Authors: Katharine Kerr
“Does your horse need tethering, Maddo? I’ll do it for you.”
“Oh, I’ve already got him out. Are you lads hungry? We’d best eat now, because there might be a bit of a surprise later.”
“A what?” Aethan looked vaguely annoyed. “Talking in riddles again, are you?”
“It’s good for you, makes you exercise your wits. Well, what few wits you have, anyway.”
Aethan threw a fake punch his way and grinned. They had known each other so long that at moments like these Branoic’s heart ached from feeling that he was an outsider, some foreigner who would never know their private language.
“But I’m hungry, sure enough,” Aethan went on. “What about you, Branno? Care to gnaw on some of the king’s stale hardtack?”
“It’ll do, truly. Maybe when we’re raiding we can shag us a barrel of ale to wash this foul stuff down with.”
At that perfectly ordinary remark Maddyn looked sly, but Branoic let it pass. The bard would tell him his secret when he wanted to and not a minute before.
As it turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. Just as the sun was setting, they heard a guard shout from the outer limits of the camp and rose to see what the trouble was. Two men came riding toward them from the east, and as the setting sun washed them with gold, Branoic realized that it was the Marked Prince and the councillor. Beside him Aethan laughed, a crow of triumph.
“So we’re going to Cerrmor after all, are we? Well played, Maddo! They took us in good and proper with that fanfare and pomp in the ward this morning.”
Cheering, laughing, the entire troop left the camp and jogged down the road to meet their liege. Since he was acutely aware of his place as the newest man in the troop, Branoic lingered off to one side rather than shove his way forward to get near to the prince. Muttering under his breath, Nevyn made his way free of the mob and came over, leading his horse.
“Ye gods!” the old man snapped. “They’ll be able to hear all this shouting back in Dun Drwloc if it keeps up.”
“Well, sir, we were all cursed disappointed when we thought we wouldn’t be riding with the prince.”
“Were you now? An honorable sentiment, that. Now listen, lad. From now on Maryn is a silver dagger and naught else. No doubt Caradoc will impress that upon you all, but it won’t hurt to say it more than once.”
“Of course, good sir. I take it he’ll have a new name and suchlike?”
“He won’t.” Nevyn gave him a sly smile. “I decided that if our enemies saw through this ruse at all, they’d be expecting a false name, so he’ll just be Maryn. It’s a very common name in this part of the world.”
“Well, so it is, but—”
“Trust me, lad. There are times when the safest place to hide something is out in plain sight.” The smile faded, and he looked suddenly very weary. “I’ll pray that this is one of those times.”
“Well and good, then, sir. So will I.”
“My thanks. Oh, by the way, lad, I have a favor to ask of you and Maddo—and Aethan, too, of course. Can Maryn share your fire and generally camp with you?”
“Of course! Ye gods, we’ll all be honored beyond dreaming, good councillor.”
“No doubt, but please, do your best to treat him the way you’d treat any other man. He won’t take offense—he knows that his life depends on it.”
Branoic nodded his agreement, but mentally he was half-giddy with pride—not because the true king of all Deverry would be dining with him that night, but because Nevyn had somehow assumed that Maddyn and he formed a unit, a pair you could take for granted. Me and Maddyn, he thought, it sounds right. Then he blushed, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard, the same way it did when he saw some pretty lass he fancied.
Although he of course never explained them to Branoic or indeed any of the silver daggers, Nevyn had several tricks at his disposal to hide the prince. For one thing, he simply withdrew all the glamours that the elemental spirits had been casting over the boy, so that when he changed into the scruffy brigga and much-mended shirt that Caradoc had ready for him, all his supernatural air of power and magnetism vanished along with the fine clothes. For another, with Maryn’s complete cooperation he ensorcelled the prince and suggested to his subconscious mind that he had difficulty in speaking—though in nothing else. He also suggested that on a simple cue, the difficulty would vanish. Once he removed the ensorcellment, the suggestion took effect, and the prince who’d always held forth like the hero of an ancient epic now stammered as he struggled to find the right words to express a simple, routine thought. All of the silver daggers swore in amazement and said that they wouldn’t recognize him themselves if they didn’t know better, but they, of course, thought that the prince was merely acting a part.
