Perhaps she sensed something or heard his gasp of outrage; whatever the reason, she turned almost hastily and bowed from the waist as she had seen her companion do along the road. Holding out the longsword, one hand already incautiously on the hilt, she asked: "May I draw?" Aldric nodded curtly, realising he could not expect customs and protocol from a foreigner, but acknowledging her untutored courtesy all the same.
Isileth hissed from her scabbard with a whisper as of stroked silk. Without raising her eyes from the cruel beauty of the steel, Kyrin murmured, "Have you used this?" and at once regretted the question, suddenly aware of an aura of cold menace settling over the blade as it slid clear. With a shiver she realised this same intangible grey veil sometimes hung around her companion and wondered, not wanting an answer, which of the two was its true source.
"She has been drawn in the dawn-light, under the eye of Heaven, that she may know me," intoned the eijo quietly. "But used—not yet…" Kyrin sheathed the taiken and laid it down, affecting not to notice the slight, caressing touch of Aldric's hand on hers as he retrieved the weapon and secured it on his hip. "Someone tried to insult me once—said I slept with my sword. I can't imagine what he would say now." His small, crooked smile widened fractionally. "By the way, I'm not utterly penniless. Shall we eat now or later?"
"I guessed aright, then," Duergar muttered, his pale eyes fixed on a thin man in black who knelt before him. The man's hood was thrown back, revealing yellowish eyes and dark hair which hung in lank tails from perspiration. Had he been a horse he would have been lathered. Until a few minutes previously he had been a crow; he was still lathered. "You are certain of this?"
"Quite certain, lord," gasped the man. He was having difficulty in getting his breath back and Duergar's impatient questions were not helping. "From what I saw, indeed, had the boy spotted me I would have been"— he essayed a gaptoothed smile—"dead certain, as they say here."
"Spare me your feeble humour, man," returned the necromancer wearily. "I have much to do." He stood up and the changeling lowered his head respectfully. "You may rest; there will be rewards for this day's work. Would that all my servants did so well…" He crossed to. the door and then glanced back. "Mark you, no word of this to lord Kalarr."
"No word?" Kalarr stood in the doorway as it opened, his teeth bared in a hard, mirthless grin. "Whyever not? I'm most curious." There was a taiken in his hand, its point resting on the door-ward's lips. "I learned that one of your changeling-crows had returned. Yet this"—his sword prodded delicately—"denies it." Kalarr's gaze swept the room and settled on the black-clad man, who stared back with fear in his eyes. "It seems he lied."
Dispassionately, without even watching what he was doing, the sorcerer crunched his longsword past lips, teeth and neck deep into the panelled wall, pinning the sentry like some grotesque specimen. As Kalarr released the weapon and sauntered past his victim, the unfortu-nate man slid forward down its blade until the hilt against his face held him in an eternal half-obeisance above the puddle of his own blood. He took a fearful time to die.
Kalarr paid him no further heed; his concentration was now focused on Duergar to the exclusion of all else. "Enough of this charade!" he hissed as the necromancer groped for the talisman at his neck even though he knew it was useless. "I grow weary of it." He emitted a chuckle like tearing metal and raised one finger of his right hand.
A whirl of yellow fire dissipated barely a handspan from Duergar's face, filling the air with heat and the reek of burning. Kalarr gaped; sooner or later every wizard laid a protective charm on himself and he had failed to consider that his erstwhile ally might have done the same. Such things required additional spells to breach them.
By the time he had repeated a fuller invocation Duergar was ready, made bold by his survival after being taken unawares. The changeling scuttled for shelter as power crackled through the room and then his world dissolved into harsh colours and raw, atonal noise. Under the lash of such ravening energies, even wood and stone flared away in coruscations of disrupted matter.
The magics died abruptly amid sparks and vapour. Nothing moved. Echoes of thunder rolled sonorously towards the mountains, while in the shadow of the citadel donjon, ordinary folk raised their heads from the dirt and looked around in terror. Only the sun shone placidly and unconcerned from a clean blue sky.
Kalarr passed one hand across his face and laughed shakily. "It seems we are well matched," he muttered, then coughed on a wisp of acrid smoke. Shaking with exertion and fright, Duergar sat down on the rippled, spell-warped floor but said nothing. Sweat glistened on his bald pate.
