Right on cue that charger’s hooves thudded to a standstill outside. Aldric lifted the flap and ducked inside, wearing the imposing Great Harness called an-moyya-tsalaer and looking uncomfortable. He unbuckled his helm with a sigh of relief, laid aside the war-mask covering cheeks and chin, then unlaced his mail and leather coif. Under the armour his hair was dark and wet.
“You should wear an overrobe,” said Kyrin. “On a day like this, that black metal must take a lot of heat from the sun.”
“Less than you think.” Aldric settled into a chair and it creaked in protest, though not as much as it might have done. The armour, another gift from Gemmel, was remarkably light, and its cats’-cradle of laces and straps, buckles, belts and hooks meant each part could be worn individually as the need arose. Today he wore it all, partly as disguise but also because wearing an-tsalaer for a mounted archery contest was in keeping with the spirit of the Spring Festival.
“Here.” He pulled out a small purse tucked for safety behind his weapon-belt. “I won another second prize. Fifty, this time.” Kyrin caught the wallet as it sailed through the air and added its contents to her calculations.
“Be careful. Too many seconds and people will talk as much as if you were taking firsts.” Aldric laughed and poured himself some wine.
“No worries there. If young Escuar from Prytenon and his friends hadn’t been nursing hangovers, I’d have been lucky to manage fifth. Bastards.” He said it without heat. “How are we doing for money?”
“Well enough. Alban, about the horses—”
“I said No. It’s still No. I won’t use a stable. Look, I’ll enter another riding contest if I have to, or a telek target-shoot, or even a sword match. But I’m not leaving the only Andarran I’ve ever seen with some would-be thief.”
“You don’t trust anybody, do you?”
“I’ve had little reason until—” He caught her expression. “Until I met one thief who’s more honest than every merchant in this bloody town.” Kyrin raised a sceptical eyebrow and Aldric changed the subject, standing up with a metallic slither and creak of leather straps. “At least we can afford to eat better than we’ve been doing.”
Despite his brag about having more funds than just small change, Aldric had soon discovered that at Festival time most prices in Erdhaven went like the forest inns, fit to shame a highway robber. Their meals in the past few days had been adequate at best, mere body-fuel at worst, and a poor contrast to years of Gemmel’s excellent food. Kyrin glanced at the columns of numbers on the parchment, sighed and reached a reluctant decision.
“All right. Keep your wallet closed and leave things to me. Your money’s no good where we’re going.”
“It’s got the King’s head on it…”
“Are you being deliberately mulish, Alban, or is it a natural talent? I told you: leave things to me. This is one of those things.” Now it was Aldric’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “My family aren’t unknown in Erdhaven port. Merchant venturers, remember?”
*
A few taverns in Erdhaven, small dining-houses into the fourth and fifth generation of the host’s family and proud of their reputations, disdained the usual Festival price-gouging. Those who knew of them kept quiet about it, using their preferred places for epicurean indulgence or a little courteous seduction.
When Kyrin described how well she knew the owner of The Seventh Wave Aldric gave her a thoughtful glance, even though Rutkhur was another Valhollan and the whole business was quite innocent. Or as innocent as anything involving Valhollans could be.
Rutkhur was grey-haired, not over-tall and notably broad, with a red-cheeked roundness suggesting he enjoyed the products of his own kitchen. With several other armed and armoured men eating at The Wave he didn’t look twice at Aldric, although he and Kyrin had a short, low-voiced and from the sound of it sharp exchange before he led them to a table.
Aldric got the impression it had been reserved for someone else, but the two Valhollans seemed to have their minds on other matters. So was his, because though the food on nearby tables looked and smelt delicious, he could detect spices hard to find for even a clan-lord’s kitchen. Then there were the imported wines in their distinctive bottles: red Seurandec from the Jouvaine Provinces in salt-glazed stoneware, golden Briej from Vlech in squat brown glass and straw-pale Hauverne from Drusul at the heart of the Empire in long-necked green. Aldric hid a smile, certain neither spice nor wine had passed through any legal channel to get here.
