Stormrider (38 page)

“Damn, it was a dream, after all,” he said aloud. “I am more tired than I thought.” He drew the saber from its scabbard.

The Keltoi runes shone, and the golden fist guard gleamed bright in the morning light.

Sheathing the blade once more, Gaise stepped into the saddle.

“My thanks to you, Riamfada,” he called out. There was no answer, though it seemed the breeze picked up, rustling in the branches above him.

With a wave he turned his horse and rode back to Three Streams.

Apothecary Ramus sat outside the Moidart’s offices as a seemingly endless stream of people exited and entered the rooms. He had never seen such relentless activity within the castle. On the ride to Eldacre there had been thousands of soldiers, some marching in columns, others engaged in maneuvers. Wagons and carts clogged the roads, most bringing in supplies but some carrying frightened families toward the north. Rumors abounded. The king had decided to move his capital north, and Eldacre was to be the center of the war. The king was dead, and the Moidart had declared war upon his killers. Everyone, however,
knew
that the Pinance was dead and that his head had been held up before his own troops. That act of savagery had, much to the surprise of the apothecary, impressed a great number of people.

“Ah, you don’t mess with our Moidart,” the baker had said proudly when Ramus had bought his daily loaf of bread. Others in the bakery had agreed. “Canny man,” someone added. “Pinance bit off more than he could chew when he came north.”

“Never much of a brain on him,” said the baker.

“No, but the Moidart used his head,” the other man said to general laughter.

It baffled Ramus that such an act could produce levity.

He had known nothing of the Moidart’s coup. Ramus had waited in the dank, dark dungeon for a full night and a day, cold and terrified. When the door finally opened and light flooded in, he had screamed with terror.

“Whisht, man!” snapped Huntsekker. “You’re free.”

“Free?”

“Aye. Come on out and stop your wailing. I have a pounding headache, and the noise is making me irritable.”

Ramus had tottered out. He had been offered no food or transport and had trudged back to Old Hills, arriving at his home just over two hours later. Not a word from the Moidart. It was on the way home that he had passed a group of soldiers, two of whom he knew. They had told him of the murder of the Pinance and how the Moidart had acquired a new army.

It was then that he learned that the coup had taken place before the dawn. Yet he had been left in the dungeon almost until dusk. Ramus had slept, then, for almost fourteen hours. After that he tried to reestablish his routines. He drank chamomile tisanes to calm his nerves and went back to the preparation of tinctures and creams, salves and balms.

Alterith Shaddler, the schoolmaster, came to the apothecary complaining of a toothache. Ramus examined him and pointed out that the tooth needed to be pulled. He saw the fear in Alterith’s eyes.

“I am not good with pain, Apothecary. Is there not some other remedy?”

Aye, thought Ramus, you’d not have suffered this pain had the Pinance lived. You were due to hang alongside me. “No,” said Ramus. “I am sorry. I can give you something to dull the pain, but it will get worse. Better to have it pulled today. I can do it for you immediately.”

“I’ll think on it,” said Shaddler.

“Do not take too long.”

After three days Ramus was beginning to feel like his old self. Then came the summons from the Moidart.

Ramus sat quietly, his bag of balms upon his lap. Colonel Galliott came by, but he did not speak. The man looked terribly tired. He seemed to have aged ten years since Ramus had last seen him. He was followed by a slender young man with fair hair. Ramus heard him announced by the Moidart’s servant as Bendegit Law.

Time dragged on. Ramus was thirsty, and he stopped a passing servant and requested something to drink. “I’ll send someone,” said the man. Then he rushed off. No one came.

After three hours the bustle around him slowed down. Servants moved along the hallway, lighting lanterns. He saw the man he had asked for water and repeated his request. “I’ll get it now, Apothecary,” he said apologetically. This time he did come back. Ramus thanked him and drank deeply.

He heard his name called and moved to the door. Another servant opened it and announced him. Ramus stepped inside.

The Moidart was sitting at a desk upon which was a mass of papers. He leaned back in his chair, his hooded eyes focusing on the newcomer. “Did you bring the balms?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. I do not have all day. Bring them to me.”

