A Time of Omens (7 page)

“Where’s the prince?” Maddyn snarled.

“I don’t know. Aethan’s looking for him.”

With a foul oath Maddyn slugged him backhanded across the face.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’d do such a stupid thing, but I expected better from Aethan. And why by the name of every god is this wretched crowd milling round out here?”

Branoic tried to speak, but his voice clogged and tears filled his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to choke them back. Nevyn grabbed his arm and shook it.

“Think, lad! Save the cursed shame for later.”

“I—I—I …”

The horses began to stamp and toss their heads. By then Branoic’s hands were so sweaty that he could barely hang on to the reins.

“Nevyn!” The whisper came from directly above them. “Is th-th-that you?”

“It is!” The old man sounded as if he’d weep, too, but from relief. “Maryn, where are you?”

“In the hayloft. We o-c-came up here to be private, like.”

“Then come down! Give the lass some coins—I imagine she’s more than earned them—and get down here right now!”

“I will, sir. S-s-straightaway.”

There was a chink of silver, a giggle, and a rustle of hay; then Maryn clambered down the rope ladder and dropped lightly to the floor nearby. Nevyn threw both arms around him and hugged him.

“My apologies,” Maryn stammered out. “But I—”

“I don’t want to hear a word more about it, but if you ever do such a stupid thing again…” All at once Nevyn broke off with a warning glance up at the hayloft, where the lass was lingering, prudently out of the way. “Well, no harm done, I suppose.” He turned to Branoic. “Here, lad, you don’t need to grovel and look like cold death. The prank ended well enough.”

Branoic only shrugged for an answer. He could never explain that what was eating his heart was Maddyn’s scorn. The bard himself had run over to the stable doors and was
peering out the crack between them; with an oath he came trotting back.

“Nevyn, take two of these horses and get Maryn out of here. When we rode in I saw a back gate over near those trees. Branoic, you come with me. We’ve got to Und Aethan. I don’t like the look of that crowd.”

Much later it occurred to Branoic that he should have told Maddyn the truth right there and then, but at the time he was quite simply so miserable, wallowing in shame and the bard’s disgust, that he was sure that Maddyn would think him a coward if he didn’t go back. Outside, they found about thirty people of both sexes milling around and talking at the top of their lungs. Quite a few people were laughing, actually—one could guess that they’d all been elsewhere when the walls started going down—and promising to spread this magnificent jest around town, much to the rage of those caught in Branoic’s unintentional trap.

“I think that’s Aethan over by the tavern-room door,” Maddyn whispered. “You’re taller—can you see?”

Branoic raised himself up on the balls of his feet and shaded his eyes against the lantern light with one hand.

“It is.” He started waving. “Good, he’s seen me.”

Unfortunately so had the burly fellow from the next cubicle. Fully dressed now and howling like a banshee he came shoving his way through the crowd.

“You! You’re the little prick that started this whole cursed thing!”

His mouth half-open in surprise, Maddyn turned around to stare at Branoic, who felt as inarticulate as the ensorcelled prince.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean—”

“You were trying to watch, you bloody little debaucher! I’ll grind your head on the cobbles for this! I’ll—”

Just at that moment Aethan and another two men from the Black Sword troop reached them. Behind them Branoic could see a gaggle of silver daggers and a bunch of black swords rushing forward, too, while all the other men round started taking sides. The experienced and politic women drew back to give them plenty of room as Branoic’s victim threw a punch right at his head. Profoundly relieved that the matter wasn’t going to swordplay, Branoic punched right back and connected with the fellow’s jaw.
Women screamed; the fellow went down, out cold; somewhere the old crone was shrieking for the town wardens. He could hear Maddyn shouting and Aethan howling as the rain-washed and slippery tavern yard exploded into a brawl.

