The Bitterbynde Trilogy (35 page)

By the time she emerged from behind the curtain, she could hear Sianadh's laughing voice filling the room with Ertish banter, and his nephew Liam's quick replies. Muirne, setting pancakes and redcurrant sauce on the table with small, neat hands, did not raise her auburn head. Seven thin braids, like rats' tails or sleeve-lacings, had been randomly plaited into the carnelian tresses around her face. Tiny colored beads adorned the length of them.

The room was spacious, clean, and filled with a fascinating assortment of things. On the flagstone floor, fresh rushes had been strewn. Overhead, a horn lantern swung among bunches of dried leaves and flowers that dangled from low, smoke-blackened rafters. Wall-hooks supported a row of dented saucepans. Beside the oven and fireplace at the back, a door and a sunny window gave on to a courtyard. In the opposite corner, the foot of a bed showed from behind another curtain. Along one wall, benches and shelves were laden with a profusion of assorted objects and pungent ingredients: mortars and pestles of several sizes, spoons, sieves, a rack of knives, string, squares of cloth, stoppered bottles and jars, labeled, a small hand-mill, jugs, measures, cruets, a funnel, bowls, tongs, balances, scales, and other artifacts of the same ilk. Among this farrago crowded mounds of vegetation fresh and dried; leaves, stems, roots, berries, bark, flowers, seeds, nuts, fungous growths, grasses, seedpods, stalks, and grains.

Central to the room stood a large table, well scrubbed, upon which a fair proportion of the bench's contents had encroached at one end, the other presumably being kept free for dining. Along each side of it, settles of unplaned oak provided ample seating. A partition screened the room's front end, which could be penetrated through a curtained aperture to reach the tiny shop and the front door, which opened straight onto Bergamot Street with a clang of a bell.

Ethlinn's hands wove signs.

“My mother asks if ye will be seated at our table to break your fast,” said Liam, bowing slightly, stiffly. There was no hint of sarcasm in his bearing, nothing but respectful curiosity in his gaze. What had Sianadh told them of her? What, indeed, did he know of her?

“Now,
chehrna
, just for your sake, we shall use only common tongue and handspeak,” said her companion of the road, “but not until we have downed a goodly portion of this fine fare. A quiet table be a busy table, and by me the cooking of Eth and Birdie here was ever beloved.”

But the Ertishman's high jollity could scarcely contain itself, and it was not long before he was regaling the diners with the tale of his embarrassment at the hands of the little folk—the miniature siofra, or fanes, as they were sometimes called—at their glamour-fair. The story lost nothing in the telling, and soon all diners rocked with mirth. Then a bell rang and Muirne rose swiftly.

“I shall see to it, Mother.” She went behind the leather curtain to the screened-off front of the room. Presently she returned carrying an apron full of plums.

“A scald,” she said. “I made up the poultice.” <> her mother signed.

“And how long did it take ye to make the base for that poultice?” asked Sianadh. His sister shrugged.

“I'll wager it took hours, gathering, washing, drying, pounding, brewing, straining, and suchlike, and look what it got for ye,
tambalai
—a few plums. Nay, Sparrow-Bird. I be not at odds with ye, I know the fees your mother sets—ye were just abiding by her wish. But she charges far too little, allus has, and works too hard.” He sighed. “Ah, but all that has changed now, and it be time for the telling.”

Muirne deposited the plums in a dish.

“See, Imrhien here,” said Sianadh, leaning on the table confidingly, “she be a lady of means. She was traveling to Tarv to get a cure for paradox poisoning, but her bodyguard met with some misfortune. Luckily I chanced along, and here we be. Ye do not have to go telling all and sundry about her visit, she wants no song and dance, just a cure.” Imrhien nodded. Sianadh had a unique way of framing his explanations.

Ethlinn signed a complicated message to her daughter.

“At once?” the lass asked. The carlin nodded. “My mother has asked Muirne to go on an errand,” explained Liam. Muirne removed her apron and took up a basket and some coppers from a crock on the mantelpiece. Then she was gone, pulling on her taltry. The inevitable bell signaled her departure.

