The captain threw up his hands with a jingle of mail.
“This legal wrangling’s beyond the likes of me,” he said. “Your Grace, we’ve got to ride out of your city before sunset.”
“Then go now, and with my blessing.” Cadmar handed him the message. “And for the love of every god, get this to Lord Tren straightaway, and tell him what you’ve heard here, too.”
The captain slipped the tube under his mail and into his shirt, settling it against his belt, then hurried back to the waiting troop. Yelling orders, he mounted. When a page tossed him the lead rope of a particularly fine gray gelding, Jill noticed an ominous blanket-wrapped bundle slung over its saddle. In utter silence Matyc’s men gathered round their captain and the body of their dead lord. Together they turned their horses and began filing out of the gates. Shaking his head from side to side, Cadmar watched them go.
“Your Grace?” Jill said.
The lord and his councillors yelped or swore in surprise.
“Ye gods, Jill, I didn’t even see you walk up,” Cadmar said with a grin. “You didn’t just pop out of thin air, did you now?”
“Your grace was much distracted, that’s all. How much trouble is there going to be over Matyc’s death?”
“I don’t know. It depends in large part on whether or not Lord Tren inherits his brother’s holdings, I suppose. If he does, no doubt we can smooth things over. If the priests demand the land and taxes for themselves, well, now, I don’t know what to predict.”
“I see. I’ve settled the silver dagger down in town, anyway. I figured he’d best be out of your dun.”
“I suppose so.” Cadmar glanced at the chamberlain, who nodded a yes. “But it gripes my soul to turn him out. By rights I should be honoring him at my table, just as the gods honored him on the combat ground.”
The chamberlain groaned in some distress.
“I’m not going to do it,” Cadmar snapped. “Don’t trouble your heart. Here, everybody, let’s go inside and sit down. I hate hovering round like this in doorways!”
At the table of honor Labanna stood waiting, one hand resting on the back of her husband’s empty chair. Behind her, the serving women hovered in the shadows at the foot of the spiral staircase. Cadmar raised a questioning eyebrow in her direction.
“I’ve just told the servants that there won’t be a feast after all,” she said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Of course not, my dear, and my thanks. I’d forgot about that.” Cadmar sat down and reached back to pat her hand. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“My thanks, my lord, but I’d best be about my business. There’s much to settle and settle down.”
He nodded, smiling wryly, and she hurried upstairs, sweeping her women with her. Servants rushed over with tankards of ale for the men, though Jill waved hers away. The servitors sat down at Cadmar’s right, but Jill chose to stand.
“Your Grace,” she said. “Answer me honestly. Is it a burden upon you to have me, Carra, and all the trouble we’ve brought with us here in your dun?”
“Where else would you go?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace, but—”
“I refuse to send anyone away from the safety of my walls when they might meet with danger on the roads. It would ache my heart as well as shame it if the slightest evil befell the prince and his lady.”
“Not half as much as it would ache mine. Well, I need to give the matter some thought. This whole thing happened so suddenly.”
“So it did, but here, Matyc brought it upon himself. You heard him, there in the malover, insisting on his right to combat.”
“True spoken, but will his kin see it that way?”
Cadmar shrugged to show his ignorance.
“If I may speak boldly, Your Grace,” Jill went on. “You need that alliance, and badly. I would most humbly and with all deference to the gods ask you this. In a war which would be of more use to you in keeping your people safe, the temple or Lord Tren?”
“Your Grace?” the equerry broke in. “The only person whose presence should influence the matter at all is the silver dagger. If he stays in town …”
“Better yet, my lord”—Jill glanced at him—“I’m sending him away. I have a crucial errand that needs running, you see. Once he’s healed, he’ll be leaving Cengarn.”
The equerry bobbed his head in her direction, the best bow he could muster seeing as he was sitting down. Cadmar considered, running the palm of his hand round and round the tankard’s lip.
“Do as you think best about the silver dagger,” he said at last. “But may the gods forgive me for slighting the winner of that combat!”
