Dreamspinner

by Lynn Kurland

  “I only said you could,” Miach pointed out, “I didn’t say you should.”

  “Can I assume you have suggestions for me?”

  “Perish the thought,” Miach said, holding up his hand in surrender. “I was just making idle conversation.”

  Rùnach chewed on his words for quite some time before he spoke again. “Who is she?”

  “How would I know?”

  Rùnach suppressed the urge to take his fist and plow it into Miach’s nose. “You’re obnoxious.”

  “My wife doesn’t think I’m obnoxious.”

  “She’s dazzled by your crown,” Rùnach said, though he knew nothing could be further from the truth. He sighed deeply. “Very well, I concede the battle. Where do I go to find out who she is?”

  “You’re asking me?” Miach said, blinking owlishly. “What would I know of anything?”

  “I didn’t allow Rigaud and Gille to beat you often enough. A mistake I shall obviously pay for long into my old age.” He inclined his head. “If His Majesty will excuse me?”

  “Where’re you off to?”

  Rùnach only snorted at him and walked away, because it was safer that way—for Miach. He walked back to the keep, pulling his hood over his face yet again, and continued on to his chamber. He had a wash, donned fresh clothes—for which he would unfortunately have to thank Miach—and made for the library.

  He started down into the bowels of the castle and had to admit he was rather glad that he could trot down the stairs instead of having to limp down them, and that his hand as it skimmed along the metal railing could not only feel the terrible chill of the iron but grasp it occasionally as the need arose. He walked in, nodded to the head librarian, then went immediately to where he thought he might find what he was looking for.

  He had only been at it for a quarter hour before a small, sharp-eyed man appeared as if by magic by his side. Rùnach realized too late that his head was bare and his face uncovered. He stopped himself midway in pulling his hood forward and looked at his companion.

  “I am a simple traveler,” he said, shooting the man a look that said he would be wise to agree, “and am here thanks to the king’s graciousness. Who are you?”

  The man’s eyes were alight with excitement. “I am Feòcallan,” he whispered, “special researcher to His Majesty, King Mochriadhemiach, who is a kind and generous ruler, especially benevolent to those who love books.”

  Rùnach almost smiled. “So he is,” he agreed.

  “What might I help His—er, I mean, the goodman—what can I help him find?”

  Rùnach found himself, for a change, without a single idea. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m looking for something, but I’m not sure what.”

  “I fear, Your—ah, I mean, sir, that we don’t have a section entitled Not Sure What.”

  Rùnach was terribly tempted to laugh. “I imagine you don’t.” He considered, then looked at the librarian. “I don’t suppose you have a list of all the wagon trains that routinely converge on Istaur and from where they originate, do you, Master Feòcallan?”

  “We do, Prince—um—” Feòcallan frowned fiercely. “Forgive me, sir. Habit.”

  “Which does you credit.”

  “Take your ease by the well-tended fire over there, Your Highness,” Feòcallan said, “and I shall bring you what you need.”

  Rùnach looked at him. “Do all your patrons receive such courtesy?”

  Feòcallan looked at him seriously, then leaned closer. “With all due respect, Prince Rùnach, they do not.” He pulled away. “I can keep a secret, but disrespect is impossible.”

  Rùnach looked at him. “Who told?”

  “No one, Your Highness. I have a ready ear for tales.”

  “My face?”

  “Only hastened the elimination of suspects, Your Highness.”

  Rùnach laughed a little in spite of himself. “Very well, Master Feòcallan, show me where I might take advantage of your hospitality. It will be most welcome, I assure you.”

  He spent the afternoon looking at trade routes and eliminating them one by one. He leaned his chin on his fist and stared off into the distance, unseeing. That first night in Gobhann when she had been so desperate to see Weger, to talk to him, Aisling had said something about midnight—

  And three se’nnights.

  Rùnach looked at the map. It had taken Aisling six days to sail from Istaur to Sgioba and then walk to Gobhann, which would have left her, as it had happened, needing to talk to Weger that night to manage her three se’nnight schedule. If that was the case, that left a full fortnight for her to come from her home to Istaur.