“Now we can really talk,” said Sianadh. “Meaning no offense to the Sparrow, but what she does not know cannot harm her. Ethlinn and I spoke together last night when ye young 'uns were abed, and by the end of it we agreed that ye, Liam boyo, and ye only, should know the full truth of the matter.”

“Ye do me a kindness, Uncle.”

“Never. I know ye can make yourself useful, that is all. The rest of the matter that concerns ye be this—I came upon a lost treasure out there in the Lofties, a treasure of moonrafter and candlebutter and baubles so busy, ye cannot even dream of it. Imrhien kind of opened the doors to it, and we brought some back with us. Half of it belongs to her—we saved each other's hides at whiles all along the way—but believe me, a tenth part of it, a thousandth part of it, would keep us all in luxury all our born days.”

“Mother of Warriors!” exclaimed Liam. “So 'tis to be rich, we are, is it?” He jumped up and danced a little jig around the room, his mother and uncle smiling on his enthusiasm. “Rich at last!” crowed the young man. “After being dirt poor for centuries. At last we shall have all the good things we deserve.”

“Deserve!” Sianadh barked. “Deserve! Boyo, did your mother never tell ye what our granny's wise words were on that matter?”

Liam ceased his hopping and eyed his uncle inquiringly.

“She used to say nobody deserves aught in this world,” said Sianadh. “Naught, neither good nor bad. Ye get what ye get, and that's the way of it. Those who talk of deserving or not deserving only end up with a chip on their shoulder.”

“Ach, whatever,” Liam said lightly, sitting himself down again. Sianadh winked conspiratorially at Imrhien.

“Hearken, boyo, point yer lugs this way. I be going back with an expedition to get more, a big haul, and I need your help. Ethlinn tells me that since last I was here my old cronies have drifted away—there be only one left of the trusty few, but he be crooked with a broken shoulder from some scrape with mercenaries in an alehouse. So I need your strong arms, boyo, and half a dozen trusty lads.”

“But if 'tis sildron, then surely it belongs by rights to the King-Emperor?”

“Now, do not go getting like your brother, Liam, this be the Bear you be talking to. Sure and the King-Emperor's got more Rusty Jack's Friend than ye could think of and would not be wanting more. But after we take all we want, we will let the King-Emperor's Royal Court know that we have suddenly discovered a stack of riches and we ain't touched a penny. They may claim the rest, barring the reward they would give us, of course. There be some things too big for us to take, and besides, I would rather these riches fell into the right hands, the hands of ourselves and good King James and the Dainnan, not into the clutches of bloodthirsty reivers. Ain't that right,
chehrna
?”

“By all means, Uncle,” Liam interjected eagerly. “I can drum up the boys we need for such an expedition, in no time at all!”

“Aye—good lad. But before we set out, none of them must know the treasure exists. It be vital that there be no chance of word leaking out into the city, and no matter how trusty your comrades may be, they be only mortal, and the tongues of mortals may slip. Tell them that 'tis a rich foreigner's hunting expedition and that we are to meet this sporting noble somewhere upriver.”

“Ye ask me to lie to my comrades?”

“I demand that ye lie to them, or else there shall be no expedition. None but we four here at this table must know about what lies under Waterstair—not even your brother or your sister must know. Later there shall be time enough to reveal all, but not until we have taken all we need for ourselves. Now swear to secrecy, Liam.”

The youth looked at his mother, who nodded.

“For ye, and for riches, I swear it,” he said. “When do we start?”

“As soon as ye have gathered a company and provisions have been purchased.”

“And are ye to accompany us, Lady Imrhien?”

She began to nod her head, but Sianadh cut across the gesture with a word.

“Nay!
Chehrna
, the wilderness be no place for lasses. Remain in safety—I shall bring back your share, to be sure.”

The girl frowned, shaking her head.

Gently he said, “Remain here and undergo the cure ye have wished for. Ethlinn, can ye give her back her rightful face?”

Imrhien held her breath. She saw the woman's shoulders sag slightly, as though Sianadh had placed a burden on them. After a moment she signed to her son.

“My mother says that she cannot help. Her Wand is powerful, but it may not safely cure such a bad case of paradox without possibly causing scarring,” Liam interpreted.