Kyrin’s family friendship with Rutkhur the innkeeper was clear. A sizeable part of their trade involved items that the Empire’s tariffs made too expensive or hard to obtain by legal means. Haranil-arluth Talvalin had said it aright, while Elthanek grainfire drifted out more like a ghost than a spirit and Valdain grapefire drifted in the same way. If smuggling was a crime, and the things smuggled were popular while the laws restricting them were not, it would be the lawbreakers not the lawmakers who won support.
Food appeared fast enough to confirm that this wasn’t just someone else’s table, it was also their meal, and Aldric wondered what the original customers would say when they arrived. A few minutes of service dismissed the question, and all others except one. Favours or cash, what’s this going to cost?
“Smoked beef broth with split peas, sliced carrots, toasted barley, dark-fried onions, wild garlic, pepper and a touch of Seurandec,” Rutkhur announced in a breathless rush as he set down a tureen. A quick signal to one of the inn servants summoned a still-sizzling black iron platter. “Mackerel,” he continued, “sea-fresh this morning, stuffed with minced bacon, green onions and leaves of fennel, wrapped in pork lace then grilled over oak chippings.”
Aldric drew breath for a compliment, and was interrupted by the arrival of an even larger platter. That was when Kyrin’s expression began to change.
“Rutkhur, what is this?” She spoke in Alban, and the familiar edge was back in her voice.
“Saddle of suckling-pig,” said the man quickly, “roasted, then braised in cider with pepper, cinnamon, pickled red emberseed, onions, apricots and sour apples.”
“I didn’t ask for—”
“Bean-and-ginger fritters fried in best white butter, and baked wild mushroom caps with cheese, chives and garlic. The autumn mushrooms would be larger, but the small spring caps have more delicacy of flavour, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Aldric, feeling as if he was in a play with mismatched actors and no script.
“Are you done?” snapped Kyrin.
“And to finish,” Rutkhur sounded determined and desperate in equal measure, “the finest of last autumn’s dried damsons stewed in Hauverne wine, enriched with grapefire then dressed with beaten cream, honey, hazelnuts and candied mint-leaves.”
“Enough!” She pushed back her chair with a noisy, prolonged scrape that turned heads. “A word with you, Rutkhur. In private. Now.”
Aldric watched her go, one hand clamped around the innkeeper’s elbow as she hustled him towards the kitchen. He had no idea what was wrong, because the dishes in front of him were as appealing as anything he had seen or smelled on their way in. He shrugged, opened his cutlery-case and turned his attention to The Seventh Wave’s fine cooking with such enthusiasm that passers-by in the sunny street smiled at his obvious enjoyment. One of them watched for several seconds while Aldric dusted on some cumin-pepper and shifted to his left hand for a few drops of spiced fruit relish, then leaned across the partition.
“I presume, sir,” he said , “you approve of this place?”
“Mmf.” With the usual timing for such questions Aldric’s mouth was full and he could only nod, but for an instant his fingers closed around the handle of his long meat-knife. Then he relaxed, released it again, swallowed and forced a smile as if the incident had never happened. “If you don’t mind surviving on bread and cheese for the rest of the week. It’s good bread. I can’t speak for the cheese.” The man didn’t quite smile back, he just inclined his head courteously to Kyrin as sh
e returned and went on his way.
“What was that about, Alban?” The screech as she pulled her chair was even louder than before.
“Just a man curious about good food. He—”
“—didn’t notice your little by-play with the knife, I hope, because I saw it from clear across the room. Something else: don’t be funny. Don’t be witty. You’re not much good at it, and the attempt makes you memorable.” Aldric opened his mouth, thought for a second, closed it again and settled for a silent scowl across the table.
“I’m wearing armour and my Three Blades in an eating-house. That makes me memorable even when I’m not being…not attempting to be witty.”
“There are plenty of armoured men in Erdhaven for the Festival and plenty will pass through the eating-houses, but they’re all kailinin with braids and queues. You’re an eijo croppy.” Aldric glowered, wondering where she’d picked up that nasty little insult. “Yet you’re eating at one of the most costly tables in town—”
“At your damned suggestion!”
