Dreamspinner

by Lynn Kurland

“What is that price? Death?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that makes things a bit more interesting, at least,” he conceded. “Let me see if I understand this: If you tell me of your quest, you’ll die by some mysterious means, but if you don’t tell me of your quest, you’ll die by a very pedestrian encounter with the rocks below my keep.”

  She felt her mouth fall open. “Would you?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Odo and I need to come to a better understanding about who he lets inside the gates.” He shot her a dark look. “I won’t toss you over the walls because I have apparently lost all good sense, but I would like answers to my questions. Are you sworn to secrecy by someone, or did you decide all this on your own?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Oh, come now,” he said dismissively. “You’re not going to die if you tell me at least that.”

  What she wanted to do was wrap her arms around herself and tremble. What she did was force her arms to remain down by her sides. “There is a curse attached to my errand,” she said, because she supposed there was no reason not to be at least that honest. “I was given a certain number of days to find you, convince you to lend me one of your best lads, or my life was to be forfeit.”

  “A curse.”

  “Aye.”

  He laughed, then sobered abruptly when he apparently realized she wasn’t laughing with him. He looked at her in surprise. “How old are you?”

  “A score-and-seven.”

  “Then Aisling, my gel, if you’re a score-and-seven, unless you were reared in some provincial place—Shettlestoune, perhaps—you should know there is no such thing as a curse. Nasty spells, definitely, but not curses.”

  “Spells,” she echoed with a laugh of her own. “Surely not. Magic and its practitioners don’t exist except in books.”

  He blinked several times, as if he struggled to understand her words. He started to speak a time or two, shut his mouth, and shook his head. “I’m not even sure where to begin with you. Very well, we’ll leave magic and curses aside and concentrate on your quest. So, you need a lad.”

  “A very skilled one, preferably,” she said, hardly able to believe she had had so much conversation with Gobhann’s lord.

  “Just one?”

  “I was sent to procure only one.” She decided that since she had at least managed to get that far with him, it was perhaps acceptable to give him the barest of hints about what would be required of her mercenary. “There are certain situations that require delicacy, my lord, and this is one of them. Hence the need for a single assassin instead of an entire army.”

  “Off to overthrow a government, are you?”

  Her mouth fell open before she could stop it. “Of course not,” she stammered. “I mean, why would I do that?”

  “Why else would you want a single man instead of an army?”

  “Well, because, ah, in my little village,” she said, searching desperately for the right words, “there is a, ah, bad man.”

  “There usually is,” Weger said. “And so you think he’s so evil that he needs to die?”

  “I don’t, but others do.”

  “And what are his offenses?”

  She picked through the worst of Quinn and Euan’s grievances, but in truth they hadn’t seemed so terrible to her. Since her life had been such a misery all without aid from anything else, she hadn’t had much sympathy for lads who complained about their movements being restricted and Sglaimir enjoying luxuries they couldn’t. She looked at Weger. “He oppresses our, ah, villagers.”

  “That hardly seems worthy of death.”

  “I never said death,” Aisling said quickly. “I have simply been sent on an errand to procure a mercenary for others who are more offended by him than I am. What they do with him at that point is none of my affair.”

  “Meaning, you’ll have done your bit and can trot off in another direction and wash your hands of the thing, is that it?”

  She hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but she had to admit that that was exactly what she intended to do. She took a deep breath and looked Weger full in the face. “That doesn’t seem very sporting, does it?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not particularly interested in sporting.”

  She wasn’t particularly interested in sporting either, especially since there were truths she could not deny. If she returned to Bruadair, she would die. The Guildmistress would find her, kill her in the most painful way possible, and then Mistress Muinear’s aid and the peddler’s gold would have been wasted. Well, the peddler’s gold was lining someone else’s pocket at the moment, but Mistress Muinear…

  She met Weger’s relentless gaze. “I cannot return home,” she said honestly. “All I can do is find someone to free my villagers.”

  Weger considered for a moment or two, then gestured toward his courtyard. “What do you think of these lads here?”

  She could hardly believe he was going to help her, but she wasn’t going to distract him by saying as much lest he change his mind. She turned uneasily and stood next to him just as uneasily. He was Scrymgeour Weger, after all.

  “An unlikely looking warrior is most often the most successful,” she said slowly.

  Weger turned his head just far enough to look at her. “You seem to know an uncanny number of my strictures, but at least we know where you learned them.” He considered, then nodded toward the field. “Choose.”

  Aisling felt a little faint. “I can choose? In truth?”

  “I haven’t said I could convince the lad to accept your quest, just that you might select one or two for our consideration.” He glanced at her briefly. “I am always curious about a lass who thinks to overthrow a government. I plan to pry all the details out of you whilst you’re not paying attention.”

  “I always pay attention.”

  His knife was suddenly in front of her face, pointed at her.

  “Except now, perhaps,” she conceded.

  He resheathed his knife with a grunt. “So it would seem. You could stand a few hours of training yourself.”