In that kind of press it was hard to see who was enemy and who friend, especially as men kept slipping and falling into the mud and clambering back up to fight some more. Branoic squared off with a squint-eyed brown-haired fellow, slammed him once in the stomach and once on the jaw, nearly fell over him as he fell, dodged free and dodged a thrown tankard, paused to catch his breath on the edge of things only to have someone rush straight at him. He grabbed the fellow by one arm, swung him around, and flung him back into the heaving shouting mob, which reminded him at that moment of a bowl of yeast working and bubbling over. Just as he started back in, someone grabbed him from behind. He swung around only to pull his punch barely in time: Aethan.

“Come on, lad—they don’t even remember why they’re fighting. Hurry!”

“I was just starting to enjoy myself!”

“Come along and now! You won’t be enjoying yourself if the captain decides to take the skin off your back, will you?”

Without another word Branoic followed him into the shadows by the open back gate, where Maddyn was riding one horse and holding the reins of two others. Out on the riverbank he could see the rest of the silver daggers, mounted and ready to ride.

“No one can beat a silver dagger when it comes to ducking the law,” Aethan said, grinning. “Mount up, Branno. The town wardens are pounding on the front gate.”

After he mounted, Branoic turned to the bard.

“Maddyn, I’m cursed sorry.”

“Oh, hold your tongue! We’ll sort it all out later, but I tell you, lad, I don’t want to see your ugly face till I’m a good bit calmer, like.”

As they rode back to the inn, at a nice stately trot to avoid suspicion, Branoic was thinking seriously of starving himself to death out of shame.

With all the trouble brewing out in the tavern yard, Nevyn and Maryn easily slipped out the back gate and rode off with barely a soul noticing. As soon as they were back at their own inn, Nevyn turned the horses over to another silver dagger and dragged the prince up to his private chamber. Although he tried to feign embarrassment, Maryn couldn’t quite keep from grinning.

“Listen, lad,” Nevyn said, and he felt defeated before he truly began his little lecture. “It’s your safety I’m worried about. Slipping off into town with only those two bumbling idiots for guards was a very bad idea.”

“Well, t-t-true enough, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t look sorry in the least. After this, if you simply can’t live without a lass, have your friends bring you one. For enough silver that sort of lass is always willing to take a little walk.”

“No doubt my learned c-c-councillor would know.”

Nevyn restrained the impulse to give the one true king of all Deverry a good slap across the chops. Very dimly he could remember being both that young and that smug about his first lass—some two hundred years earlier or about that, anyway. Such anniversaries had rather lost their importance for him. All at once Maryn let his grin fade and sat down in the one rickety chair to stare at the floor.

“Somewhat wrong?”

“Not tr-tr-truly. I was just thinking. Both you and Father were telling me that I’d have to marry Glyn’s daughter.”

“So we were, and so you do.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“Well, at least she’s old enough.” He looked up with a worried frown. “Is she pr-pr-pretty?”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose I’ll have to m-m-marry her even if she’s got twenty wens and a besom squint.”

“Exactly right, Your Highness. She represents the sovereignty of the kingdom.”

Maryn groaned and went back to studying the floor.

“Well, I hope she is pr-pr-pretty,” the prince said at last. “Now that I know what…” And then he did blush, looking at that moment some ten years old. “I’d best get to b-b-bed.”

“So you had. If I were you, I’d pretend to be asleep and snoring when Maddyn comes storming in. Our bard didn’t seem to find the evening’s sport amusing.”

In the morning, over breakfast, Maddyn assembled the silver daggers who’d been at the Tupping Ram to piece out what had happened. He knew that it would be a good bit better for the miscreants if he settled this matter before Caradoc or Owaen took it in hand. As this less-than-pleasant meal progressed, he noticed that Branoic sat at the end of the table as far from him as possible, ate nothing, and spoke only when the others tormented him into doing so. Although Maddyn started out furious, by the time Branoic, stammering as much as the prince and twice as red, repeated the whore’s remark about coring apples, he was laughing as hard as all the other men there.

“Oh, well and good, then,” Maddyn said at last. “No one was killed, and so that’s an end to it. Cheer up, Branno. I can’t lie and say that I’d never have done such if I’d been you.”