Which in a way he always was, or, what was perhaps worse, the prince always lived his part in the strange epic that they were composing not with their words, but with their lives. At times, when he remembered the happy, charming little lad that Maryn once had been, Nevyn felt like a murderer. Over the years he had trained the prince so well that he’d stripped away all trace of the lad’s individuality, pruned and sheared him as ruthlessly as a gardener in the king’s palace shapes an ornamental hedge or splays a climbing rose over its trellis in order to torture it into an
unnatural form. It was hard to tell at times whether Maryn was larger than life or smaller, a grand hero out of the Dawntime or a picture of a hero such as a Bardek illuminator would draw, all ink lines and thin colors. Either way, the kingdom needed him, not some all-too-human and complex man who would use the kingship rather than the kingship using him. Nevyn could only hope that in some future life either he himself or the Lords of Wyrd would make it up to Prince Maryn for slicing his personality away like the peel of an apple.
First, of course, they had to get the lad and his councillor safely to Cerrmor before he could be any kind of king. Nevyn figured out a way to hide himself, too. Since there had to be some reason for an old man to be traveling with a mercenary troop, he decided to pass himself off as a jewel merchant who’d paid the troop a fee for allowing him to ride in the safety of their numbers. He knew enough about precious stones to bring this ruse off, and since Casyl had given him what few royal jewels there were to take to the Cerrmor princess, he could use them as his stock-in-trade. The real danger now lay in their desperate need to keep up these ruses. Since working dweomer leaves obvious tracks on the etheric and astral planes for those who know how to look for them, Nevyn could use no dweomer at all until the prince was safely in Cerrmor territory—not one single spell, not even lighting a fire or scrying someone out. He’d also asked the kings of the elements to keep their people away from him and the prince, which meant that he was deprived of any danger warning that the Wildfolk might give him, too. After two hundred years of living wrapped round by dweomer, he felt naked, just as in one of those hideous dreams where you find yourself being presented to the High King only to realize that your skirts or brigga have somehow been left behind at home.
In the morning they had a more mundane problem to worry about, or at least, Nevyn profoundly hoped that it was mundane. They woke to a slate-gray sky and a western wind that smelt of spring rain, and just after noon the storm broke. Although the rain held steady, the wind dropped in a few hours. Nevyn agreed with the captain that they’d better keep riding as long as the roads were passable. What troubled him was wondering if the storm was a
natural phenomenon or if some dark dweomerman had called it up. There was nothing he could do to find out without giving their ruse away, and much less could he fight back with dweomer.
That evening, when he shared a cold dinner with Cara-doc, he had to force his eyes away from the campfire lest he start seeing the Wildfolk in it. Since the captain was wrapped in a black hiraedd of his own, they had an unpleasant meal of it until Nevyn decided to ease Caradoc’s mood.
“What troubles your heart, Captain? It must be a grave thing indeed.”
“Do I look as glum as that?”
“You do, truly.”
Caradoc sighed, hesitated, then shrugged.
“Well, good councillor—I mean, good merchant—I’ve just been wondering what kind of welcome I’m in for down in Cerrmor.”
“Well, the king’s pardoned you already—for all and sundry and in advance.”
“But I’d never hold him to it if it was going to cause him trouble, and it might. There’s a powerful lord who just might take umbrage at that kind of pardon, and I don’t want him stirring things up behind the prince’s back, like.”
“Oh.”
They sat in silence for a moment more.
“Ah horseshit!” Caradoc said abruptly. “What happened was this. I wasn’t welcome at home for a number of reasons that I’ll keep to myself, if you don’t mind and all, and my father found me a place in the warband of a man named Lord Tidvulc. Ever hear of him?”
“I haven’t, truly.”
“Well, he was decent enough in his way, but his eldest son was a slimy little tub of eel snot, not that you could tell his lordship that, of course. And so our young lordling—gods, I’ve almost forgotten his name—let me see, I think it was Gwaryn or Gwarc or suchlike—anyway, this little pus-boil went and got a bondwoman with child. I guess he was enough of a hound to not mind the fleas. And then he had the stinking gall to try to kill her to keep the news from getting out! I happened to be passing by her hut, and luckily there were a couple of the lads with me for witnesses,
because we heard the poor bitch screaming and sobbing as his noble lordling tried to strangle her. So I grabbed him and broke both his arms.” Caradoc looked shame-struck rueful. “Don’t know what came over me all of a sudden. She was only a bondwoman, but it rubbed me wrong, like.”
