Bristling Wood (50 page)

“No one leave,” Salamander called out. “You foul-minded fools! You odiferous and fly-swarmed lumps of swine offal! Whom do you think to insult so boldly?”

With a graceful fling of one arm Salamander jumped up onto the table in the midst of a sudden swirl of purple smoke and began to laugh, the deep, musical ripple of delight that only someone with elven blood can summon. Gasping, white-faced, the pirates and wenches clung together in the curve of the wall. The lass wbo’d started all the trouble crawled away on her hands and knees to join them.

“So.” Salamander drawled the word portentously. “Swine! Turds! You thought me a babbling fool, did you? A mere plaything, beneath you in your sordid lusts and bloodshed! Hah! Would a weak man dare walk the evil streets of Slaith?” He paused for a dramatic glare at the crowd. “If I wanted, I could burn this stinking hellhole to the ground, and you bastard-born lice would crisp and fry along with it.”

In illustration, he shot a bolt at a barrel of ale, which burst into superficial flames. The wenches screamed again; the men surged forward; but as the fire burned through the wood, the ale rushed out and doused it with the acrid stink of singed hops.

“Does anyone doubt my powers?” Salamander went on.

In unison heads shook a no like grain bowing in the winds. With a cold, cruel smile, Salamander set his hands on his hips.

“Well and good, swine. Return to your paltry amusements, but remember what I am, and treat me with the deference I deserve.”

He jumped down from the table and sat down next to Jill. For a long moment the silence hung in the room like the last of the smoke; then slowly, one at a time, the pirates began whispering, turning back to their ale, or, in the case of the weaker souls, slipping out the door. Once the noise returned to a normal level, Salamander put his arm around Jill’s shoulders and pulled her close to whisper.

“This should infuse them with a deep if short-lived piety, huh?” He raised his voice again. “Wench! Come take this charred and stinking tankard away and bring me fresh drink!”

Bowing and trembling, the servant lass sidled over and grabbed the still-steaming tankard with a wadded cloth. When she brought back the fresh, she curtsied like a court lady, then shamelessly ran away. Salamander raised the tankard in salute and drank a good bit right off.

“So, my unfaithful Gilyn, you’ve learned your lesson, have you?”

“I have, at that.” Jill had thoughts of strangling him for all the blather. “But I’m not sure which one.”

The news spread almost as fast as Salamander’s dweomer fire. In little clots, pirates and townsfolk appeared at the door or the windows, stuck their heads in for a look at Salamander, then withdrew them fast and moved on. Finally Snilyn came striding in and shook the gerthddyn’s hand with a hearty bellow of laughter. As Salamander had remarked, cowardice was certainly not one of his vices.

“I’m cursing myself for missing the sight,” Snilyn said, sitting down unasked. “I would have enjoyed seeing the bastard swine running from you, sorcerer.”

“You’ll have your chance if anyone gives me any more trouble.”

“And a wretched small chance that is, unless, of course, you’re staying here long.”

“I’m not, truly. In fact, my friend, maybe you can help me. I’m minded to go to Bardek before the winter sets in. Do you know of anyone making one last run that way? I’ll pay good coin for our passage.”

Snilyn signaled for ale while he considered the question.

“Well, I don’t, at that,” he said finally. “But you might talk Buthvyn into taking you over. Whether he winters here or in Pastur is all the same to him, and he had a lean summer of it. Depends on how much coin you’re willing to spend.”

“No doubt an adequate sum. I have a great and burning desire to see Bardek again, the beauteous palms, the shining sands, the rich merchants with their sacks of gold and jewels.”

“Must be a tidy profit there, truly, for a man like you. Why, by the Lord of Hell’s hairy balls! You could take one of them caravans all on your own!”

“I prefer to charm the gold out of merchants’ paws, but you’re right enough about the profit. The way I like to live does not come cheap, and this little minx of mine is developing a decided taste for luxury. It’s a pity how easily young lads are corrupted.”

When Snilyn snorted with laughter, Jill wondered whose throat she wanted to slit more, his or Salamander’s.

“But this Buthvyn had best not give us one whit of trouble,” the gerthddyn went on. “I can set wood on fire with a flick of a finger, you see. Ships, as you well know, are made of wood.”

Snilyn went both silent and decidedly green.

“I see you understand.” Salamander smiled gently. “Fear not, I shall make sure that the glorious Buthvyn understands as well. Where can we find this prince of the oceans, this ferocious sea lion?”

“Down at the Green Parrot, but I wouldn’t call him all of that, truly.”