  He thought back to when he’d first seen her in Istaur. She had been relatively clean save her clothes and her feet, and she hadn’t been limping, which meant she couldn’t have been walking for the previous fortnight. He looked at Istaur on the map, then slid his finger east to a distance that might represent a fortnight’s walk. The arc that distance then encompassed included the beginning of the plains of Neroche, a portion of Shettlestoune, and much of Meith. But he could say with certainty that that language she had spoken hadn’t come from any of those places.

  He considered a bit longer, then looked up and caught Feòcallan’s eye. The man leapt forward as if he’d been called upon to lead the charge against Lothar and all his minions whilst the former were all bound and all that needed to be done was make a show of victory. Feòcallan drew up a chair without being asked and looked at Rùnach eagerly.

  “Aye, Your—”

  “Ahem,” Rùnach said pointedly.

  Feòcallan bowed and scraped. “Forgive me, sir. What do you need?”

  Rùnach considered. “I need this information in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course, Your H—er, I mean, sir.”

  He tapped Istaur on the map. “If one were to travel to Istaur, or, rather, let’s say one were leaving from Istaur and traveling a fortnight, how far could one go by horse? Or wagon?”

  Feòcallan studied the map. “On horseback? It would depend upon the horse, but this”—he drew an arc with Istaur as its focus—“might be possible with a horse who could do ten leagues a day. Perhaps half that again for a very fleet horse.” He looked at Rùnach. “You would know better than I what a very fine horse is capable of.”

  Rùnach smiled briefly. “I have led a charmed life where they are concerned, I will admit.” He looked back at the map. “But many things can befall a steed, can’t they? Unless, I suppose, you had fresh animals waiting at certain points along the road, as do very fleet…”

  He found that words were flowing away from him, as if they’d been cast upon a rapidly flowing stream.

  “Carriages,” Feòcallan finished for him. He looked at Rùnach with a puzzled frown on his face. “There are those to consider, I suppose, if one has enough gold to spare.”

  “I don’t suppose you might have a list,” Rùnach began slowly.

  “I’ll see.”

  It took the man less than a quarter hour to return with a very thin logbook. He handed it to Rùnach. “This I think might suit your purposes, Y—er, my good sir. The truth is—” He shifted uncomfortably. “The truth is, there is a certain reputation associated with many of those sorts of transports, but rapid flight is the tie that binds, as it were. I won’t say that all who choose that method of transportation are ruffians—”

  “Or smugglers,” Rùnach said wryly.

  Feòcallan lifted his eyebrows briefly. “Exactly. There seems to be, however, always a great amount of secrecy about the passengers.” He looked at Rùnach meaningfully. “Gold buys many things.”

  “It does indeed, Master Feòcallan.” He smiled at the man, then opened the book, trying not to notice how his hands were shaking. He flexed his fingers, then began to read.

  A carriage from Istaur would take him in a fortnight or thereabouts to, in no particular order, Tor Neroche, Diarmailt, Tiùrr—no doubt thanks to the vast stretches of farmland lying along the so
uthern route—and Beul.

  He frowned thoughtfully. Beul was…He frowned again. He had no idea where the hell Beul was, but he would find out. He looked back on the map he had, but it wasn’t as detailed as he would have liked. He trailed his finger along the arc, looking at cities and villages within that distance, but saw nothing that piqued his interest overmuch.

  He closed the books, stacked the maps, then thanked Master Feòcallan for his aid and left the library, wondering how he might narrow things down. Aisling belonged—or had belonged, rather—to a weaver’s guild, but it had occurred to him earlier that morning that a small village wouldn’t have a guild. In his experience, that sort of thing was reserved for a larger city.

  A large city within fourteen days’ hard travel from Istaur.

  He paced along passageways, thinking, until he stopped. He stopped because he had run bodily into something immovable. He thought to apologize, then realized whom he had encountered.

