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Authors: Angus Wells

Dark Magic (38 page)

BOOK: Dark Magic
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“The Equestrian Quarter lies there.” He pointed toward an avenue whose ending seemed to devolve on open space, the breeze wafting from it redolent of
dung and horse sweat. “And likely Daven Tyras is known there, and in these taverns,”

“But you think him gone.”

Katya looked toward the avenue, her grey eyes narrowed; Bracht nodded and said, “Aye. I cannot believe he lingers here.”

“We’ve but the one way to find out,” Calandryll said.

“And two to approach him if he does remain—head on, or cautiously.” Bracht’s face was solemn as he eyed his companions. “Do we take counsel?”

Calandryll returned the Kern’s stare no less earnestly. His impulse, come this far, was to press on as swift they might to a conclusion. If Rhythamun yet dwelt, in Daven Tyras’s form, in Gannshold it seemed the better course to seek him out, to trust the gods and look to slay the man before he had opportunity to proceed. No less, were he departed as Bracht suspected, to go after him. But hard-learned caution bade him be wary where Rhythamun was concerned, and he paused before replying, aware that Bracht and Katya, both, waited on his word. It seemed the decision was passed to him, as if the telling of Dera’s promise had elected him leader in the final confrontation. He sighed; like the Kern, he doubted Rhythamun remained still in Gannshold, but if he did . . . He frowned, unable to decide the better course. To learn what they could of the man whose form the warlock had stolen before seeking him out? Or go now, hoping that the element of surprise—and the unknown power the gods had promised—would win them the day? He looked up, as if seeking an answer from the sky. It stood high and blue above, the black shapes of choughs wheeling about the peaks and the towers of the citadel, none offering answer.

“We’re weeks behind him,” he said slowly, knowing that he prevaricated, “and likely you’re right—he’s gone north.”

“But if not . . .” Katya murmured.

“He’ll not likely expect to see us,” Bracht finished for her.

Calandryll nodded, sucking in a deep breath, seeing his comrades’ eyes upon him, waiting. Briefly, resentment flared that the decision should rest with him. In so much else he deferred to Bracht, and Katya’s pursuit had been the longer—why should they now lay this burden on him? Because, said a voice inside his mind, the gods say you hold the means of Rhythamun’s defeat Shall you falter now? He licked his lips, the stirring in his belly akin to that preceding battle: they had ridden hard and far to this place, to this potential conflict.

“Aye,” he said at last, “let’s seek him now.”

Bracht’s response was a fierce, tight grin, a single grunt of acceptance. Katya said, “So be it,” and loosened her saber.

“Then this way,” the Kern said, turning his mount back into the press of traffic, leading them toward the avenue.

They passed into shadow, then into sunlight again as the road ended at a great square filled with the clamor and the odors of horses and men. Calandryll was reminded of the Equestrian Quarter in Aldarin, but this was far larger, the smell of it heady, the noise deafening, flies rising in buzzing black clouds from the dung underfoot, the traders here nearly all Kerns or half-bloods, the corrals a sea of tossing equine heads. To find a single man in so much confusion seemed an impossible task.

“The season aids us,” Bracht shouted over the din, gesturing at the apparent chaos. “So early, there are fewer traders. Come foaling time . . .”

What else he said was lost under the clatter of hooves as two Kerns drove a bunch of horses past. Calandryll nodded, leaning across to put his mouth close to Bracht’s ear.

“Where do we begin?”

“With men I can trust,” the Kern answered. “But
leave that part to me—there are ways these things are done,”

Calandryll frowned and would have questioned his companion further, but Bracht gave him no choice, heeling the black stallion into the maelstrom of men and beasts. Calandryll and Katya followed close behind, dispute—or conversation—denied by the sheer volume of sound. It seemed the Kern rode directionless, merely wandering among the pens, but his eyes roved constantly over the crowd, as if he sought in the teeming throng some particular person. Did he, Calandryll wondered, discarding the thought with a puzzled shake of his head, hope to spot Daven Tyras in all this confusion? No, he realized, as Bracht glanced back, beckoning, and led them toward a stockade built out from the wall of the citadel itself.

On the fence two men sat watching a herd of yearlings. Neither were young, their sleek, dark hair streaked with grey, their faces weathered as much by the years as the seasons. Both wore the leather breeks, the high boots and tunics common to the folk of Cuan na’For, and from their belts hung swords and dirks. Their eyes, as they turned to study the approaching trio, were set in nests of wrinkles, but clear and of the same startling blue as Bracht’s.

