw, as clearly as he saw the dogs, two tiny creatures, one yellow and fat, the other gray and bony, staring at him. While he gaped at them, they smiled and disappeared.

  Sarcyn had found a big wooden shed, doubtless built for the various cowherds who wandered with their stock. Although it stank, it was dry and had a little hearth in one wall. He stabled his horse at one end, then built himself a fire. When he thought of Alastyr, the master’s face appeared instantly. Apparently he’d been sticking close to his own fire and waiting for the news.

  “He doesn’t have it,” Sarcyn thought to him.

  “I was afraid of that.” Even Alastyr’s thoughts sounded weary. “Well, I’ll have to force the spirits to scry it out. If the lass has it, you’ll have to go back into town.”

  “Just so. I won’t be able to reach it tonight.”

  “Of course not. Tomorrow will do.”

  Alastyr’s image vanished. Sarcyn started to rise, then saw, just for the briefest of moments, another face staring out of the flames—a dark face, narrow-eyed. With an oath he scrambled up, dodging away from the fire before the eyes could see where he was sheltering.

  Jill and Ogwern stayed at the Red Dragon through the evening meal. While he worked his way through a huge bowl of stew, Jill picked at her food and considered contacting the town wardens. Yet what could she do? Go running to the gwerbret with chatter about cursed gems and evil dweomermen? Blaen would probably have her arrested for public drunkenness if she tried. After they ate, Jill and Bocc fetched her gear from the Running Fox, then went to Ogwern’s lodgings, a pair of small rooms above the inn. In one was a bed; in the other, a wooden chest, a small table, and two benches. Jill dropped her bedroll on the floor and sat upon it, but Ogwern paced about, lighting tin candle lanterns, waddling over to the window to peer out the crack between the shutters, then waddling back to the hearth with a heavy sigh.

  “Oh, come now,” Jill said at last. “Do you think our nasty friend is going to drop out of thin air into the middle of your bed?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” Ogwern lowered his bulk to a bench with one last sigh. “I’m very upset. If I liked this sort of thing, I’d have been a silver dagger myself.”

  “It might have kept you leaner.”

  “Kindly don’t be rude. A man can only take so many insults. Sausages, indeed! The gall of—” He paused, listening.

  Someone was coming up the stairs with a heavy tread. Jill loosened her sword in her scabbard as she got up. The someone pounded on the door, paused, then pounded again.

  “I know you’re in there.” It was a different voice from what they’d been expecting. “Come along, my good man. Open it. It could profit you.”

  Jill and Ogwern exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “Who are you?” Ogwern snapped. “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk with you—on a matter of business.”

  With a shrug Ogwern unbarred the door and opened it a bare crack. Jill heard a grunt as their visitor smashed into it and shoved the enormous innkeep out of his way, then slipped in and slammed the door behind him. He was a tall man but slender, and his dark eyes seemed strangely merry. He smiled, too, a flick of full lips in his swarthy face. He wore an ordinary sort of shirt over his brigga, and it seemed he carried no weapons—but something about the way he stood, his hands half-raised to either side of his waist, made Jill suspect he was well-enough armed under the cloth. She stepped back, half-hidden by shadow, to keep a better watch on his hands.

  “You’re a long way from Bardek, my good sir,” Ogwern said.

  “I am, at that. I’m looking for a particular gem.”

  Ogwern groaned and waved both hands in the air.

  “You and half the men in the kingdom, or so it seems. That beastly opal, I suppose you mean.”

  “Just that. So you’ve been app
roached?”

  “What’s it to you, good sir?”

  The fellow laughed—more of a giggle, really—and flicked one hand. All at once he was holding a long knife with a thin blade, fashioned with a pair of curves in it, so that pulling it out of a wound would cause more damage than the original stick. Ogwern gulped and took a step back.

  “There’s been no sign of the opal, none.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Ogwern squeaked and glanced Jill’s way. The stranger looked right at her, then shrugged, utterly ignoring the fact that she was armed. For a moment Jill stood frozen by sheer disbelief, but the stranger took a step toward Ogwern and grabbed for his shirt, his knife at the ready. Jill drew, dropping to a fighting crouch.

  “Ogwern! Call the town watch!”