  Mansourah of Neroche, that damned flitting butterfly.

  “Rùnach,” Mansourah said, looking rather more interested than he should have. “What a pleasure—”

  “Where have you traveled?” Rùnach interrupted.

  Mansourah blinked. “What?”

  “I want a list of countries visited,” Rùnach said, trying to smile politely but fearing it had come out as more a baring of teeth, “not conquests made.”

  Mansourah put his hand over his heart. “You wound me, truly you do.”

  “I would love to in truth, but then you’d be too dead to tell me what I want to know.” He put his arm around Mansourah’s shoulders and turned him so they were facing the same way, then pulled him along. “Let’s walk and you’ll talk.”

  “Chummy, aren’t you?”

  “I need information. I’m willing to pretend to like you in order to have it.”

  Mansourah smiled. “She’s very pretty.”

  “She isn’t pretty,” Rùnach said grimly. “She’s past that, somehow, and that isn’t what I want to talk to you about.” He looked around him to make sure no one would pay him any heed, then put his question to Mansourah. He put it to him in Fadaire, on the off chance he was overheard by an idle servant. “Say, I’m a stupid git in all the languages you know east of the mountains and tell me afterward what languages they were.”

  Mansourah laughed a little, but obliged him.

  Rùnach stopped, listened, then held up his hand. “Wait. That last thing, what was that?”

  “Deuraich,” Mansourah said, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  Rùnach walked on, pulling him along. “How much of it do you know?”

  “I’m fluent, but I’m fluent in everything.” Mansourah smiled pleasantly. “It’s a gift.”

  “You’re annoying,” Rùnach said, feeling that the point needed to be made, “but useful, I’ll admit it. Where is it spoken?”

  “Bruadair.”

  Rùnach stopped walking. He stopped walking because he’d almost tripped over his own feet and gone sprawling. He turned and gaped at Miach’s older brother. “What?”

  “Bruadair,” Mansourah repeated. “Why, is that a problem?”

  “Less of a problem than a surprise. Are you certain?”

  “Of course.”

  “Say something else,” Rùnach commanded. “Say thank you.”

  Mansourah obliged him.

  Rùnach saw stars. “Impossible—nay, don’t give me the word for that, you fool.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “Impossible.”

  “Why?” Mansourah asked. “What?”

  Rùnach shot him a look. “Nothing. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” He turned and strode away.

  “I can continue to be helpful—”

  “Not,” Rùnach said distinctly, “in the way you think you would like to be helpful.”

  “When I determine what that means, I’ll argue with it,” Mansourah said, trotting alongside him. “I think you need a drink.”

  “I already had a drink.”

  “Not that watered down swill Miach pours.” Mansourah nodded. “Down the passageway, my friend, and into my luxurious chambers.”

  Rùnach supposed a quarter hour and something to drink wouldn’t change the events of the world. It might allow him a bit of peace for thinking if Mansourah could shut his mouth for that long, which he seriously doubted.

  Aisling was speaking Deuraich?

  “What does it mean?” he asked Mansourah. “Deuraich? The word itself, not the language.”

  “It means water,” Mansourah said, opening his door.

  “I wonder why?”

  “Because the whole country is practically nothing but coastline,” Mansourah answered, “and what isn’t on the coast is so dotted with lakes, I’m surprised anyone can walk a league without getting soggy. Well, save in Beul, which is, I have to admit, an absolute hellhole.” He shot Rùnach a look. “Have you ever looked at a map, Rùnach?”

  Rùnach slapped him briskly on the back of his head on his way to accepting what he was quite certain would be a very fine glass of something that looked rather strong. He wouldn’t be able to finish it, but that was likely something he should think about later.

  “I have,” he said, sipping and finding his eyes watering madly. “Bloody hell, Sourah, what is this rot?”

  “Something I made myself.”

  “I hate to ask what’s in it.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Mansourah advised. “And I’m having you on. It’s strong ale from Uachdaran’s cellars. Have you never had it before?”