“I think me they will, Your Grace.”
“As for the other matter, I’ll have to see how things develop. Lord Tren’s warband won’t do us much good if the gods are turned against us by the priests.”
Jill held her tongue with difficulty.
“But it’ll be some days before Tren even answers my message,” Cadmar went on. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any more raiders coming our way?”
“Not yet, Your Grace. As you say, we’ll have to see how things develop. May I have leave to go? I need to find Yraen and have him take Rhodry’s gear down to him.”
“Of course. As I say, do as you think fit.”
“I will, then, Your Grace. Consider the matter decided.”
As she made that near casual remark Jill felt a peculiar sensation, as if she were suddenly being watched. She felt that from some great distance eyes had turned her way, powerful eyes with strong dweomer behind them. Although she managed to smile pleasantly and take a civil leave of the gwerbret, she hurried up to her tower room to be alone rather than sending a page for Yraen.
Her chamber swarmed with Wildfolk, darting this way and that in the air or on the floor, clustering on the furniture, huddling together in the curve of the wall. When she walked in, her pay gnome leapt into her arms.
“Oho, you felt it, too, did you? Someone’s found Cengarn, I think. The question is, are they looking for Carra or for me?” She thought back, remembered that she’d felt the sensation at the exact moment when a possible course of action had been decided into reality. “Or, come to think of it, is it Rhodry they find so interesting?”
With the gnome riding on her shoulder, she went to the window and looked out. She could see over the dun wall to the town, but the market hill blocked her farther view. Why would some enemy be searching for Rhodry? Unless, of course, they knew that he’d been guarding Carra and thought he still was. She turned her head to catch the gnome’s attention.
“Go fetch Dallandra for me, will you? All you have to do is find her, and she’ll know what it means.”
The gnome pinned, revealing an uneven mouthful of pointed teeth, then disappeared. She could only hope that it had understood, and that Dallandra would come promptly—as the physical world measured Time.
As she often did in these situations, Jill found herself thinking about her master in the dweomer, dead these many years now, and wondering what he would have done. She particularly wished that she had his influence with the priesthood of Bel If she’d been Nevyn, she could have gone to the temple and perhaps worked them round over the matter of the late Lord Matyc’s lands, but they would never listen to a woman, especially not to one they barely knew. That particular matter lay in the laps of the gods, she supposed, such as they were. It occurred to her that the priests stood to lose a great deal if Alshandra’s forces conquered Cengarn and overthrew their god. That grim possibility, at least, might give her some sort of weapon.
She studied the shadows in the ward, making mental notes of their position to give herself a starting mark for the passing of Time. Since her window faced east, she could measure by the shadow of the broch itself, which was at the moment about halfway across the ward. Although she stood there until it touched the main wall of the dun, Dallandra never appeared.
Rhodry slept most of that day curled up on a short bed in th
e dwarven inn. When the pain of his wound finally woke him, it took him a long time to remember where he was and why. He sat up, stretching cramped muscles, peering round him at what he could see of the tiny chamber in the dim blue light from the half-spent basket of fungi. Only his elven eyesight made it possible for him to see anything at all. As it was, he could make out the walls, the shape of a plain chest, and a door. He got up, grabbing a wall to steady himself as the chamber spun.
“Worse off than you thought, are you? You’re getting old, Rhodry lad.”
He sat down again rather fast, rested for a moment, then found his boots and pulled them on. This time when he stood, he did so slowly and managed to stay standing.
The hallway outside was better lit but utterly featureless, giving him not one hint of which way to go. He choked back an oath, then merely listened. Sure enough, he could hear faint voices far to his left, and following them did indeed lead him to the common room of the inn. Seated round the table were Otho and all his kin, while at the hearth the innkeep tended the iron kettle, which smelled of stew.
“Come sit down,” Garin called out. “You shouldn’t be up this soon.”
“Oh, I’m healing already.”
Still, Rhodry was glad enough to sit, even though the bench was much too short for his legs. The only way he could get comfortable was to perch forward on the edge and cross his legs loosely, so that he was almost resting on his knees, but it was better than hunkering down on the cold stone floor.