She nodded at the other armoured men, laughing and cheerful while they ate. “You’ve won several prizes, and a celebration isn’t out of place. But if what you hint is true, then for your own safety and mine don’t draw notice while your helm is off.” Aldric’s knife played an irritable little drumbeat on the crust of a roll. “Now eat up,” she said. “This food’s not getting any warmer, and—”
“And it’s wicked to waste it. Yes. I’ve heard that before.” After a few irritable seconds he realised she was right; it was too good to waste for the sake of making a sulky point. “All right, I’ll eat up. You should too. Just tell me this: what put the brambles in your breeches? Rodker—”
“Rutkhur.” The correction sounded weary.
“—gave us a banquet, yet you’ve been like a bear with a sore head ever since. Why?”
Kyrin stared at him for several seconds, then muttered under her breath and put down half a cup of excellent Hauverne in a single disrespectful gulp. “Because I didn’t expect a banquet. I didn’t want a banquet. What I wanted, what I expected, was the sound of my own language, a friendly face—”
“Thank you.”
“—and a bite to eat. Also the loan of enough silver to see me home.”
“But?”
“I got this instead. It’s an apology. I hope whoever ordered it gets one as well.”
“It must easily have cost—”
“Less than you think.” She lowered her voice. “Far less than it would cost anyone else here. The problem is this: it’s the start of the Festival, so the Wave’s stockrooms and pantries are full…”
“And the cashbox is empty. I see. By the end of the week,” Aldric made a little turning-wheel gesture with one fingertip, “it’ll be the other way round. Be patient.”
“Easy for you to say. A ship in harbour sails for Valhol tomorrow, and until this happened…” She poked at the food, sampled a few mouthfuls, then offered a brief, weak smile. “I’d convinced myself I would be aboard.” Kyrin nibbled a bit more, sighed in a resigned way and started eating. There was no further conversation for a while as they did fair justice to the meal, and it was Aldric who stopped first.
“Enough. Overloading would be too easy.”
“Because?”
“Because tomorrow I want to take part in the Messenger’s Ride, not sleep all day. And don’t fret me about drawing notice, because I’ll have helm and coif and war-mask on.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you have traditions in Valhol? It’s an old story about a courier in the Clan Wars. He wore full armour, so competitors in the Ride wear it too.”
“And what did this messenger do?”
“Delivered messages.” Kyrin made a sound that might have been an inadequate laugh or a badly swallowed hazelnut. “He did it despite the enemy’s best efforts, and helped win a battle. The Ride’s an assault course and simulated combat; things I’m good at.”
“Can I speak frankly?” Aldric wondered why she bothered to ask. “It all sounds, well, childish.”
“Perhaps. It’s also the only event at the Festival where the spectators can place…” He grinned. “Can legally place bets.”
“Oh indeed?” Valhollans were notoriously fond of gambling, and Kyrin’s sudden interest suggested she was no exception. “Tell me, Aldric,” she used his name for the first time as she filled his cup to the brim, “who do you think will win?”
He sipped the dry, cool wine, considering odds and skills. “I was thinking it might be me.”
Kyrin stared at him for several seconds, then drank the rest of the Hauverne herself.
*
Erdhaven’s clocks were chiming the sixth hour after noon when a man sat down at a bench and put fire to a bowlful of crystals. The substance sparkled like crushed diamonds as it burst into brief flame, then settled to a slow crawl of sparks. Grey smoke swirled up, growing thicker and more opaque with each passing second, and the man muttered in a soft monotone as the cloud took on more definite shape. An image formed, a face distorted by the shifting smoke. Its half-seen mouth formed words.
“Weylif?” said Duergar’s voice, thickly warped by sorcery and distance. “You are late.”
“I beg pardon, lord!” The man abased himself. “I couldn’t close early because of the Spring Festival. Turning away potential trade at such a time would have attracted too much attention.”
“Very well. And the object you hold for me?”
“It is safe, lord.” Weylif glanced behind him and swallowed nervously.