Ramus moved forward and laid his bag upon the desk. Opening it, he produced three jars, wax-sealed. Upon each was a hand-painted label with carefully written instructions. The Moidart lifted one. “You only make these for me, do you not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you have been doing so for years.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It puzzles me why you write the instructions so carefully upon each jar. After all this time I know how to apply the balms.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You are sounding like a parrot bird,” said the Moidart. “Sit down, Ramus. Relax. No one is going to hang you today.”

“Is the war coming to Eldacre, my lord?” Ramus asked as he settled into the chair.

“I fear that it is. A more stupid and wasteful business there never was. Fields will not be planted, food will run low, tax revenues will dry up—save from the makers of swords and munitions.”

“And many will lose their lives.”

“Yes. Productive men will cease to be productive. So how are you faring after your brush with death?”

“I am fine, my lord. And you?”

“In pain, but then I am always in pain. There is no time to paint now, and I miss it. There is a ruined church on the high hills close to the winter manor house. In the late afternoon the sunlight upon it is most pleasing. I had thought to re-create it on canvas.”

“I would like to see that, my lord.”

“My son is coming home. He escaped the treachery, fought his way clear.”

“That must have been a great relief to you.”

“Aye. I need a good cavalry general now. That will be all, Apothecary.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Ramus, clambering to his feet.

“I fear I will paint no more, so there will be no further need for you to attend the castle. I shall send riders to collect the balms in future.”

“I am sorry to hear that, my lord. Perhaps when the war is over you will feel differently.”

But the Moidart had returned his attention to the papers on his desk and did not answer.

Huntsekker disliked riding, but at this moment he would far sooner have been on horseback. Instead he was driving a four-horse wagon along a narrow road, Maev Ring sitting beside him. In the back of the wagon, hidden under sacks of grain, lay eight large wooden boxes, each containing 250 pounds in silver chaillings. Under Maev Ring’s direction Huntsekker had dug them up the previous night. It had taken all his strength to haul them from the earth. Each one weighed as much as a full-grown man.

Huntsekker was a powerful man, but by the time he had hauled the boxes from the small wood to the farmhouse and loaded them on to the wagon, he was exhausted. Once back inside the house he sank gratefully into a chair, his hands and arms still trembling from the effort of heaving the last of the boxes to the wagon floor. “Smaller chests would have been wise, I think,” he told Maev.

“My Jaim had no problem carrying them out there,” she observed.

“I’ll wager he grumbled worse than I did,” said Huntsekker. “Jaim Grymauch was never too fond of physical labor unless it came to stealing bulls.”

Maev Ring suddenly laughed. Her face became instantly more youthful, highlighting for Huntsekker the beauty she must once have been. Hell, man, he thought, she’s beautiful enough as she is now!

“You are correct,” Maev said with a smile. “He complained bitterly and swore it had ruined his back.”

“Why did you bury it?” he asked.

“A highland woman with so much coin? What would she spend it on, Huntsekker? I have acquired many business interests in my life. Each has cost me a great deal of coin, yet each has then supplied ten times the outlay in profit. I seem to make money far faster than I can spend it.”

“You make that sound like a complaint. Most men would give their left arms for such a talent.”

“Yes, that is exactly the kind of thinking that shows why they do not possess it in the first place. One doesn’t become rich by risking one’s limbs. The problem with men is that they bring obsessive pride into their undertakings. Often it blinds them to their own shortcomings. Making money is easy. If I were Varlish, I would own a palace, and the king would likely make me a duchess. As a Rigante I am not allowed to use a bank or to own large parcels of land. So I bury my wealth. Since Jaim died I have used smaller boxes.”

“Shame we didn’t dig those up,” muttered Huntsekker.

“We will leave soon after first light,” she said. “You may sleep in Kaelin’s room. It is at the top of the stairs on the left.”

Huntsekker had not slept well. His dreams had been all of Maev Ring and her smile, and he awoke discomfited and uneasy.

Now, as they sat close together on the wagon’s driving seat, he could smell the scent of her hair.

“You are not a talkative man,” she observed.

“Not unless I have something to say.”

