A Time of Omens

  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.

  “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 sight of their lieutenant, Nevyn felt trouble brewing. Maddyn apparently agreed.

  “I want answers!” he snarled. “Where’s Maryn?”

  The men looked back and forth between one another 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-story 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 bam 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 fistfights on my mind, anyway.”

  The ale room 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 me,” Branoic said. “Go to, lad!”

  As Aethan strolled off, a pale blonde who reminded Branoic a bit of Clwna came bobbing over, wearing nothing but a drape of red Bardek silk around her hips. Although she gave Branoic a smile it was Maryn that she sidled up to.

  “And what’s your name, lad?” she said, batting eyelashes pitch-black with Bardek kohl.

  “M-m-maryn.” He could hardly keep his eyes off her breasts and their nipples, which gleamed an unnatural red. “W-wh-wha—ah c-c-curse it!”

  “Oh, now here, don’t let a bit of a stammer bother you! A well-favored lad like you doesn’t have to worry about fine words when it comes to winning a lass’s heart.” She gave Branoic a sly sidelong wink. “As for you, my handsome friend, it looks like our Avra’s sitting all lonely over there.”

  By the fire a tousle-headed blonde in a gauzy shift was lounging on a cushioned bench and eyeing him with some interest. Branoic left the prince to the practiced attentions of the young whore and made his way across the room in a hurry, before someone else could claim her. As he approached she sat up and gave him a slow, sleepy smile. The shift was stuck to her back and breasts with sweat. For some reason, that night, he found the sight utterly arousing, and he sat down next to her and kissed her without saying a word. From the sweet taste of her mouth she’d been chewing cinnamon.

  “Oh, I do like that,” she said, giving him another smile. “A man who’s got his mind made up. Can I have a sip of that ale?”

  Grinning, he handed her the tankard, which she took in both hands so she could gulp like a thirsty child.

  “Hot in here tonight.”

  “Too hot.” She handed him back the nearly empty tankard. “It might be cooler upstairs. Want to go see?”

  For an answer he set the tankard down on the floor and got up, holding out his hand to catch hers and haul her to her feet. Moving carefully through the packed crowd they made their way to the back door and out, where a wooden staircase listed against the outside wall and led up to a doorway and a spill of light from lanterns hanging from the ceiling. At the top, just inside the open door, a toothless old woman, her hair dyed sunset-orange with henna and her gnarled fingers covered with cheap rings, sat on a high-backed chair and made a desultory pretense of spinning wool.

  “Take him down to the end, Avra love. The one with the window’s free,” she said, yawning. “Gods, things are busy tonight, eh?”

  Soot-stained wickerwork partitions cut the top story of the building up into a warren of tiny cubicles that reeked of spilled ale and sweat and other humidities, but somehow the squalor matched the whore’s sweaty breasts and tousled hair, as if they were all ingredients in some strange but potent sexual spell. When she pulled aside a dirty blanket to reveal a tiny cubicle with nothing but a straw mattress on the floor, he ducked in after her, caught her round the waist, and kissed her hard, his hands digging into her back.

  “Oh, this could be nice,” she murmured. “I like a man who’s a little bit rough, if you take my meaning, like.”

  When he slapped her across the buttocks, she giggled and reached up to kiss him in turn.

  “Avra!” It was the crone’s voice, as harsh as a crow. “Avra, you come out here right now, you little wench! There’s Caer the blacksmith here, and he swears you stole a silver out of his pockets!”

  “May a demon shit in his eye!” Avra yelled. “Did naught of the sort, you old harpy!”

  “He’s threatening to bust up the place, he is! You get your ugly ass out here now!”

  “You’d best go.” Branoic was wishing he could strangle the old hag and be done with her. “I’ll wait. You look worth waiting for.”

  “My thanks, and I’ll say the same for you. Open the shutters for a bit of air, will you, love?” This last as she was leaving: “I’m on my way, sow-tits!”

  Shrieking at each other they moved off down the hall, where their voices were met by an angry masculine bellow. With some care for the rotting leather hinges, Branoic opened the shutters and stuck his head out to breathe the night’s cool. Down below in the stableyard, in pockets of lantern light men were standing around, drinking, singing, or merely laughing together at some jest or another. When a woman giggled behind him he pulled his head in, hoping for Avra back again, but the sound was coming from the other side of the rickety partition to his right. Although he could hear a woman plain enough, the man with her was talking in a rumbling dark voice, and he couldn’t understand a word.

  “I learned it from a Bardek sailor,” she went on, giggling. “And you’ve never felt anything like this before, I swear it. Oh, come along, five extra coppers can’t be much to a man like you.”

  The rumble sounded skeptical.

  “Because it’s not so easy on a lass’s back, that’s why! First you’ve got to…” Here her words were drowned by mutual giggling. “And then I squeeze a bit, like. They call it coring apples. What do you say?”

  Judging from his snigger of laughter, he was agreeing to the extra expense. Branoic paced ov
er to the doorway and pulled back the blanket to look out, but there was no sign of Avra. As he was considering leaving to find her, the couple next door began giggling and grunting in turn, as if whatever exotic trick she was showing him took a great deal of coordinated effort to bring off properly. Branoic did make an effort to do the honorable thing and ignore them, but he was, after all, only human, with the stock of curiosity normal for that breed. He went back to the window, hesitated, then bent down to peer through the tiny holes in the partition, which proved to be clogged with old filth.

  “Ooooh, ye gods,” the wench next door snickered. “Well, let’s try again, shall we?”

  Her piece of work agreed with a long bellow of laughter. Cursing his own curiosity, Branoic looked around and discovered that the wickerwork stopped somewhat short of the ceiling about two feet above his head, and that the windowsill stood about three feet off the floor. After one last attempt to ignore this perfect confluence of circumstance, he gave in and hauled himself up to totter on the sill and look over the top of the partition. Unfortunately he’d forgotten that he’d been drinking ale for hours on a hot night, and the effort made his head lurch and swim. Without thinking he grabbed at the flimsy wickerwork to steady himself. It buckled, he grabbed harder, the couple beyond yelped and swore, and his foot slipped on the mucky sill. With a yell of his own that was half a warning Branoic pitched forward, all fifteen stone of him, and crashed into the partition. In a tangle of broken wicker he swooped down and landed on the half-naked pair.

  Shrieking and screaming, the woman writhed around and got free just as the next partition over went down from the impact, and knocked the one beyond it, too, into the one beyond—and so on all along the round room. Stammering out a stream of apologies of some sort—he never could remember exactly what he said—Branoic rolled over and staggered to his feet just as the fellow jumped up, pulling up his brigga and struggling to belt them, a big burly man and too furious to swear. The blazons on his shirt showed him to be a member of the Black Sword troop.