  She wasn’t sure that would aid her and certainly didn’t want to be loitering any longer inside Gobhann than necessary, but she supposed there was no point in saying that. She looked at the men in front of her, wondering who might suit the task at hand. There weren’t many, perhaps a dozen, but they were ugly and battered and looking infinitely capable of doing nefarious deeds for any price.

  Then she looked across the courtyard and saw Rùnach of a place he hadn’t named leaning over, his hands on his thighs, sucking in perhaps a few well-needed breaths, though with much less desperation than the day before. He straightened, then flinched a little as he realized she and Weger were looking at him.

  “I think he’s too tenderhearted to do anyone in,” Weger remarked.

  “He’s also too pretty,” she said. “Assassins should look craggy and unpleasant.”

  “Rùnach’s scars temper his charm.”

  She didn’t think his scars tempered anything, particularly the fairness of his face, but she thought it better to keep silent on that.

  “Do you want that one?” he asked, nodding toward Rùnach.

  “Can he be bought, do you think?” she asked.

  Weger studied Rùnach for a bit. “I think not,” he said slowly. “If he agreed to help you, it wouldn’t be because you were able to pay for his services. Not that he can wield a sword worth a damn at the moment anyway. In a few months, perhaps, when I’ve worked the strength back into his hands.” He paused. “In his youth, he was a formidable swordsman, but now—” He shot her a look suddenly. “Do not ask me what happened to him.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Weger grunted at her. “A show of good sense.” He considered her. “Are you in haste for this lad?”

  She nodded.

  “But you have no gold.”

  She shook her head.

  “Lass, if you can’t hold on to your gold long enough to give a decent swordsman somethi
ng to inspire him,” Weger said with a sigh, “you’re not going to convince him you’ll give him anything at the end of the road, no matter your good intentions. We’ll have to think of something. I can’t guarantee anyone will agree to such a hopeless bargain, but perhaps I’m more cynical than most. At least you’ve come to the right place for cynics.”

  “Your reputation is flung far and wide, my lord,” she said seriously, “among those who want aid in escaping prisons made for them by others. Even a simple village woman can understand and appreciate that, no matter how hopeless the situation might seem.”

  “The hopelessness of it doesn’t touch me, so don’t look my way for sympathy. You did, however, come inside my gates with nothing but your courage and a bit of bluster. That should count for something.” He reached down, then straightened and shoved a leather satchel at her. “Best put your book in there lest it go missing.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, surprised beyond measure.

  He considered. “I will teach you at least something before I throw you out my front gates, and I will think on your troubles, womanly though they seem to be. Something will no doubt occur to me, with enough time.”

  She wanted to tell him she didn’t have much time, but she wasn’t at all sure of that any longer. She started to put Ochadius’s book inside the bag, then paused. “You don’t want this?”

  “What would I want with that bloody book?” Weger demanded. “I’m the one who invented what’s in it!”

  He had a point there. She secured the book, then pulled the satchel’s strap over her head. “There are many useful things in it.”

  He shot her a look. “What did I say about avoiding mages?”

  “‘Kill them before they speak,’ ‘the only good mage is a dead mage,’ and several others I didn’t take particular care to memorize given that they applied to creatures who don’t exist.”

  He looked at her, laughed suddenly, then pushed away from the wall and walked away.

  “Stairs,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Aisling jumped and hastened around the edge of the courtyard to catch up to Rùnach before he started down the stairs. He was drenched but whether that was from sweat or the mist, she couldn’t have said.

  “Weger said I should trot down the stairs with you, then back up them,” she said.

  “Still trotting?” he asked.

  “He didn’t specify, but I think merely climbing them might be enough.”

  “Thank heavens,” Rùnach said, with feeling. He nodded toward the stairwell. “Let’s go then, lad.” He shot her a look. “You might manage it today, don’t you think?”

  She put her hand over her belly before she thought better of it. “I might. Perhaps it was the adjustment of being in such an intimidating place.”

  “Or the lobelia the cook was putting in your stew,” Rùnach said easily. “Let’s go.”

  Aisling felt her mouth fall open, but she had no chance to offer any opinion on his opinions. She simply trotted after him, carefully, and decided that perhaps she would think about mysteries later. For whatever time she had left.

  Though she was beginning to suspect that her time breathing might go on a bit longer than she’d dared hope.

  The entire situation was perplexing. She couldn’t say she knew the peddler very well, but she had seen him every Friday at the market. He had never once been, in her presence, anything but painfully exact about the exorbitant prices he exacted from those wanting his wares. Then again, he had been distracted by providing her with new clothing, paying her passage south, and cutting her hair off to help her look like a lad. Perhaps he’d been so eager to see Bruadair freed from Sglaimir’s unsavoury self that he’d been confused.

  It was possible.

  She considered that as she followed Rùnach down to the front gates. The gatekeeper was there, apparently as was his wont, leaning against the wall and watching them. She nodded politely to him, listened to him make a comment to Rùnach in a language she couldn’t understand but Rùnach apparently could, then happily stood there while Rùnach caught his breath. It took far less time than she hoped for, so she stopped him before he started to climb again.