The small shop fronting his small foundry usually displayed small expensive signs for the doors of expensive merchants, and small elegant bronzes to ornament their wealthy houses. This week it had been dominated by a statue bigger than any made there before, a life-size equestrian warrior scale-armoured like an Imperial katafrakt. The warrior was portrayed leaning back in his saddle, war-mask in hand, staring into an unknown distance from under the peak of his helm. Goat-horns curved from that helm, a hint of inhumanity completed by the face behind the mask. In profile its features had a classic, perfect beauty; from any other angle they became mere geometric shapes. Shadows suggested soft roundness to mouth and brows and chin, while clearer light showed only stark hollows and harsh, flat planes. It had no mouth other than a cracked flaw in the verdigrised metal, and no eyes at all, just a bleak blank power like the desire for conquest given form.
It was a masterpiece of casting exclaimed over by all who entered the foundry – all except Weylif, who preferred not to go near the thing. It disturbed him. The armour wasn’t a scale hauberk in the style called lizard-mail, instead it fitted close to all the limbs like lizard’s skin and gave the figure an unsettling reptilian look. He glanced at Duergar’s smoke-wreathed face. Though the necromancer’s eyes were closed in concentration, Weylif still felt as if he was being watched by someone without his best interests at heart. Despite the threat of his master’s anger, he rose and backed quietly towards the door.
A vast shadow fell across him and he turned, mouth wide to scream with shock or horror. The sound never left his throat, because the statue leaned down from its pedestal and clamped it shut with the inexorable pressure of one huge bronze hand.
“I can move it for a while.” Duergar’s distorted voice sounded like a man straining to lift great weight. “But it needs life. Yours will serve.”
The katafrakt straightened and held Weylif at the end of one outstretched arm. His thrashing legs danced a gallows jig on empty air, and the last thing he saw was the flaw-cracked mouth opening as if to take in the breath choked from him. Then its hand closed to a fist, crushing flesh and sinew like a bundle of wet reeds. There was no blood, and when the katafrakt let go at last, the wreckage of Weylif the bronze-founder hit the floor with a rattle like dry sticks wrapped in a bag of skin.
The horse and rider left their plinth without any screech of stressed metal, only a clatter of hooves and clank of armour like any ordinary kaili
n. The horse stopped in front of the shifting smoke-cloud bearing Duergar’s face, and the warrior on its bronze back raised one arm in salute.
“Command me, Lifegiver, my master.” The voice had a deep, metallic resonance.
“First a name,” said Duergar.
Names controlled, names gave power, and even a creature of sorcery was incomplete without one. This was not man because its flesh was cold bronze, nor was it statue because it moved. It was Duergar’s servant and more than servant, an extra limb made of metal. “You are one of my hands,” he said at last, “and the weapon for it. Your name is Esel, which is ‘sword-hand’ in the old language of my people.” It was also the name of his own master, the Warlord of the Drusalan Empire. Whether Etzel would regard that as compliment or insult, Duergar didn’t care.
“It is a good name, my master. What is thy will?”
“You have it already, Esel my servant. Seek Aldric Talvalin on the weapon-field tomorrow. You will know him as I know him. Do not slay unless there is no choice. The blade you bear will aid you in this. But if he must be slain…” Duergar considered for a moment, then reached a decision. “Destroy him utterly, and all with him, and all he carries.”
“Thy will is my will, Lifegiver, my master. Thy enemy is my enemy. My victim is thine.”
*
Aldric glanced down at the white mantle covering his armour and grinned. His opponents wore the same thing, not the sun-screening overrobe Kyrin had meant, but because wooden weapons for this contest were edged and tipped with dye-soaked wadding and the white covering would show any strikes as plain as ink on paper. She was as right as any foreigner could be about Alban tradition. Yril’t’sathorn did seem like a children’s game, and after what had happened at Dunrath, none of its pretence counted for anything.
The competitors had received their instructions earlier that morning from one of the Prefect’s officials, a small man full of his own importance. “Each rider will receive a scroll,” he announced, thumbing fussily through sheets of parchment, “representing important dispatches. This must be brought to a judge on the moated island, representing Torhan-arluth in his fortified camp of Gorlahr. There are targets for spear and bow – the great-bow only, sirs, the short-bow is not historically accurate – and five mounted kailinin of the Prefect’s guard representing—”
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 13