Everyone smirked and nodded agreement. Looking a bit less miserable, Branoic grabbed a slab of bread and busied himself in buttering it. Although everyone went on eating, Maddyn could tell that something was still bothering a couple of the men.

“Out with it, Stevyc.”

“Well, by the hells, Maddo, I was just wondering.” He glanced at Branoic. “Did you ever find out what they meant? About coring apples I mean?”

“I didn’t. Everything happened too fast.”

When Stevyc swore in honest regret, everyone howled and hooted. There was the true end to the matter, Maddyn assumed, and he pitched into his breakfast. Yet, as he was leaving the tavern room afterward, his little blue sprite appeared, and with her were two gray gnomes, dancing up and down with their normally slack mouths twisted into frowns. Her mindless blue eyes peered up at him in something like worry.

“What’s all this?” Maddyn whispered. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You’d best run away before Nevyn sees you. Whist!”

Yet they stayed with him, the sprite riding on his shoulder,
the gnomes clinging to his brigga leg like frightened children. He considered for a moment, then went upstairs to Nevyn’s chamber with the Wildfolk hurrying after. He found the old man sitting on the windowsill of his chamber and staring idly out across the spring countryside. Although Maddyn hesitated, wondering if he were interrupting some meditation, Nevyn turned to him and started to smile—until he saw the Wildfolk.

“What? You shouldn’t be here!”

All three of them began to jump up and down and point up at the ceiling, their little faces twisted in an agony of concentration.

“Ye gods!” Nevyn sounded truly alarmed. “Someone’s watching us?”

They shook their heads in a no, then frowned again and began pinching and shoving each other.

“Someone saw last night, when the men were fighting.”

They all nodded, then disappeared. Even though Maddyn had no idea of what was happening, he went cold with fear just from the look on Nevyn’s face—an icy kind of horror mingled with rage.

“This is serious, Maddo lad, truly serious. When did they come to you?”

“Just now. I came straight up here.”

“Good, good. You did exactly the right thing.” Nevyn began to pace back and forth across the chamber. “Ye gods, I don’t know what to do!”

Maddyn’s chill of unease deepened. For so long he had so blindly trusted Nevyn to solve every problem that hearing the old man admit helplessness was as bad as a death sentence.

“We’ve got to get out of Dun Ttebyc,” the dweomerman said finally. “But we’ve got to do so in the right way. We need to keep up our ruse of being a perfectly ordinary troop of mercenaries.”

“Well, if we were, we wouldn’t be leaving without a proper hire. No single jewel merchant’s rich enough to engage a whole band of mercenaries. If he was, he’d have bodyguards.”

“Just so. We’d best find a better excuse than me. I—who’s that? Come in!”

The footsteps they’d heard turned out to belong to Cara-doc, who came in with a bob of a bow for the old man.

“We’ve got to get out of here today, Nevyn. Been lucky so far, but I’ll wager the town warden and his men are going to be coming around soon, asking questions about that brawl last night.”

“I had the same thought myself. Hum. I think I know where I can find us a hire. Since I’m a merchant now, I’d best go pay my respects to my new god, hadn’t I? I’ll be down at the temple of Nwdd if you need me.”

When the old man returned, not more than an hour later, he brought two merchants with him and prosperous ones from the look of the fine wool in their checked brigga and cloaks. Stout men in their thirties, the pair stood uncertainly near the door of the inn chamber as Nevyn introduced them round as Budyc and Wffyn.

“We might have a hire for you, Captain.” Budyc stroked his dark mustaches with a nervous hand. “The jewel merchant here swears you’re reliable.”

“More than most, anyway,” Caradoc said. “And every one of my lads can fight like a fiend from hell. I’ll swear it on Gamyl’s altar if you want.”

The merchants exchanged speculative glances.

“They’ll have to do,” Wffyn said. “This time of year, it’s a stroke of luck to find a free troop that isn’t pledged to a lord already.”