The Kern reined in, his right hand lifted, palm outward and with the fingers spread. Calandryll remembered that he had offered a similar greeting to the great oak that had disgorged the byah with its warning of Rhythamun’s treachery. He saw the salute returned, both men swinging to face Bracht, their eyes traveling from him to Calandryll, on to Katya. It was the most cursory of examinations and yet Calandryll felt he had been studied and judged in the moment: he was abruptly aware of his disguise, convinced these two saw past the black-dyed hair to his Lyssian origins.

Bracht confirmed his belief.

“I am Bracht ni Errhyn of the clan Asyth,” the Kern announced ceremoniously. “This, Katya,
Tekkan’s daughter, of Vanu; this, Calandryll den Karynth of Lysse.”

“I know you, Bracht ni Errhyn,” returned the older of the pair no less formally, addressing himself as much to Calandryll and Katya. “I am Gart ni Morrhyn of the Asyth, and this”—he indicated his fellow with a sideways nod—“is Kythan ni Morrhyn, my brother. We give you greeting.”

“And we you,” Bracht said, his face grave as he added, “I am pleased to find you in good health.”

“Innocence and honest natures are our allies,” said Gart with patently assumed gravity, “and we anticipate a lengthy old age.”

Bracht smiled, chuckling at that and shaking his head. Calandryll watched them, listening carefully, familiar enough with the tongue of Cuan na’For that he could follow most of what they said, what he understood intriguing. He saw some protocol was followed, ritual greetings giving way to banter, and that these two brothers were no strangers to Bracht. For the moment he and Katya were excluded from the conversation, Kern addressing Kern, Gart and Kythan not realizing, he suspected, that he understood what they said.

“Have you come looking for more Lykard horses, Bracht ni Errhyn?” asked Kythan with a solemnity that was belied by the twinkle in his eye. “Or perhaps to pay werecoin?”

Bracht’s answering smile was brief and taut. “I have werecoin aplenty,” he said, “and I hope to settle that matter; but later, have I the chance.”

“I do not believe Jehenne ni Larrhyn is very interested in werecoin,” Kythan said, no longer attempting solemnity, his grin open now, “but in some more . . . personal . . . restitution.”

“The Lykard were ever vengeful.” Gart nodded.

“I had thought that affair might be forgotten,” Bracht said, “and Jehenne with another.” The sentence elicited a chuckling and an enthusiastic shaking of heads, as if this were a matter of great amusement.

“The memory of the clan Lykard is long,” said Gart.

“And Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s a prodigious thing,” added Kythan. “Were you contemplating a ride northward I should ride hard, were I in your saddle. You and your stranger comrades, all.”

His eyes moved to Katya as he spoke, framing a silent question.

Bracht shook his head once and said, “Jehenne need find no quarrel with her.”

Gart shrugged. “She rides with you and she is beautiful. Do you tell me you have not . . .”

“No,” Bracht said quickly, turning a troubled glance Katya’s way, for all she sat her horse in silence, unaware of what was said. Calandryll, sensing a pattern emergent, wondered what the Kern might tell her; for his own part fascinated by the exchange.

Gart’s brows rose; Kythan said, “Does your blood thin in this southern clime, then?”

“I have taken a vow,” Bracht answered. “There is an understanding between us.”

“Were I in your saddle”—Kythan grinned—“I’d welcome an understanding with one such as she.”

Calandryll saw Bracht’s mouth tighten a fraction at the sally, but the Kern held his temper in check and forced a smile. It seemed he accepted such ribaldry better from his own kind than from others. “That blade she wears, she can use,” he said. “While yours, save I miss my guess, is rusty and likely worn from excessive misuse.”

Both older men laughed uproariously at this and Gart nodded eagerly, slapping his chortling brother so hard upon the back that Kythan was almost dislodged from his perch. “I trust your blade’s as sharp as your tongue,” he stuttered through his laughter, “for do you encounter any of the ni Larrhyn family you’ll need a keen edge.”

“Or a fast horse,” said Kythan. “That black’s still sound?”

“I ride the wind,” Bracht declared, “and do the
Lykard but give me opportunity, I’ve werecoin enough to assuage even Jehenne’s temper,”

“Do they give you the opportunity,” said Gart, more seriously, “which is a gamble I’d think on long before easting those particular dice. But come—we sit here agossiping when we might better loosen our tongues with ale. You’ve varre, you say? Then I say we match you coin for coin and cup for cup. I’d hear of your adventuring, and what—save madness—brings you back to Lykard territory.”