After a glance around, Kalarr chuckled again, and even though it still was not a pleasant sound, this time he seemed genuinely amused. What he had found humorous was the state of the room. It had somewhat… changed. Walls sloped giddily out of the vertical, floor and ceiling were corrugated into waves like a petrified ocean. The changeling was a grayish silhouette scorched into the window-frame where a blast of force had snuffed him out of existence. The whole place had a dizzy, nauseating look.
"If neither can defeat the other," he mused, turning back to Duergar, "then the obvious solution is to form a true alliance. There is, however, one problem."
The necromancer looked up at that. "Only one?" he repeated in contemptuous disbelief.
Kalarr smiled blandly at him. "Only one; the source of all others. A lack of mutual trust."
"You try to kill me and then you say I lack trust in your intentions?" Duergar choked on a bitter laugh.
"Certainly you lack manners, Drusalan. Hear me out."
"Then talk." Manners were far from Duergar's mind right now.
"What oath of mine would you accept as a token of good faith?"
The necromancer looked blank; such a question was so improbable that he had never considered his possible answer. Finally he shrugged. "Suggest one yourself."
"I was once kailin-eir, as much so as the Talvalin boy, before I learned… other skills. That clan—and my other name—is five centuries extinct, but I still have rank, and lord-right over lesser men, and honour when I choose to remember it. Those were never stripped from me." As he spoke Kalarr went to the door, twisted his taiken free of the wall and wrenched it from the sentry's face, then cleaned the blade with a silken kerchief.
There was a footfall in the corridor and Kalarr swivelled to see who was there. He smiled thinly, then drove his longsword into the wooden floor where it stuck, quivering. "So you alone have the courage to brave this sorcerer's den, eh? Then come in."
Baiart bowed low as he entered, ignoring the corpse in the doorway. "You are both unharmed…" he said without any inflection. Kalarr's smile widened into a cruel grin.
"Such deep concern touches my heart," he purred. "All went as usual in Cerdor?"
"Of course. How else would it go?"
"How indeed… Tell me, Baiart-arluth, Clan-Lord Talvalin, what great oath would a man take if he desired an enemy to trust him? An enemy, mark you." Baiart stared coldly at the wizard. "I don't mock you now, man—not with my question, at least."
"Do you not? Then surely the sun rose from the north today."
"It may well do so tomorrow," hissed Kalarr, setting his pleasant aspect aside like an actor changing character-masks. A flicker of something distorted the outline of his hand so that it seemed wrapped in flame. A dangerous glint awoke in his dark eyes as they bored into Baiart's face. The man flinched, but refused to look away. "Take care, or you might die before you see such marvels."
"Death no longer frightens me, warlock. Since you wove your spells about me I can wear a tsepan without you fretting I might use it. So I must take my ending as a gift; given in hatred, given in rage or given in mercy, my passage to the dark is now the only journey I would welcome."
"Quite so." Kalarr looked him up and down and banished the poised spell from his hand. "Then I may give it you in repayment—sometime. But remember Duergar's special skill, and bear in mind that death here is not an endi
ng, but more often a new beginning to more… docile service. What you desire, Talvalin, is not your passage to the dark but your passage through the pyre. And I seldom like to see a funeral."
"It smacks too much of waste," said Duergar pleasantly. Baiart's face had long since drained of colour. "Now answer my lord's question." The necromancer's courage had returned now that Kalarr's attention was directed elsewhere. He could defer to whatever scheme was in cu Ruruc's convoluted brain, at least for the present. What happened later would depend very much on how things developed both here and in the Empire. And on whether Kalarr cu Runic proved worthy of trust.
Perhaps the sun would rise in the north after all.
"The oath is made in blood, for reasons you sorcerers well understand," said Baiart. "Like all the High oaths, this one is made with a tsepan."
"Give me yours." Kalarr held out one hand, arrogantly refusing to watch Baiart when the kailin drew blade right behind his back. The weapon's blue and silver hilt was placed gently in the middle of his open palm, despite the savage expression which twisted Baiart's face. He had tried, anguished, to stab either himself or his undefended target, and his right hand had refused to obey him. Tears of rage and shame trickled down his cheeks, but Kalarr merely nodded absent thanks. "What now?" he demanded.