  Jill swung up, a flick of her wrist meant to slap the knife from his hand, but with a yelp of honest surprise the stranger danced back. Like dweomer a second knife appeared, the same style as the first, in his left hand. Ogwern ran to the window and threw open the shutters. At the sound the stranger lunged at Jill, then danced to one side, slashing with the knife. When she caught the blade on her sword, he gasped in surprise, but he was strong enough to use his long knife as a parry weapon. With a sweep of his arm he forced her blade down and stabbed in again with a thrust of a long arm.

  Jill leaped back just as Ogwern began to scream, “Help! Murder!” at the top of his lungs. Like a trapped animal, the stranger charged. He was no clumsy bandit, but her equal, and he fought in a way she’d never seen before, using the knives alternately to slash and parry. Jill was fighting for her life, the steel ringing, blade on blade, as they danced and dodged around the tiny chamber.

  Footsteps came pounding up the stairs. “Open in the gwerbret’s name!”

  The stranger made a desperate strike, but for one brief moment his concentration broke. Jill dodged in and cut him hard on the right shoulder, then swung back and up, catching one blade and sailing that knife out of his limp hand. With a yelp the stranger threw himself back against the wall. Jill knocked his second knife free on her back swing just as six wardens, tabarded in red and gold, threw open the door and shoved their way into the room.

  “Ah, by the gods, good Cinvan,” Ogwern said. “Never has an honest citizen been gladder to see you than I am.”

  “Indeed?” The leader, a stout man with graying dark hair, allowed himself a contemptuous smile. “What is all this? Here, it’s that wretched silver dagger who’s a lass!”

  “So I am, and I beg you, take us to the gwerbret straightaway.”

  “You needn’t worry on that account,” Cinvan said.

  Panting for breath, the stranger leaned against the wall. He laid his left hand over the wound and pressed hard, trying to stanch the blood running down his arm. When he glanced Jill’s way, his eyes burned with rage.

  “Stanch that man’s wound,” Cinvan barked. “And disarm the silver dagger, too.”

  Jill handed over her sword and dagger to one warden while another started looking around Ogwern’s chamber for a rag. The stranger never took his eyes from her face. All at once he smiled, as if he’d made some decision. He took his hand away from his wound, dragged it across his shirt as if to wipe it, then raised it to his mouth.

  “Stop him!” Jill lunged forward.

  Too late—he’d swallowed whatever poison it was. Rigid in a half circle he fell back, slammed his head against the wall, then twisted, still tight as a strung bow, and fell to the floor. His heels drummed on the wood; then he lay still, a trickle of bitter-smelling gray foam running from his mouth.

  “By all the gods!” Cinvan whispered.

  Gouts of sweat running into his jowls, Ogwern lumbered into the bedchamber. They all heard him retching into a chamber pot and let him be. The youngest warden looked as if he wished he could do the same.

  “Come along, lads,” Cinvan said, a trifle too loudly. “Two of you carry his body. We’ll hustle our innkeep here along to see his grace.”

  “By your leave!” Ogwern returned in trembling indignation. “Is this how an honest citizen gets treated when he’s nobly called the gwerbret’s wardens?”

  “Hold your tongue,” Jill hissed. “For your own sake, Ogwern, you’d best pray that his grace can come to the bottom of this little matter.”

  Ogwern looked at her, shuddered, then nodded agreement. Jill felt sick. What had he been afraid of, that he would smile when he made up his mind to die?

  It was a grisly little procession that filed into the torch-lit guard room behind Blaen’s broch. While Cinvan went to fetch the gwerbret, his men dumped the still-rigid corpse onto a table and made Jill and Ogwern kneel nearby. In a few minutes Blaen strolled in, a goblet of mead in hand. He glanced at the corpse, had a good swallow of the drink, then listened while Cinvan made his report.

  “Very well,” Blaen said when he’d done. “Now, silver dagger, what were you doing in the midst of this?”

  “Working a hire and naught else, Your Grace.” Jill hesitated; for all that she respected Blaen, as a silver dagger her loyalties lay closer to the local thieves than to this living symbol of the laws. “Ogwern told me that someone had been threatening his life, and he offered me a silver piece to guard him.”

  “And why was he threatening you?” Blaen turned to Ogwern.