Buthvyn was one of the tallest men Jill had ever met and also one of the skinniest, his shoulders as narrow as his narrow hips, his long arms like ropes and scarred at that, his face all sharp edges and long, pinched nose. From the eagerness with which he greeted Salamander’s proposal, it was clear that he was not a successful pirate. He had a ragged but seaworthy cog, he said, and fifteen lads to sail it, all of whom, or so he swore, were loyal men with closed mouths. Salamander made sure of this loyalty by lighting the wood in the tavern hearth with one flick of his hand. As the flames sprang up and spread on the heavy logs, Buthvyn went pale.

“Straight to Bardek and no shilly-shallying around,” the pirate said, swallowing heavily. “As fast and straight as the winds will take us.”

“Splendid!” Salamander said. “Can you carry horses, or should I sell our glorious steeds?”

“I would if I was you. Hard trip across for stock, and this isn’t no big merchantman. You can get good horses in Bardek, anyway.”

“So you can. When do we sail? I detest waiting.”

“Tomorrow dawn when the tie goes out. That be fast enough?”

“It is. We shall meet you at the harbor while it’s still dark.”

When they returned to Dumryc’s inn, Jill and Salamander found the tale gone before them. A newly servile Dumryc gave them a candle lantern and bowed repeatedly, like a crow drinking water, as they went upstairs to their chamber. As soon as the door was safely barred, Salamander collapsed onto the mattress and howled with laughter until he choked. Jill hung the lantern on a nail in the wall and glared at him.

“Ah ye gods,” Salamander gasped when he could speak again. “That was truly one of the best jests in my life, and I’ve perpetrated a lot of them, Jill, my turtledove.”

“No doubt.” Jill put ice in her voice.

“Ah.” Salamander sat up, wrapping his long arms around his knees, and let his grin fade away. “I think me you’re vexed with this whole ruse, the portentous words, the flaming fires, and so forth, but unless the lads think us as evil as they—and as dangerous—they won’t respect us, no matter how many hints we drop about dark dweomer. I’ve no desire to be drugged and tossed overboard one fine night when we’re out to sea.”

“Well, true-spoken, but ye gods, why all the show? Why not just set somewhat on fire and threaten them?”

“Jill.” Salamander stared at her with reproachful eyes. “That wouldn’t have been any fun.”

“They’re doing what?” Elaeno was so furious that his thunder of a voice made the wooden shutters rattle at the windows.

“Going to Bardek on a pirate ship.” Nevyn still could hardly believe his own words. “That chattering idiot of an elf is taking Jill to Bardek on a pirate ship.”

Elaeno opened his mouth and shut it several times.

“Have some mead,” Nevyn said. “Normally I don’t drink the stuff, but tonight, for some strange reason, I feel the need.”

For some nights Blaen had had trouble sleeping, Generally he would dress, then prowl the long mazelike corridors of the king’s palace and wonder why he was wasting his time staying in Dun Deverry. Soon he would have to start the long journey back to Cwm Pecl, before the winter snows came to trap him in the king’s city far from home. On that particular night, he wandered half-purposely over to Lord Madoc’s chambers and found, as he’d somehow been expecting, a crack of light showing under the sorcerer’s door. As he hesitated, wondering whether or not to knock, the door opened to reveal Madoc wearing a nightshirt over a pair of brigga.

“Ah, there you are, Blaen. I couldn’t sleep either, and the spirits told me you were on your way. Come in for a nightcap.”

Although Blaen looked hastily around, he saw no spirits and decided that it was safe enough to go in. Madoc poured them both dark ale sweetened with Bardek cinnamon and cloves.

“Want this heated?”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I don’t mind it cool.”

“Here, then.” Madoc handed him a tankard. “Have a chair.”

They settled themselves by the brazier, glowing cherry red in the drafty chamber. Blaen took an approving sip of the strong, dark ale.

“I was planning on coming to see you first thing in the morning,” Madoc said. “I have some news. The king has finally deigned to tell me that he’s sending a herald to Aberwyn tomorrow at dawn.”

“By the Lord of Hell himself! Why?”

“No one knows. His liege is apparently vexed with Savyl more than he is with you, and he’s saying not a word to anyone about it. All I know is that the herald is carrying some grave and serious proclamation. It could be recalling Rhodry, or it could be summoning the Council of Electors to choose a new heir. By the gods, it could merely be raising taxes, for all that I know.”

Blaen groaned under his breath and had a long swallow of ale.

“I’ve sent word to Nevyn already, of course,” Madoc said.

“Splendid. Here, may I put a blunt question? Where is Rhodry? I think me you know.”