"You must cut, once only, from thumb to index finger, joining the Honour-scars. But cut shallowly; a man may need to swear many such oaths in his life—especially a man with many enemies." Kalarr ignored the remark. "Then you must make the mark of your crest in the blood, and the first rune of your name, swear the oath, and wipe all clean with a cloth which must be burnt at once."
"I see," said Kalarr. "And if there are no Honour-scars… ?" Baiart gasped in outrage and the wizard laughed at his scandalised expression. "Merely a question, Clan-Lord." He opened his hand to reveal the three parallel white scars, then sliced the tsepan across the top of each.
Both Baiart and Duergar were privately surprised to see that the blood running out was red, as red as the sorcerer's robes. Using one fingertip, Kalarr drew the crescent and double curve of his crest, the winged viper, and under it the character "Sre."
"The first rune of your name," said Baiart urgently, "or any oath is void." Kalarr gazed at him coldly.
"I know," he said. "Duergar Vathach, give me your hand." The necromancer started to protest, then thought better of it and did as he was asked. "You are no Alban, wrapped around with honourable codes," Kalarr said, "but the Empire has a custom of bloodbonding which you should respect. Bloodbond friendship with me, for peace of mind if nothing else."
Duergar shrugged, then jerked slightly as the tsepan nicked his thumb. As the two wounds pressed together he received another surprise—Kalarr's blood was as warm as any other man's, neither too hot nor too cold as the necromancer had speculated it might be.
Normally never at a loss for something to say, whether sharp and cruel or once in a rare while almost poetic, Kalarr stared at the flowing blood and spoke not a word. Then with a touch of his hand he closed both wounds, wiped away marks and errant trickles with a kerchief and exploded the wisp of silk into a flash of fire with a single gesture.
"Now that we are allies, my friend, what were you about when I first came in?" he said to Duergar. The necromancer jerked his head in warning at Baiart and a slow smile creased the skin of Kalarr's face. "Ah… I understand perfectly." He turned to the Alban and returned his tsepan with a sardonic bow. "Would you care to leave us now, Talvalin-arluth?"
Baiart nodded as curtly as he dared and made for the door. Duergar called him back. "Cause some servants to come up for yonder carrion," he ordered, indicating the dead sentry. "He was a strong man and should make a useful addition to the ranks of my traugarin." Baiart's mouth twitched but he nodded obediently and went to go out again. Once more he was called back, this time by Kalarr.
"You can go—but if you should care to stay"—the tall sorcerer paid no heed to Duergar's frantic hushing noises—"I can promise that what we have planned should be more than entertaining for you. And your brother Aldric."
Baiart's face stayed immobile, robbing Kalarr of much satisfaction and pleasure. The kailin merely shook his head and fled from the room, but the sound of sobbing drifted back from the corridor. Duergar cringed inside himself, and cringed even more when he could no longer hear Baiart's weeping—for the noise of cu Ruruc's laughter.
There were tents all around the enormous competition field beyond Erdhaven, and Kyrin sat in one of them with a pile of silver marks in front of her and a sheet of sums on her knee. The money came to almost a hundred marks, but no matter how she added up the columns, her sums totalled nearer five. The girl added them up again, then subtracted two entries and nodded to herself. If she could persuade Aldric to leave the horses here, they would be able to afford one of the ships to whose masters she had spoken. Except that parting the eijo from his Andarran charger was not going to be quite as simple as arithmetic suggested.
Hoofs sounded outside the tent and then the flap lifted to admit a figure wearing Great Harness, the full battle armour which Albans called an-moyya-tsalaer. Aldric unbuckled the straps of his flaring peaked helm and laid aside the war-mask covering cheeks and chin, then unlaced his mail and leather coif with a sigh of relief. Under the armour his hair was dark and wet.
"You should wear one of those new over-robes," observed Kyrin. "All that black metal must absorb a frightful heat from the sun on a day like this."
