Forging the Runes (10 page)

Ambassador at Large
Chapter 10

Springtime, Ardagh thought, clinging to the rail of the merchant ship
(no, no,
boat
is more the word, and a wallowing awkward one at that).
Or at least what might conceivably be passing for such a season if one were of a charitable mind. He would
not
care to try plunging into those chilly "springtime" waters.

Aedh, not really surprisingly, was rushing the season a bit, desperate to win those Wessex allies before the Lochlannach could set sail.

Optimist.

The king must have paid the ship's owner well to get him to travel this early in the year. But the journey so far hadn't been exciting or romantic or even particularly dangerous. What it had been, Ardagh decided, was out-and-out tedious.

He glanced sideways. Cadwal, looking definitely the worse for wear, was clinging to the rail as though he meant to leave the imprints of his fingers in the wood. "Feeling better?" the prince asked, and got a glare in response. "I take that for a no."

Cadwal stalked away, face desperately rigid. The prince shook his head, amused, and raised the tiny amulet to his lips once more. "Forgive the interruption," he said softly to the far-off Sorcha. "Let me see, where were we?"

" ' . . . and so here we are,' " Sorcha said, mimicking his voice with, he thought, fair success, " 'sailing across an obnoxiously rough sea on an obnoxiously smelly boat.'"

"Ah. Yes." The prince glanced up to make sure that no one was watching him talking earnestly into half an amulet. The little thing did work exactly as intended, but its weak Power meant that he had to hold it practically to his mouth and use a fair amount of will to make it work; they'd quickly discovered that Sorcha, having no magic of her own, could not spark the amulet into life at all.

No one was watching. Ardagh continued, "The captain keeps his craft clean enough, I'll grant him that. But smelly it most certainly is. I will never be able to get the stench of fish out of my nostrils."

Sorcha's voice sounded, not surprisingly, distant and faint but it also was disconcertingly amused. "My poor, put-upon darling. At least you didn't get seasick."

"There is that. Cadwal hasn't been so lucky."

"Och, poor man. He must be so embarrassed."

Ardagh snorted. "Not really. It takes a good deal to disconcert someone who's managed to survive whatever crises life throws his way."

Sorcha chuckled. "Such as you, my love, such as you."

"Ha." But the prince was still thinking about Cadwal. Ever since learning that Ardagh really was of the Sidhe, the mercenary hadn't said more than a dozen words to him.
He's nervous—no, no, he's out-and-out afraid of me,
Ardagh thought,
though the man would never admit it. Afraid, rather, of what I am, or what he thinks I've become. What a ridiculous nuisance!

And how ridiculous to realize just how much he'd been depending on Cadwal's friendship. How much he'd been depending upon having someone he knew at his side.

How much he'd been dreading a return to the total aloneness of his first arrival in the human Realm—

No. Time enough to deal with that when they came ashore. At least there was this: Cadwal's eerie dreams had ceased since they'd come aboard this boat. Not surprising. Sendings, if such they were, would be blocked by running water. That, Ardagh thought wryly, must be worth a good deal of physical and mental discomfort to the man. "Ardagh?"

He started in guilt. "Yes, love, I'm still here. We should be reaching shore soon enough, or so the captain assures me." Ardagh glanced up again. "And here the man comes now. Till later, love."

At first the prince had thought hopefully that this collection of buildings coming into view was royal Uintacaester. But no, he was assured that they had merely reached the trading port of Hamwic, which lay at the mouth of the River Itchen; there was still a journey inland to be made.

Ae, humans.

But it was hardly fair to blame them for not owning the Power to lightly enchant themselves
here
or
there.

Bah.

They came ashore by the simple means of beaching the tough little ship on the wide strip of bare shore; apparently the tide rose high enough to neatly float the ship off again when its owner was ready to set sail. The sailors quickly put a gangplank down, then stood aside. "If you would, Your Highness."

Ardagh stepped gladly down onto dry land, followed by Cadwal (even more grateful than he, judging from the relief in the man's eyes, to be ashore) and their Eriu escort: five of those in all. Not a grand retinue, perhaps, but, the prince thought, more than sufficient. As he stood waiting for his body to adjust to land, his nostrils full of the scents of sea and fish—and, as the wind shifted about to blow from the north, massed humanity—Ardagh looked about in sharp Sidhe curiosity. Hamwic, rather surprisingly, had no defensive walls, only what looked like a boundary ditch.

They clearly haven't yet run afoul of the Lochlannach!

Within the ditch's circle lay some unexpectedly straight streets paved with what looked from here like gravel (no such thing as a city plan back in Fremainn, he thought, or, for that matter, paved streets) and a good many more houses than the prince had expected. Most, at least as far as he could see from out here, were single-storied, their walls of wood, their roofs of thatch.

Which, of course, makes the whole town highly flammable. But with all this water easily to hand, people probably don't worry very much. I wonder if the same is true of cities inland.

His nose wrinkled at the smell of garbage; that, alas, did seem to be a normal part of human places, with their lack of civilized or magical sanitation. But even so, Hamwic seemed clean enough; the midden heaps, or however else they disposed of waste, were out of sight.

Clean enough—fortunately. Etiquette and common sense both dictated that Ardagh and his escort wait here while a messenger hurried off to the king at Uintacaester with the news of this foreign—and royal—envoy's arrival.

