Devlin's Luck (5 page)

“You are going nowhere.”

“But I promised you a round of drinks,” Stephen said plaintively.

Devlin paused. He had no wish for companionship, or for the verbal fencing that conversation with the minstrel would involve. But there was much he needed to know about his new position, and the minstrel was as good a source of information as any.

“I have a few errands I must attend to,” Devlin explained. “But I will meet you later, if you wish it. Name the place.”

Stephen immediately brightened. “Of course. How about the Singing Fish, say around sunset?”

“Fine.”

“The Singing Fish is in the old city, near the river. It’s not fancy, but they have good food and a very fine cellar. Unless you’d prefer somewhere in the nobles’ quarter?”

Devlin had no mind to rub elbows with the nobles of Jorsk. “The Singing Fish will do.”

“It is very easy to find. Just leave the palace by the Queen’s Gate, and then take Victory Lane. Then you need to turn right by the lesser temple of Haakon, and it will be at the third cross street. Of course you could start by the dyers’ guildhouse and then go—”

“I will find it.”

With some difficulty Devlin pried himself free of his eager young guide. Since the ceremony he had paid careful attention to his surroundings, and now he was able to find his way out of the palace, through the grounds, and out into the city.

The city had a somber air, as if the residents were still recovering from the celebrations of the previous three days. Traces of the festivities still remained; a crushed garland lying by the roadside, the smashed remnants of a wine jug a few paces away.

He walked some ways from the palace, till he was certain that he was not being followed. He did not trust these Jorskians, and from the treatment he had received, it seemed the suspicion was mutual. But if anyone was following him, they were too skilled for him to detect.

Satisfied, he made through the stone streets of the old city, past the permanently open gates, and into the new city. In the merchants quarter he found the festival booths had given way to market stalls, and commerce was brisk. First he found a money changer, who agreed to exchange one of the gold disks for forty silver latts. It was outrageous, but better than explaining how someone dressed like a beggar had come by the gold disk in the first place.

Next Devlin found a merchant who had clothing in his size. Devlin bargained for three shirts, two pairs of trousers, and a dark leather vest. At the merchant’s suggestion, he added a half dozen pairs of socks and a set of smalls to his tally. The merchant seemed surprised when Devlin produced a silver latt, easily worth a dozen times the cost of the goods, but after much muttering produced the necessary change in coppers.

Flashing so much money was dangerous. He realized that he should have asked the money changer for some coppers to be mixed with the silver. Unused to such wealth, it simply hadn’t occurred to him. He kept a wary eye on the crowds, but no one seemed to be paying him any special interest. And the pair of city guards in their green uniforms patrolling the bazaar gave him hope that he would not be accosted immediately.

He needed new boots even more than he needed new clothes, so Devlin took his time surveying the cobblers, passing by those whose displays showed cheap soles, thin leather, or sloppy stitching. Finally, he found one whose work seemed of good quality, and they struck a bargain for a pair of sturdy walking boots. The cobbler traced Devlin’s feet onto a square of parchment, and agreed to have new boots made up within two days. He offered to deliver them, but Devlin, having no wish to disclose that he was residing at the palace, said that he would return for them instead.

As he went to leave, he saw that the cobbler had pouches that had been fashioned out of scraps of leather. They were too small to make proper purses, but would serve his purpose well. Devlin purchased three of them.

On the edge of the bazaar an enterprising scribe had set up a booth. Devlin bargained for the use of a pen and three pieces of parchment. Apparently the skill of writing was not common in Jorsk, for the scribe appeared astonished as Devlin sat down and swiftly penned three short missives. Making sure he could not be overlooked, Devlin slipped three of the gold disks into the first pouch, then folded one of the parchment letters and placed it inside. He repeated this for the next two pouches. Then he pulled the strings tight and sealed the knots with wax.

Leaving the puzzled scribe behind, Devlin made his way across the square. He hailed the two guards as they passed by.

“Is there something wrong?” one of them asked.

“No. But I need someone to point me in the direction of the merchants who deal with wool,” Devlin said. He had decided that the wool traders were his best bet. Trade with Duncaer was tightly controlled, and while there were other traders who journeyed between Duncaer and Jorsk, only the wool traders did so on a regular basis, seeking out the fine fleece that came from the mountain sheep. And with midsummer just past, the traders would soon be leaving on their annual journey.

Hearing his accent, the two guards exchanged glances. One of them glanced down at Devlin’s hand, but Devlin had decided not to wear the Chosen’s seal. Still there was speculation in the guard’s eyes as he looked over Devlin and his sack of purchases.

“Most of the wool merchants live on the street of the Fourth Alliance. I can tell you how to find it, or summon a guide for you. Sir.”

Flames! There was no reason for them to call him sir. Not unless they knew that he was the Chosen One. A very good description of him must be circulating already, for which he no doubt had Captain Drakken to thank.

Devlin listened carefully to the directions and then made a hasty retreat. He found the district of the wool traders with no problem, and entered the first shop he saw. Inside was a middle-aged man who regarded Devlin with suspicion.

“May I be of assistance?” the clerk finally asked, when he seemed to realize that his frowns alone would not make Devlin go away.

“Do you have wool from Duncaer?”

“But of course. The finest quality. Just look over there,” the clerk said, waving to a pile of fleeces in the corner.