“I recall you were married once.”

“Twice. First wife left me while I was in the army. Second wife died. Sixteen years ago now. Selma. Good girl.”

“You were still young then. Why did you not remarry?”

“Why didn’t you?” he countered.

“I wish I had,” she said.

“To Grymauch?”

“Of course to Grymauch,” she snapped. “What a stupid question.”

“Wouldn’t have worked,” he said.

“Would you care to explain that?” she asked coldly.

“No. Don’t think I would.”

“Well, that is truly irritating.”

“No more than you should expect from a stupid man,” he retorted.

“I didn’t say you were stupid. I said the question was stupid. There is a difference. If I offended you, I apologize.”

The wagon reached a slight rise. Huntsekker flicked the reins across the backs of the team. “It’s not important,” he said. “I can be as stupid as the next man. I never pretended to be clever. Neither did Jaim.”

“I never understood why you liked him. He stole your bull, and he prevented you from killing Chain Shada. I would have thought you would have hated him.”

“I don’t hate anyone. Never have. And I couldn’t really tell you why I liked him. Everyone did, though. Galliott often talks of him. He took it hard when his musketeers shot Jaim down. He’d spent two days trying to find Jaim to arrest him and prevent him from making an appearance.”

“Yes, people liked him,” said Maev. “They soon forget, though. Parsha Willets said she loved him. Didn’t stop her marrying that cloth merchant two years after Jaim was dead.”

“Damn, but you are a hard woman,” said Huntsekker. “I used to see Parsha Willets. Damn fine whore. Always gave a man his chailling’s worth.”

“Thank you for sharing that.”

Huntsekker ignored the sarcasm. “I saw her two nights after Jaim’s death. Went to her house. We sat and talked for a little. I could see she wasn’t in the mood for business. Her eyes had a kind of faraway look. She’d been drinking and crying. She didn’t say much at first, but I sat there quiet and she started to talk. A lot of it flew by me. Love and such. Then she started to slur her words. All the color had gone from her face. When she passed out, I knew it wasn’t just a drunken stupor. I went and got the apothecary. Nice little man. He got to her, managed to rouse her a little, forced her to drink something. Then she vomited. I carried her up to her bed. The apothecary sat with her for a while. I waited downstairs. When he came down, he took the goblet she’d been using, dipped his finger into the dregs, and tasted it. He told me the name of the stuff, but I’ve forgotten it now. Anyway, it was poison when taken in large doses. Parsha Willets tried to kill herself. As far as her marrying the cloth man, well, good for her. Whoring’s no trade for a woman of her age. I’ll bet Jaim would have said the same.”

Maev was silent for a moment. “I never had any ill feeling toward Parsha. In some ways I envied her. Not her life, you understand. Merely the fact that she and Jaim . . . had something I did not. It was kind of you to help her as you did.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Why would it not? Kindness is not a trait one would associate with someone in your chosen profession.”

“A farmer, you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Harvester. You kill for the Moidart. I don’t doubt it was you who wrung the neck of that vile bishop after the trial.”

“Some tasks are more pleasurable than others,” he admitted.

It began to rain, and Maev busied herself raising a canvas hood above the driving platform. The wind rippled at it, and the hissing and splattering of raindrops made conversation difficult. That was a blessed relief to Huntsekker.

Sadly, the rain did not last long. Huntsekker was beginning to dread the night camp.

“So how did you become a hunter of men?” she asked.

“I forget. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Sometimes. It makes a break from the monotony of farm life. Most of the men I’ve hunted have been killers themselves, or thieves, or rapists.”

“And that justifies your calling?”

“I don’t have to justify myself to anyone.”

“Then what are you doing now?”

“By heavens, woman, given the choice between continuing this conversation and having a wasp nest in my ear, I’d choose the latter.”

Her laughter rang out. “You are easily nettled, Harvester. Are you usually so short-tempered?”

Huntsekker did not reply. Three men had moved into sight on the road ahead and were waiting for them. One of the men carried a musket; the other two had pistols in their belts.

“Good evening to you,” said the man with the musket as Huntsekker hauled on the reins.