A Time of Omens. Katharine Kerr
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 centre 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 only paved 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 harbour 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?’ Maddyn 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 dweomer-masters 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.
‘Nevyn?’ It was Maddyn, hesitating in the doorway. ‘Have you seen Maryn?’
‘Not since you two brought up my things.’ Nevyn leapt to his feet like a bounding hare. ‘Have you?’
‘I haven’t. I’ve looked all over this cursed inn, even out in the privies.’
Swearing under his breath Nevyn followed the bard down to the tavern room, where a handful of silver daggers were drinking and dicing in the uncertain lantern light. From the way they fell silent and froze at the first sight of their lieutenant, Nevyn felt trouble was brewing. Maddyn apparently agreed.
‘I want answers!’ he snarled. ‘Where’s Maryn?’
The men looked back and forth between each other for a good minute before a slender lad named Albyn finally spoke, and he stared fixedly at the far wall rather than at Maddyn.
‘Out and about with a couple of the lads.’
‘That’s not good enough. Out where and with whom?’
‘Er, well, Branoic and Aethan, so he’s in good hands.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Ah, well, we were all talking, like, during the evening meal, and it turned out the lad had never …’ He glanced Nevyn’s way with a nervous tic of the cheek. ‘… never been with a lass, like. So we were all thinking what a pity that was, and …’
‘By every god in the sky!’ Maddyn’s voice was a growl. ‘Are you saying those two piss-poor excuses for dolts took Maryn to a brothel?’
‘Just that. Er, it was just a prank, Maddo.’
‘You lackwit dog! Which brothel?’
‘How would we know, Maddo? None of us have ever been in Dun Trebyc before. They went out to ask around, like.’
When Maddyn’s cheeks flushed a dangerous shade of purple, Albyn shrank back, half-ducking a blow that never came. With a deep exhalation of breath, Maddyn got himself under control.
‘We’re all going to go out and ask around. All right, you six – hunt up the other lads and go out in squads, four men to a squad, say, and scour this wretched town down. Find him. Do you hear me? Find him fast.’
As the men scrambled up and hurried off to follow orders, Nevyn barely saw them leave. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, partly from rage, but mostly fear. Maryn was off in one of the most lawless towns in the kingdom, and he didn’t dare use a trace of dweomer to find him.
‘We’d best go look ourselves,’ Maddyn said.
‘Just so. And when I get my hands on Aethan and young Branno …’
‘Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’ll hold them down so you can do it.’
Since Dun Trebyc was the kind of town it was, finding a brothel turned out to be easy enough. Down near the river the two silver daggers with their prince in tow came across the Tupping Ram, a surprisingly big two-storey roundhouse with its own stableyard out in back and a palisade made of split logs all round. Over the gate, right next to the painted wooden sign, hung a well-worn broom smelling of sour ale.
‘I’ll wager they sell more than beer, judging from the look of that sign,’ Branoic said with a grin. ‘In we go, lads.’
The stable turned out to be a big open barn without stalls. As they hitched their horses to a rail near the far side, Branoic noticed Aethan looking over the various other horses, as well as he could in the dim lantern-light, anyway.
‘There’s a lot of devices and suchlike on this gear. Looks like the marks belong to some free troops. Listen, young ones: watch what you say in there. We’ve got rivals, and I don’t want a brawl. Understand?’
‘Just so,’ Branoic said. ‘I didn’t come here with fist-fights on my mind, anyway.’
The aleroom was stinking-hot from the fire in the hearth and the press of men packed into it – merchants, riders for the local lord, a couple of other silver daggers, and a good-sized mob of men from a mercenary troop that wore a black sword embroidered on one sleeve for a device. Strolling around or perching suggestively on the tables were a variety of young women in varying states of undress while three older women with hard eyes rushed round serving ale. Even though they’d had plenty to drink back at the inn, Aethan insisted on collaring one of the women and ordering three tankards of dark. Once they had their beer they found a free spot to stand in the curve of the wall and eyed the merchandise. Maryn’s face was flushed scarlet, whether from the heat or embarrassment, Branoic couldn’t tell. A little of both, he supposed.
‘I rather fancy that redhead over there,’ Aethan said. ‘Either of you want her?’
Maryn merely shrugged and buried his nose in his tankard.
‘Not