  “Do you believe in curses?”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

  Her first instinct was to reveal nothing, but if the peddler’s threat of her dying wasn’t true, perhaps there were other things that weren’t true. She had had an extensive education in things that seemed quite logical to her. Those things she had either heard of or read about, those tales of impossible creatures, reports of impossible quests and the Heroes who had been responsible for their successful conclusion, surely those had simply been stories for children. She was as convinced of that as she was that Bruadair did have a curse laid upon it. And whilst it was possible that the peddler had miscalculated the time available to her, she was absolutely convinced that there had been no lie about the punishment for those who spoke of Bruadair outside its borders.

  She looked at Rùnach, then shook her head. “Nothing. I was speaking out of turn.”

  “As you say.” He nodded toward the steps. “Shall we?”

  “If we must.”

  “Think on the delights awaiting you in the dining hall.”

  She looked at him quickly, but he only smiled before he walked away. She supposed as long as he was there to intimidate the cook, she might manage to eat something that didn’t leave her retching. It had been the case this morning.

  She wished the rest of the mysteries in her life could be solved as easily.

  By the time the day had waned and she had eaten another less-disgusting-than-usual meal, she was exhausted and profoundly confused. Rùnach, however, seemed happy to spend a bit of time in Weger’s upper gathering hall. She didn’t want to argue, on the off chance Weger had decided upon a solution to her mercenary problem.

  She soon found herself sitting on a bench near one of the bookcases with Rùnach on one side of her and Losh on the other. She would have been happy to speak further to Weger, but he was engaged in spirited conversation with a very rough-looking man. The truth was, most of the men gathered there were disreputable-looking, so she wasn’t sure she could ask Weger to recommend any of them. She considered, then leaned slightly closer to Rùnach.

  “Are there any good men here?”

  Rùnach leaned back against the books and folded his arms over his chest. “I suppose it all depends on what your definition of good is.”

  “Not what I see there,” she said with feeling. “They all look so rough and…assassin-like.”

  He looked at her, amused. “Have you known many assassins, Aisling?”

  “I’ve read about them,” she said. She looked at him reluctantly. “I’ve led a somewhat sheltered life.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve been out in the world of late much either, so perhaps we are not so different.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  He seemed to consider what he should say. “I was a servant of sorts,” he said slowly, “to a man who was a very great friend of my mother’s. I needed a refuge from events I could not control and he was good enough to provide that for me.” He shrugged. “I had the run of a very large library, so in return for that I was quite willing to pour his wine for him.”

  “A library,” she breathed.

  He turned slightly to look at her. “Have you never seen one?”

  “Only Weger’s,” she admitted, “though I was made loans of books from a woman who owned perhaps a score of them. I borrowed them one at a time, you know, because they were precious to her.”

  He studied her. “Why did you come here?”

  She took a careful breath, then looked at him. “I have been sent on an errand.”

  “Have you?”

  “Aye.” She considered. She started to speak, then realized Weger was standing in front of her. She rose to her feet because Rùnach was on his.

  Weger smiled unpleasantly. “I’m still thin
king on your problem,” he said. “You need someone rough, uncouth, always ready for a nasty adventure.” He leaned in closer. “And you’ll need someone willing to work for hobnails, eh? That’ll be a challenge.”

  Aisling had to agree about the price, but before she could ask if he’d found such a lad he had sauntered away, whistling.

  “We should both be abed,” Rùnach was saying. “Work begins at dawn.”

  Aisling hadn’t seen dawn and didn’t imagine Gobhann experienced dawn, but she wasn’t going to argue.

  He smiled briefly. “Things will look better in the morning.”

  She would have said that wasn’t possible, but she had hope for the first time that she might actually go to bed, then wake to see the sunrise.

  And if she did, perhaps she would manage to figure out why.

  Nine

  Two days later, Rùnach stood in Weger’s upper courtyard, trying to decide it if was more work to run the stairs endlessly or keep Weger’s twelfth most proficient student—something Weger had informed him that morning with a smirk—at bay. He found himself with a bit more time than expected to think about things that puzzled him when his opponent unexpectedly held up his hand for a bit of a rest. He propped his sword up on his shoulder and happily allowed himself the pleasure of just breathing deeply without having to push himself past what he could bear.

  Aisling was looking for an assassin?

  He had watched her—occasionally, when he had reached the top of the endless stairs and was preparing to descend them again—training with Weger over the past two days. Apparently Gobhann’s lord had decided that if the woman couldn’t wield a sword, she could at least poke her finger into an assailant’s eye and do some damage. Rùnach had serious doubts she would manage even that, but he’d always been too winded to argue.

  None of which answered the question of why she had left her home, why she would ever have thought that coming inside Gobhann to look for a mercenary could possibly be a good idea, or why she seemed to greet each day in utter surprise that she was alive to do so.

  His training partner made a strangled sound of horror. Rùnach looked at him in surprise, then turned and looked where the man was pointing with his sword.