“I wouldn’t let myself feel shamed if I were you, Captain. Rather the opposite.”
Caradoc shrugged away the implied praise.
“So of course Lord Tidvulc had to kick me out of the warband. I got the feeling he didn’t want to, but it was his first-born son and all. The trouble is, his lordship was no young man when I left, all those years ago, and I’ll wager anything you please that his son’s the lord now.”
“And no doubt he’ll be less than pleased to see you? Hum, I see your point, but you know, he may be dead himself by now. There’s been plenty of fighting down Cerrmor way.”
“True spoken.” The captain looked a good bit more cheerful. “Let’s pray so, huh? Naught I can do about it now, anyway.”
For five days the silver daggers rode wet and slept that way, too, as they picked their way across Pyrdon, keeping to the country lanes and wild trails and avoiding the main-traveled roads. Although the mercenaries grumbled in the steady stream of foul oaths typical of men at arms, they stayed healthy enough, but Nevyn began to feel the damp badly. At times he needed help to stand in the mornings, and he could hear his joints pop and complain every time he mounted his horse. Even his dweomer-induced vitality had its natural limits. Just when he was thinking of dosing himself with some of his own herbs, the storm blew itself out, only to have the weather turn hot and muggy. The midges and flies came out in force and hovered above the line of march as thick as smoke. Finally, though, just on the next day, they reached the river that marked the Pyrdon border, and, at its joining with the Aver Trebyc, the only truly large town in the west.
At that time Dun Trebyc was a far different place from the center of learning and bookcraft that it is today. Although it was nominally in Cantrae-held territory, and its lord sent some small tribute to reinforce the fiction, in
truth it was a free city and scrupulously neutral, a town where spies from both sides mingled to the profit of both or neither, depending on how many were lying at any given time. Since it was also a place Where everyone went armed, and mercenaries were common, no one remarked on the silver daggers when they rode through the gates late on a steamy-hot afternoon. After the slop-muddy road, the streets were welcome, even though they were paved only with logs instead of cobbles, and the prospect of a night in an inn more welcome still.
“I only hope we can find a place to ourselves,” Caradoc remarked to Nevyn. “Last thing we need is a brawl on our hands, and when you mix two free troops in the same tavern, brawls are about what you get.”
Much to Nevyn’s relief, and doubtless the captain’s, too, they were indeed lucky enough to find an inn over by the east gate that had just been vacated by another pack of mercenaries. Although the men had to sleep four and five to each small room, everyone had a place to spread their blankets and a roof over their heads. As befitted his supposed station as a wealthy merchant, Nevyn had a tiny chamber with a proper bed all to himself. Branoic carried his gear up for him, and Maryn insisted on coming along with a bucket of charcoal for the brazier.
“Nobody’s going to believe a pr-prince would c-carry c-coals,” the lad said. “Ye gods, I’ll be g-glad when we reach the harbor town! Its rotten name is too hard for me to say. I’ll never make f-f-fun of anyone who st-st-st-st who has trouble talking again, I sw-sw-swear it.”
“Coming down for dinner, my lord?” Branoic said.
“I don’t think so, truly. I’ve already told the serving wench to bring me up a tankard of dark and some cold meat. These old bones are tired, lads.”
They were indeed tired enough to make him take a nap for a couple of hours after the girl had brought his scant supper. Since Nevyn usually only slept about four hours a night, he was quite surprised when he woke to a dark room and a charcoal fire that was burning itself out in the brazier. He added more sticks, blew on them like an ordinary man, then wiped his hands on his brigga and sat down to think.
More than ever he wished he could simply scry through
the fire and talk with the other dweomermasters who were part of this scheme. He badly wanted to know whether the situation in Cerrmor had changed since his last talk with the priests of Bel there, and he would have liked some opinions on the character of this Tieryn Elyc, too. There remained as well the problem of their enemies, who might well have seen through their ruse.