“Want some stew?” the innkeep called out.
“None at the moment, my thanks. I was hoping for another drink of that medicinal you gave me earlier.”
“Good idea. I’ll just go fetch it.”
The innkeep had no sooner disappeared down the corridor when they heard a faint pounding that must have come from the outer door. With a sigh Mic rose and trotted off to answer it. He came back with Yraen, carrying a mound of gear, a bedroll, saddlebags, even Rhodry’s winter cloak.
“Oho!” Rhodry said, “So I’ve been banished from the dun?”
“More or less.” Yraen dumped the mound unceremoniously on the floor near Rhodry’s feet. “Jill did mutter somewhat about it being safer for you here, like, but I know it aches the gwerbret’s heart to turn you out.”
“His grace is the very soul of honor. What about my horse?”
“Jill said to leave him be in the stables. Young Jahdo said he’d tend him.”
“Thank him for me, will you?”
“I will.” Yraen squatted down beside him. “How do you fare?”
“Not too badly. It was a shallow enough cut.”
The innkeep returned with the tiny glass of medicinal liquor, handed it to Rhodry, then trotted off again for more ale all round. Garin leaned forward to speak to Yraen.
“Any news from the dun? About more raiders and suchlike?”
“None yet, though Jill’s shut herself up in her tower room again. Creeps my flesh when she does that. I’m always afraid to look up when I’m walking in the ward for fear III see that cursed falcon flying about.”
The dwarves all nodded grim agreement.
“It’s beginning to get on my nerves, all this waiting,” Yraen went on. “And the rest of the men are as jumpy as cats in a bathhouse, especially now that it looks like his grace might lose Matyc’s brother’s loyalty.”
Rhodry winced. He’d rather forgotten about affairs of state when he’d been challenging the lord. But what was I supposed to do instead? he asked himself irritably. Let him cut down an old man in a piss-poor excuse for a combat? Yet all at once he could see an entire web of politics that he’d slashed when he’d killed Matyc. Perhaps he should have tried to talk the lord round?
“You all right?” Yraen was saying to him. “You’ve gone as white as snow.”
“Have I now? I think I’ll go back to bed. My thanks for bringing me my goods.”
“I’ll carry them down for you. Where are you sleeping?”
Once Yraen had dumped the gear into the chest and gone again, Rhodry lay down and fell asleep, boots, belt, and all. All night he had strange dreams of dragons and of eyes, disembodied elven eyes, floating in clouds and watching him from far away. When he woke again, he was soaked with sweat. The chamber was pitch-dark; he could guess that the fungi had given up the last of their stored sunlight some time before. He staggered up and flung open the door. Merciful light, dim but adequate, bloomed in the corridor outside. Leaving the door open, he went back in and found on the chest a pitcher of water and other necessary items. Apparently someone had come in during the night, and he’d never even woken.
He considered sleeping again, but he was afraid of the dreams. He cleaned up a bit, then returned to the common room. Only Otho and young Mic were sitting at the table, which was spread with a variety of oddments—two oblong wooden trays, a sack that seemed to be filled with sand, some pointed sticks, a bone object that looked like a small comb, and part of a split cowhide, all painted over and written upon.
“Morrow, Rhodry,” Mic said. “How do you feel this morning? It is morning, by the by.”
“A good bit better, my thanks. The cut aches, but it’s mending.”
“Come sit down.” Mic gestured at a bench. “Uncle Otho’s going to cast us an omen.”
The innkeep came bustling across from the fire and handed Rhodry a bowl of porridge, glistening with butter, and a wooden spoon.
“My thanks,” Rhodry said. “Has there been any word from Jill?”
“None, but it’s not long after dawn now. Mayhap—”
“Will you two hush?” Otho snarled. “I’m trying to prepare my mind, and I don’t need anyone nattering round me.”