Madoc considered for a moment, studying Blaen’s face as if he were reading a message there.

“I do, at that,” he said at last. “Will you swear to me to keep this to yourself?”

“On the honor of my clan.”

“Done, then. Rhodry’s in Bardek. His enemies took him there and sold him as a slave.”

“They what? By every god, I’ll have them hanged for this! I’ll have them spitted and drawn! The gall! Selling my kin for a blasted slave!”

“Your Grace? May I suggest you sit down?”

Blaen was quite surprised to find himself standing. He took a deep breath and sat down again.

“After all, Your Grace, at least he’s alive.”

“Just so.” Blaen took another deep breath and reminded himself that he couldn’t do anything at all in the middle of the night. “I wonder if I can possibly get a ship for Bardek this time of year, one that can carry a good part of my warband.”

“You can’t, Your Grace, and truly, it would be unwise for you to go after him. I think me you’ll be needed more here in the spring, when he returns. Well,” Madoc’s face turned haunted. “If we can pull him out of this, at any rate.”

“I have great faith in the dweomer’s power, my lord.”

“My thanks. Let us hope it’s justified.”

By the gentle rocking of the hull, the prisoner knew that they were lying at anchor in one harbor or another. For a while he merely lay on his pallet and looked round the nearly empty hold. When he’d started this voyage, the hold had been full of boxes and bales. How long ago now? Weeks. He wasn’t sure how many. When he rose to his knees, the ankle chain clanked and clattered, but it was long enough to let him reach the porthole and pull up the oiled-leather covering. The blinding dazzle of sun on water made his eyes blink and tear, but in a few minutes he could make out a long white beach and a steep cliff face beyond a forest of masts. All the harbors had looked much like this. For all he knew, they’d been shuttling back and forth between a pair of towns. He did know, however, that they were in the Bardekian archipelago. His captors had told him that several times, as if it were important that he knew. He repeated it to himself now, saying it aloud: “I’m in Bardek.” It was one of the few things he did know about himself.

He held up his right arm and looked at the pale skin that marked him as a Deverry man. Although he knew where and what Deverry was, he couldn’t remember ever having been there personally, but his captors assured him that he’d been born there, in the province off Pyrdon, to be exact. He also remembered both his native tongue and the small amount of Bardekian he’d known before his capture. In fact, one of his few solid memories was of studying that language when he’d been a child. He had a clear image of his tutor, a dark-skinned man with gray hair and a kindly, ready smile, telling him that he needed to study hard because of his position in life. What that position was he didn’t remember. Perhaps he’d been the son of a merchant; it was a reasonable supposition. At any rate, although he was far from fluent in Bardekian, that early training was making it possible for him to pick up bits and pieces of the conversations he overheard and to ask simple questions. Sometimes his questions were answered; more often, not.

When he heard noises behind him, the prisoner turned away and let the porthole cover fall. The man called Gwin was coming down the ladder, and he carried a small cloth sack under one arm.

“Clothes for you.” Gwin tossed the sack over. “A tunic, sandals. Bardek clothes. You leave here today. Glad?”

“I don’t know. What happens next?”

“You’ll be sold.”

The prisoner nodded, thinking things over. Since they’d already told him he was a slave, the news was no surprise. He’d even overheard someone saying that he’d fetch a good price, because he was an exotic commodity like a rare breed of dog. While he dressed, Gwin poked among the remaining boxes and bales, but only idly, as if he were making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Gwin? Do you know my name?”

“Yes. Hasn’t anyone told you? It’s Taliaesyn.”

“Thanks. I wondered.”

“No doubt.” He paused, looking at the prisoner with an odd expression, a certain very thin, very fragile sympathy. “Someone will fetch you soon. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

After Gwin left, Taliaesyn sat down on his pallet and wondered why a man like that would wish him good luck, then shrugged the problem away as being as unsolvable as most of the mysteries around him. He said his name over several times in the hopes that it would bring memories with it. Nothing came—nothing at all, not an image, not a sound, not a single word from the life he must have had before that morning, weeks ago, when he’d woken up in the hold of this ship. He could still remember his absolute panic when he’d realized that he knew nothing about himself, nothing about how he’d come to be chained there. For a few minutes he’d felt like a hysterical animal, throwing itself this way and that against the bars of a cage, biting even those who try to soothe it. But the fit had gone quickly, long before his captors had come down to gloat over him. He’d found the knowledge he needed, that morning: memory or not, he was still a man, he had speech, he had thought, and he would fight to keep that sense of selfhood.