Devlin walked over and fingered the fleeces. They were the right color, but the wool seemed coarser than he expected. Still it might be from Duncaer.

“And do you trade for the wool yourself?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And where in Duncaer is it from?”

“From Alvaren.”

The clerk was lying. Alvaren was the capital of Duncaer, and the only city that most Jorskians had heard of. But Devlin had lived there, and knew that few foreign traders made the journey to Alvaren. Why should they? The wool trade, like most others, was concentrated in the trading town of Kilbaran, on the border of Jorsk and the endless mountains.

Devlin left without a word. He repeated his question at the next shop.

“Sorry, I have no fleece left from Duncaer,” a white-haired woman explained. “What I brought back was already spoken for. But I have many other fine fleeces.”

“No, thank you,” Devlin said. He was not really interested in fleece.

“I will be journeying within the month to Kilbaran. I would be pleased to bring you back whatever you require,” the woman offered.

Devlin looked the woman over. She appeared honest enough, if a bit old to be doing her own trading. “And who do you trade with in Duncaer?”

“I trade with many, but always with Brigia deMor, daughter of Nesta of the Mountains. She has given me the blessing of her name,” the woman said proudly.

A blessing was a powerful thing indeed. In the literal sense, it meant that Brigia deMor regarded this woman as a member of her family. It was rare for any outlander to receive such an honor. It could be a lie, of course, but somehow he felt she was telling the truth. He made up his mind to trust her.

“I have a commission for you. I will pay you a silver latt if you take a small package to Kilbaran for me, and see that it is given to Murchadh son of Timlin, called Murchadh the smith from the city. Put it in his hands, and no other.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “A silver latt is a great deal of money for such an errand.”

“I expect fair service in return. And know this. If you betray me, I will see that you pay for the crime.”

“I have never cheated a customer and I am not about to start, not at my age,” she said tartly. She reminded him very much of his mother, who’d had a temper of her own. “Give me the package.”

He handed the woman one of the leather pouches. In it were three golden disks, and a letter. He knew he could trust Murchadh to see that the money reached Agneta, and ensure that she did not reject the coins simply because they came from him.

“There are three golden disks inside,” he told the woman. “Just so you know what it is you are carrying.”

The woman looked at him carefully. “No insult meant, but you do not look like a man who has three silvers to his name, let alone three golden disks.”

“No insult taken,” he replied. “But I swear to you by all the Seven Gods that the money is mine, and it is come by honestly.”

Something in his voice or face must have convinced her, for she gave a slow nod. “I believe you,” she said. “I promise to deliver this pouch when I reach Kilbaran. And do you wish me to bring back a message?”

“No.” There would be no message. Murchadh would take the coins, but he would walk through fire before he acknowledged Devlin’s existence.

“And if you guess who or what I am, you will keep it to yourself. Deliver the pouch, but tell Murchadh naught about who gave it to you, or where you met me.” It was enough that Murchadh knew that Devlin had been exiled. There was no reason for Murchadh to know where he had gone, or what Devlin had become.

“I will not lie for you, but neither will I answer any questions.”

It was as much as he could hope for. “Your courtesy does you honor,” he replied.

Devlin visited several other establishments, eventually finding two other traders who agreed to execute his commission. Although neither inspired the confidence that he had felt with the old woman, the two men seemed honest enough, and both were leaving within the fortnight.

As he left the last merchant, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was as if a giant weight was off his shoulders. Now he had done all he could do. He had earned the money, and sent nine golden disks to his brother’s widow, by three couriers. Even if only one of the packages made it to Duncaer, three golden disks would be enough to pay off their debts and keep her and the children in modest circumstances until they were grown and could fend for themselves. And, Gods willing, if all nine coins arrived safely, she would have more than enough to start over again anywhere she wanted.

It did not matter that earning the money would no doubt cost him his life in short order. Knowing that he had done his best to care for his brother’s family would bring him a small measure of peace, and ease the burden that Devlin’s soul would carry into the afterlife.

Three

STEPHEN WATCHED AS THE CHOSEN DEVOTED HIS full attention to the trencher before him. He ate methodically, in the manner of a man who ate because he must, not because he enjoyed it. Finally, the Chosen finished and laid down his utensils.

“A good meal,” he said. They were the first words he had spoken in nearly half an hour.

“The honor is mine, Chosen One,” Stephen replied.

His companion grimaced. “Call me Devlin, or not at all.”

So the new Chosen One was not comfortable with his rank. Stephen added this to the little he had been able to glean regarding his companion. Earlier, when Devlin had arrived, he had noticed that the Chosen had found time to outfit himself in clothing more typical of Jorsk. But he had chosen to wear the clothes of a common laborer rather than one of the uniforms that the chambermen would have made ready for him. Interesting too that the Chosen was not wearing his seal, nor carrying his sword. No one looking at him would have taken Devlin for anything other than a laborer, or the smith he claimed to have been. Even his age was deceptive. At first glance the streaks of white in his black hair made him look like a man well into middle age, yet his features were that of a much younger man.

Seeing that Devlin had finished eating, a servingwoman came over to remove the trenchers. Turning to Stephen, she said, “The mistress says you are welcome to sing for your supper, but unless your friend has the voice of an angel, he’ll have to pay good coppers, or help me wash up in the kitchen tonight.”