With a choice oath the innkeep retreated. Rhodry ate his porridge in silence and watched while Otho poured pale white river sand into the trays, then used the comb to smooth it out as flat as parchment. With a stick he drew lines on one surface from corner to corner to divide the tray into four triangles. Then, on the outer edges, that is, the bottom of each triangle, he found the midpoint and connected those, overlaying a square to divide the area into four diamonds and eight smaller triangles.
“The lands of the map,” Otho announced. “See, each one is the true home of a metal. Number one here is iron, two copper, and so on. The third is quicksilver, and the twelfth is salt, and I suspect that those two lands are going to figure large in this map.”
“Salt’s not a metal,” Rhodry said.
“I know that, silver dagger. That’s why it stands for all the hidden things in life, feuds and suchlike, and the dweomer.”
“All the things that brighten a man’s day, indeed. How do you tell fortunes with it?”
“Watch. I’ll show you.”
Otho took the second stick, held it over the second tray, then turned his head away and began to poke dots into the sand, as fast as he could. When he was done, he had sixteen lines of dots and spaces to mull over.
“Now, these are the mothers, these rows. You take the first lines of each to form the first daughter, and the second lines for the second, and so on. I won’t bother to explain all the rules. It’d take me all day, and you’d find it tedious, no doubt.”
Mic was studying the painted hide. When Rhodry craned his neck for a look, the young dwarf slewed it round so he could see, but the alphabet was utterly foreign to him.
“My apologies, but I don’t know how to read that,” Rhodry said. “What is it?”
“An omenbook, or part of one, I should say,” Mic answered. “It’s a chart, like, of the basic meanings of the figures. Otho knows it off by heart.”
“I do when no one’s flapping their lips,” Otho snapped. “Now. Let me think. Hah! Just as I suspected. Here’s the Head of the Dragon, all right, falling into the first house again.” Deftly he poked a figure into the waiting sand, two dots close together and below them three dots vertically for the dragon’s body.
“Again?” Mic said.
“I did a reading a fortnight or so past,
and that same figure fell into that same place.” Otho paused for a profound sigh. “You can be certain it’s a true reading, when a thing comes up twice, and so we’re stuck with this wretched wyrm whether we want it or no.”
Otho brooded over the lines of dots for a few moments more, then poked figures into the map, one each for each land. When he came to the twelfth he hesitated.
“Last time I had a bit of luck fall in here,” he announced. “I hate to think what lies in store, this time around.” With a sigh he turned back to his lines, then howled. “The Red One! I knew it was going to be bad, I just knew it.” He poked some savage dots into the Land of Salt. “Never do business with an elf, my father said, and I should have listened to him.”
“According to this, Uncle Otho”—Mic flapped the hide in his direction—“the Red One’s not as bad as it might be if it falls into the twelfth.”
“Hah! That’s all I have to say to that, young Mic. Hah!” Otho snorted so hard that his beard fluttered. “Look at that! The Road lies in the Land of Tin.”
“And?” Rhodry said.
“Well, tin usually means the gods, but this time I think me it means long journeys.”
“Gods!” Rhodry snapped. “I’ve been a dolt!”
“It’s good to see you realize the truth about your essential nature.”
“Hold your tongue! I’ve got to go talk with Jill.”
“She told you to stay here,” Mic broke in. “Can’t I take her a message?”
“Well.” Rhodry considered. “Truly, it would be best. Do you have a thing a man could write on, and a pen and ink?”
“Don’t tell me you can read and write!” Mic sounded honestly awed.
“I can indeed.”
“There’s more to this wretched elf than one might suppose,” Otho said. “Not much, but more than one might suppose.”
Rhodry ignored him and called over the innkeep, who’d been shamelessly eavesdropping nearby. The writing materials available turned out to be a pair of wooden tablets, hinged with leather on one side and covered thickly with wax. In the frugal dwarven way, the writing could be smoothed off once a message was read, and the tablets used many times over. Rhodry found he could write well enough with the thin bone stylus the innkeep gave him. Once he was finished, he tied the tablets together with a thong.
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