  “Ah, well, Your Grace.” Ogwern wiped his sweaty face on his capacious sleeve. “You see, the original threats came from another man, not this one. I own part of the Red Dragon Inn, and this fellow swore I’d cheated him in the tavern room. So I hired Jill, and lo and behold, this perfect stranger”—he waved one hand at the corpse—“came barging into my chambers saying he’d come to settle the matter of the debt.”

  As well he might have, Blaen looked puzzled by this ambiguous little tale.

  “The same debt?” the gwerbret said at last.

  “I suppose so, Your Grace,” Ogwern said. “I can only assume that this fellow was a friend of the man who swore I cheated him.”

  “Hah!” Cinvan snorted. “Robbed him, more like.”

  “My good sir!” Ogwern gave him a wounded look. “If he thought he’d been robbed, he would have come to you.”

  “True spoken,” Blaen said. “Now, here, you mean the man who had the complaint against you is still at large somewhere?”

  “Just that, Your Grace, and truly, I still fear for my fat but precious self. I have witnesses to the threats, Your Grace, all most reliable.”

  Blaen considered, sipping the mead while he studied the bluish-gray corpse.

  “Well,” his grace said finally. “There’s no doubt that a fellow who carries poison in his shirt is up to no good. On the morrow we’ll have a formal hearing on the matter in my chamber of justice. As for now, Ogwern, you may go. Cinvan, detail a warden to stand guard at his doorway all night. The malover will be about two hours after noon, so bring your witnesses with you.”

  “I will, Your Grace.” Ogwern rose and made a surprisingly graceful bow. “I’m most humbly grateful that Your Grace provides so much safety for us honest poor folk of your city.”

  Ogwern walked backward, bowing all the way, out of the dreaded gwerbret’s presence. Jill assumed that he would run all the way out of the dun. Blaen turned to Cinvan.

  “Come now, Warden,” he said. “Do you truly think that fat fellow is a thief? I find it cursed hard to believe, myself.”

  “I know Your Grace has doubts, but I swear it, someday I’ll catch him with enough evidence to convince a whole roomful of councillors.”

  “When you do, we’ll cut his hands off, but not before. Now, as for you, silver dagger, I don’t want you sneaking out of town the moment the gates open. Cinvan, we’ll take her under arrest.”

  “But, Your Grace,” Jill stammered, “he drew on me first.”

  “No doubt, but I want you at the malover to say that in person. Listen, lass, it’s not like I’m charging you with murder or suchlike. He poisoned himself, after all. It’s just that I k
now how little silver daggers think of the laws.”

  “As it pleases Your Grace, then, but meaning no offense, Your Grace, if I’m to be put on trial for somewhat, I have a right to have some of my kin at my side.”

  “On the morrow we’ll have naught but a hearing, but you’re right enough. If I think matters warrant full malover, then we’ll wait until you summon any kinsman within a reasonable distance.”

  “He’s coming with that caravan, Your Grace, the one that was attacked. His name’s Rhodry Mael—I mean, Rhodry of Aberwyn.”

  Cinvan made an odd choking sound, but Blaen tossed back his head and laughed.

  “You started to say Rhodry Maelwaedd, didn’t you? By the gods, Jill! He’s my cousin, my mother’s sister’s son.”

  “Then no wonder he looks so much like you, Your Grace.”

  “Just that. All the great clans are as inbred as a herd of Bardek horses. Here, get up off the floor! A fine way I have of treating my cousin’s wife! It’s going to be blasted good to see Rhodry again. When I heard the news of his exile, I was furious, but Rhys was always a stiff-necked little bastard, and I know he’ll never listen to me about his folly. Cinvan, find the lady a chair.”

  The only chair the guard room could offer was a wooden stool, but Jill took it gratefully.

  “Well, in truth, Your Grace,” she said, “I’m neither a lady nor Rhodry’s legal wife.”

  “He hasn’t married you decently, has he? Well, I’ll speak to him about that. Where’s your gear? Cinvan, send one of your lads after it. Gilyan will be staying in the broch tonight.”

  After the warden was sent on his way, Cinvan got down to the grim job of searching the corpse. Blaen studied Jill with a small paternal smile. Among the noble-born, a man’s cousins were far more important to him than his brothers, who were rivals for land and influence. You’ve had a silver dagger’s luck, Jill told herself, but I wonder what Rhodry’s going to think of all this. Suddenly and profoundly she wished that he were there, so she could throw herself into his arms and forget all about this evil dweomer.