"Oddly enough, it doesn't," Aldric said, settling into a chair which creaked protestingly. The armour, from Gemmel's armoury, was remarkably light for Great Harness at fifty pounds, but not to a folding camp-chair. From the helm, mask and coif, through the four-panelled lamellar corslet to the peculiar idea of separate mail sleeves and strapped-on arm-plates—like those Kyrin wore—from neck to knuckles, and the equally strange jazerant scales arranged honeycomb-pattern on leather leggings, Alban armour was unique. Despite its cats'-cradle of laces, straps, buckles, belts and hooks it was eminently practical, for each part could be worn individually as the need arose.
Aldric wore it all, not because he needed protection but because it served to conceal who he was. Besides, wearing an-tsalaer for a mounted archery contest was entirely in keeping with the spirit of the Spring-Feast.
"Oh, by the way,"—he pulled out a wallet which had been stuffed for safety behind his weapon-belt—"second prize. One fifty." Kyrin caught the wallet as it sailed through the air and added its contents to the money on the table and to her calculations.
"Better!" she said. "But be careful—too many second prizes and people will start talking just as much as if you were taking firsts." Aldric laughed and poured himself some wine.
"You needn't worry on that account. If young Escuar from Prytenon hadn't been nursing a hangover, I would have been lucky to manage fifth place. How are we doing for money?"
"Well enough, but slowly. Aldric, if we left the horses—"
"We'd never see them again, as I've told you before. I'll try horse-riding or shooting the telek—but I will not leave Lyard in the hands of some would-be thief."
"You don't trust anybody, do you?"
"Not really. I have been given little reason to do so. But at least we can afford to eat better than we have done during these past few days." He punctuated his change of subject by standing up with that creak of leather and metallic slither to which Kyrin was still unaccustomed. "I, for one, am famished."
During festival time, almost all the prices in Erdhaven tripled; however, there were some taverns too proud of their reputations to indulge in such piracy. They were usually small eating-houses, into the fourth and fifth generation of the host's family—and very few people knew about them. Those who did kept quiet about it and used their chosen eating places purely for epicurean gluttony or a little well-mannered seduction. For reasons Aldric did not question, Kyrin knew the owner of one such car very—he was later to find it was all quite innocent and a matter of family friendshi
p—and was able to persuade the man to find them a table. Comforted perhaps by Aldric's meticulous courtesy, he did not object to the young man being armoured from the neck down.
The food was even better than Kyrin had promised— and her claims had been so extravagant that Aldric had thought them exaggeration. All the wines were imported— red from the Jouvaine Provinces, white from the Empire— and Aldric was interested in how they had gotten through the various blockades and embargoes which made life so difficult for merchants. Then his steak arrived and he forgot the question. The meat was just as he liked it: scared, but otherwise not so much cooked as well heated, and he sliced into the fragrant almost-raw beef with a delicacy that totally belied the speed with which it was devoured.
"One thing I do intend to try, even if it has some risks involved," the young eijo said once the edge was off his hunger, "and that's yril't'sathorn—the Messenger's Ride. It's a kind of mock battle; obstacles to jump, targets for sword, spear or bow and a moat you have to swim your horse through. It's from an old story about a courier in the Clan Wars."
Kyrin drank white wine and smiled at him. "It all sounds faintly childish," she said.
"Perhaps; but you're allowed to bet on it all the same."
"Indeed?" Kyrin's eyes lit up; like most Valhollans she was fond of gambling, but being prudent disliked long odds if they could be avoided. "Tell me, Aldric," she crooned at him, filling his wine-cup to the brim, "who do you think will win?"
The Alban sipped his drink with relish and smirked like a cat with cream on its whiskers. "Who else but me?" he answered brightly.
Kyrin rather pointedly drank the rest of the wine herself.
Clocks in the town of Erdhaven were chiming for the sixth hour of evening when a man sat down at a bench and put fire to a bowlful of crystals. The stuff, sparkling like crushed diamonds, burst into brief flame and then settled to a slow crawl of sparks. Grey smoke coiled up, not dissipating but hanging at eye level, growing thicker and more opaque with every wisp that joined it. The man lowered his head and began to mutter in a soft monotone.
The Horse Lord Page 11