Calandryll understood sufficient of the conversation he was able to recognize that no mention was yet made of Daven Tyras; equally, from the energetic way both older men sprang from the fence, that little choice was left save to drink with them. He curbed his impatience, forgetting that not long ago he had delayed, following Bracht’s example as the Kern dismounted.

“What do they say?” demanded Katya, frowning as Kythan swung back a gate, advising them that their mounts should be safe inside the corral.

“That we should leave our animals here awhile,” Calandryll explained, “and drink ale with them.”

“Ale?” The flaxen head swung in irritation. “Do we not seek Rhythamun? Shall we waste time in some tavern?”

“Trust me.” Bracht led his stallion into the corral. “We’ll have answers soon enough.”

The warrior woman’s frown deepened a moment and her grey eyes flashed dangerously, as though a storm gathered in the orbs, but then she muttered something in her own language and dropped limber from the gelding, leading the horse after Calandryll’s chestnut into the corral.

Gart and Kythan studied both animals as they waited by the gate, nodding their approval. Gart asked, “Where did you find them?”

“In Aldarin,” Bracht replied.

“But out of Cuan na’For lest I misjudge them,” said Kythan. “Their cost?”

Bracht named the sum and Kythan grinned. “You’d pay less here,” he advised.

“We found ourselves in Aldarin,” Bracht said, shrugging. “In need of mounts.”

“There’s the cost of herding them so far south,” said Gart.

“The herdsmen to pay.” Kythan nodded.

“The journey back,” said Gart.

“Too far,” Kythan observed.

“Not worth the trouble,” Gart agreed, “no matter the price.”

Their pecuniary discussion continued as they closed the gate and led the way along the wall to an open-fronted tavern; Calandryll wondered if all Kerns suffered avarice. Certainly it had seemed when Bracht first agreed to escort him to Gessyth that coin had been the freesword’s chief consideration and he recalled how he had accused Bracht of greed. Indeed, when they had returned to Aldarin, his comrade had shown concern for his promised reward, reminding Calandryll of his mercenary leanings. But now . . . this talk of—how was she called?—Jehenne ni Larrhyn, of werecoin to be paid in settlement of some dispute, appeared to set a different stamp on Bracht’s intentions. Perhaps, he thought, he would learn now why the Kern had fled his homeland. And, he trusted, of Daven Tyras.

It seemed the taverns of the quarter were divided in some clannish configuration, the patrons of this one cut from similar stamp to Bracht and the two older men, while in others Calandryll saw differences of clothing and coloration suggestive of different origins. Here, he guessed, the Asyth held sway, for around them sat men mostly dressed in breeks and tunics of black leather, blue of eye, their hair dark and gathered in loose tails like Bracht’s and, he remembered, his. Some called greetings, but softly, as if wary that unfriendly ears—on Lykard heads? Calandryll wondered—might overhear, and when Bracht answered them, he made a warning gesture so that none
approached, leaving the three alone with the two brothers. They found a table and called for ale.

“What news?” Bracht indicated the north with a glance toward the bulk of the citadel.

“Your father, your mother—both thrive.” Gart drank deep, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Mykah offered the ni Larrhyn horses in compensation, but they were refused.”

“Jehenne would still sooner have you, it would seem,” said Kythan with a sly grin. “The answer she returned was that you and two strong nails alone would suffice.”

He paused to drink, carefully dramatic. Gart nodded and explained: “You because it was agreed, the nails to crucify you.”

“Do you truly intend to go home, you’d as well delay awhile,” Kythan advised, serious now. “Once our stock is sold we shall go back, and some others of the clan—you’d find safety in numbers.”

“Or take the Lyssian road to Forshold.” Gart nodded. “For the Lykard rove more easterly of late.”

Bracht’s eyes spoke a question at that and Gart shrugged, saying, “The creatures of Hell Mouth stir, it seems, and neither the drachomannii nor blades hold them to the pass.”

“They venture out?”

Calandryll heard surprise in Bracht’s voice, perusing his memory for what he knew of Hell Mouth. It was the name the folk of Cuan na’For gave the Geff Pass, he recalled, and when he had suggested they might depart Gessyth by that route Bracht had warned against such a direction, speaking of strangeling creatures therein. And now they stirred? What, he wondered, did that portend—some further indication that the Mad God sent out his malign influence? He saw Gart duck his head in confirmation and concentrated his attention on the Kern’s words.

BOOK: Dark Magic
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