  “Never, and I hope to never have it again.” He set the glass down and collapsed in a chair in front of Mansourah’s fire. “What do you know about Bruadair?”

  Mansourah sat and stretched his legs out. “I know where the ousted king and queen are at present, but other than that, not much at all. They’re a tight-lipped, clannish bunch, those Bruadairians.” He shot Rùnach a look. “Soilléir would know quite a bit more about their country, I imagine, not that he’d tell you. ’Tis bad luck to speak of it.”

  “Nay, that’s your brother’s full name,” Rùnach said absently. He considered for a moment or two, then looked at Mansourah. “Do they let visitors in?”

  Miach’s brother shook his head. “No one in, no one out. Unless you’re a trader, of course, or an envoy they particularly want to impress, but even then you’re under tight control for as long as you’re inside the country.”

  “Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “Are you serious?” Mansourah asked with a laugh, then his mouth fell open. “You are serious. How can you not know this?”

  Rùnach felt something slither down his spine. “Know what?”

  “Your sister-in-law is Bruadairian royalty in exile and you don’t know this?”

  Rùnach cast about for something to say. The best he could come up with in a tight spot was, “ah…” He cleared his throat and made another attempt. “You mean Sarah?”

  “You only have one sister-in-law,” Mansourah said with a snort. “And as for the other, those Bruadairians are dreamweavers, you idiot.”

  Rùnach blinked. “What?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “What utter rot,” Rùnach said without hesitation. “How do you weave dreams?”

  “Well, I don’t know that part,” Mansourah admitted. He looked at Rùnach and shrugged. “They just do.”

  “To what end?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Rùnach looked at him coolly. “You’ve been extraordinarily helpful.”

  Mansourah raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Rùnach glared at him, then heaved himself up out of his chair and strode across the chamber.

  “I told you what language that was,” Mansourah called after him. “Why did you want to know?”

  “I always want to know,” Rùnach threw over his shoulder.

  “Where did you hear—oh, damnation, this is vile stuff—”

  Rùnach left him to his chok
ing.

  He supposed the most sensible thing to do would be to go back to the library and look up everything he could find on Bruadair. Somehow, though, he had the feeling he would simply be peeling books from off Aisling’s stack about the same country and then the jig, as they said, would be up.

  “Ah, sir?”

  He turned and found one of the king’s pages standing there, holding a folded note very carefully between a surprisingly clean thumb and forefinger.

  “This is for you, ah, sir.”

  Rùnach smiled pleasantly and took the note. He sent the lad on his way with thanks and a coin, then opened the note and read it. He considered, then decided perhaps it was time to pry a certain gel away from her wool.

  Before the jig was up.

  Twenty-two

  Aisling sat on the same stool she’d been sitting on for the past…well, she wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there. Since the previous afternoon, she supposed, save for when Rùnach had forced her to eat or insisted that she come sleep. He had been so polite about it that she hadn’t wanted to argue.

  But she hadn’t wanted to walk away from her wheel.

  Her first attempts at making yarn had been, she had to admit, absolutely dreadful. Mistress Ceana had insisted that even the thickest most uneven yarn had its own beauty, but she couldn’t see it. What she wanted was perfect, thin thread that she could then ply into something she could use for things that would be worth saving.

  She looked at the last of the roving she was spinning and watched it as the bobbin turned, putting in the amount of twist she allowed, then pulling the yarn onto itself. She reached out and stopped the wheel, marveling at the feel of the smooth wood under her hand. She looked at what she’d spun, then looked at Mistress Ceana.

  “Well?”

  Mistress Ceana peered at it, then smiled and looked at her. “Beautiful.”

  “The wool I started with was perfect.”

  Mistress Ceana shook her head with a smile. “You underestimate your gift, my gel.” She covered Aisling’s hand with one of her worn, wrinkled ones. “I’ll ply it for you, shall I? I think you might have somewhere to go for the evening.”