<> Ethlinn signed.

“A Daughter of the Winter Sun, that means a Carlin,” explained Sianadh. “The Carlin of whom my sister speaks is very great, perhaps the most powerful of all carlins, Maeve One-Eye. But where might she be, Eth? She travels, does she not, and is never in one place for longer than a season?”

Ethlinn's hands danced.

“Every Autumn, the dame abides near a small village by the name of White Down Rory,” Liam translated, “near Caermelor.”

In sudden anger, Imrhien thumped her fist on the table. Wearily her head sank into her hands. Had she come all this way across the girth of Eldaraigne, only to find that she must cross back again?

Presently Sianadh spoke.

“Mayhap there be some other healer we could try in Gilvaris Tarv—a dyn-cynnil or something?”

Ethlinn's hands said, <>

“Well then, there be nowt for it but to use our riches to organize a road-caravan to take our lass safely toward the Royal City, to see the carlin Maeve at White Down Rory. No need to worry—the cure will just take a little longer, that be all. But 'twill come—aye, that's it! While Liam and I be upriver, loading our packhorses with king's-biscuit and gold, Imrhien shall be journeying westward in comfort and safety. The best of conveyances shall be found, and in no time at all ye'll reach the other side of Eldaraigne and your face shall be restored to its former beauty—I will not recognize ye when ye come back to see me living in my golden palace!”

Imrhien forced a smile.

<>

But the prospect of traveling without Sianadh seemed bleak.

With that settled, the Ertishman briskly turned to business.

“Now, my young nephew—how many comrades can ye muster, who be strong of arm, worthy of trust, and able to keep their mouths shut?”

The doorbell jangled. Ethlinn rose to go to the shopfront, but before she could leave the table, the leather curtain was thrust aside and a man entered the room. He was tall, dressed in a guard's military uniform of studded leather; his brown hair was worn long, pulled back tightly into a club in the style of the Stormriders.

“By the Star,” he exclaimed, “'tis Uncle Bear!” Sianadh leaped to his feet, embracing the newcomer with bearlike hugs and matching growls. Still slapping one another on the back, they returned to the table. Liam poured another tankard of ale and set it before his elder brother.

“Imrhien,” said Sianadh, “this here be Diarmid, my other nephew.”

It hissed through the room, Diarmid's sharp intake of breath as his eyes fell on the wrecked face. Ethlinn signed to him. He looked down at his cup, then said formally, with a quick nod, “Your servant, my lady.”

She made the greeting sign.

“Well, soldier,” Sianadh said heartily, “what brings ye here? How does the art of the mercenary suit ye?”

“It suits me well, Uncle.” The voice was grave. Diarmid's face resembled Muirne's with its narrow, pointed look; like his sister, he was comely. His jaw was clean-shaven, and the roots of his hair were dark red. “I make a living and have learned much.”

“Still want to join the Dainnan, eh, Boldheart?”

“Aye. More than ever, that is my goal.”

<>

“So, that be it? Learn as much as ye can of warrior skills amongst the hired muscle of Gilvaris Tarv and then leave them and head west.”

“Aye.”

“Ye've always been a King's man, through and through. And the finest of the warriors of Erith would be proud to count ye amongst them.”

The front bell jangled annoyingly. Ethlinn left the room to attend to the shop, while the three men fell deep into serious conversation. When her patient had departed, Ethlinn held the leather curtain aside and beckoned to Imrhien to enter the shop. The girl now noticed that a stag's head was embroidered in dark blue on Ethlinn's left sleeve.

The state of the cell-like room was similar to that of the larger one, but more ordered. Ethlinn showed Imrhien some of the concoctions, ointments, pastes, cordials, and powders and tools of her trade. Her hands signaled slowly, clearly.

<> Ethlinn held up a stick of wood some two feet long, plain and smooth save for three nodes near the top, each facing in a different direction and each at a different level. She indicated the nodes.

<>

She slipped the Wand back into the sheath hanging from her belt.

<> She touched her fingers to the painted blue disk on her forehead. <> The same fingers touched Imrhien's face softly, with a mother's caress, as nobody had ever touched that monstrosity.