There was an awkward time of mutual staring: these folk, like those Ardagh had left, tended to be fair of hair and skin, though their narrow faces could never have been mistaken for any from Eriu. Most of them were clad in leather-wrapped leggings and woolen tunics dyed every shade from dull brown to startling red; some wore cloaks as well, though nothing as practical as Eriu's all-encompassing and virtually weatherproof woolen
brats.

Cadwal was practically radiating tension. The prince murmured to him, "Calmness. This is better than the boat."

Cadwal snorted at that. "Most things are. I won't embarrass you, don't worry. Just don't like being studied."

"One can hardly blame them. This may be a trading town, but it still can't be every day that they see a foreign envoy." Particularly, Ardagh added to himself, one led by a prince who, despite his human garb, made such an exotic figure.

Ae-yi, let them stare and chatter as they would. It gave him the chance to adjust his ear to the Saxon tongue as it was spoken by natives. Yes . . . his lessons had been good enough for a start; he would sharpen his knowledge of the language once he'd heard a suitably noble accent to copy by magic. As for what they were saying . . . he most heartily agreed: a prince could hardly be expected to lodge in some common inn. Hardly a difficulty, surely; so busy a town must have a nobleman or woman overseeing matters for the king.

There was. Soon enough, Ardagh and his escort found themselves welcomed into the residence of the local ealdorman, one Eadric. Ardagh glanced about as he waited for his host to appear, welcoming his first look at the inside of a Saxon home. Eadric's home was basically one large, rectangular hall that could easily have held two of the common houses, while the thatched roof, supported by sturdy beams and crossbeams, was far enough overhead to be dark with shadow.

Or is it just soot from that central fire? I suppose this lord has the same problems with ventilation as the folk of Eriu. And here I was hoping that
someone
had discovered the joys of windows.

"I bid you welcome," a sudden voice cried, "welcome, indeed!"

A plump, cheerful man clad in a brilliant red, elaborately embroidered tunic glinting with gold and jet was hurrying down the length of the hall, an equally plump, equally brightly clad woman scuttling beside him, a flock of servants scurrying in their wake. As the gaudy couple drew near, Ardagh dipped his head politely. This could only be Ealdorman Eadric with, presumably, his wife.

Eadric hadn't stopped chattering cheerful greetings all the while. "Of course you are welcome here," he went on, his eyes bright with excitement, "welcome for as long as you choose to stay."

Meanwhile, Eadric's wife was simpering at Ardagh like an awestruck girl. "It's not often our home is graced by someone of royal blood," she said, and all but giggled.

"Still," Eadric continued with just the slightest warning frown at his wife (which she ignored), "it shouldn't take very long to receive word back from court. King Egbert is—"

"Egbert!" Ardagh interrupted sharply. "I thought your king's name was Beortric!"

"It was, God rest him, it was. But he's gone on, as they say, dead for less than a year, and young Egbert rules now."

And isn't
this
splendid? A new king, a totally new personality about whom I know nothing—so much for a quick and easy mission.

The great royal hall Uintacaester was already half-full; there were always those courtiers so nervous about their status that they'd come to any such event far earlier than need be. Osmod, light blue tunic at just the right length, cloak at just the right angle, his only ornament a necklace of gleaming jet, strolled to his place, nodding at this man, smiling genially at another. Fools, many of them, ambitious fools, but not a one of them was ever going to suspect his true feelings.

Ah, here came Egbert—King Egbert, Osmod corrected silently. He did make a most thoroughly regal figure, as Beortric, soft and indecisive, never had. And it hardly hurt the royal image—even, Osmod thought smugly, as he had first pointed out to the then-exile— that Egbert's still-young face was so strongly, elegantly featured, that his hair was so golden, his bearing so proud.

Now, if only his will was just the smallest bit less firm . . .

In the sixteen years of the late king's reign and his own stagnation, he'd forgotten how difficult and overwhelming an intelligent mind could be. But:
Patience,
the ealdorman told himself.
Continue to be friendly and useful, and every day entangle yourself just the tiniest bit more in Egbert's mind, and if the work seems maddeningly slow, no one ever said sorcery was easy.

At least Egbert was being most suitably grateful to the ealdorman who'd helped him to the throne. Of course. New king that he was, he needed to know there was at least one of the nobles he could trust—or at least not mistrust as strongly.

And of course, Osmod thought dryly, he, the so-loyal ealdorman, was always ready to lend a helping hand— though naturally never doing anything blatantly or firmly enough to make it look like coercion.

Friendly,
Osmod thought,
that's me. And, come what may, there's this convenient thing: Egbert harbors deep ambitions for eventual conquest, even if he hasn't shared them openly. And so do I.

The Witan, naturally, were another matter: all those disparate, not yet quite trusting minds with all those different levels of prejudices and cleverness. But Osmod had already managed to twist a few weaker wills to his own. Eventually the stronger ones would follow—as long as Egbert followed up on the fine beginning he'd made in his first few months as king. All would, with time, be well.

If only the cursed runes would cooperate, instead of giving him, each time he cast them, a disconcertingly vague
possible change
and
possible danger.

Ridiculous.

But then Osmod heard what Egbert was saying, and came bolt upright:

"An emissary from King Aedh of Eriu is on his way to Uintacaester. What Eriu might want from us . . ."

But Osmod didn't bother listening to the rest of it. Eriu.

Far-off, all but unknown Eriu.
Possible change,
he thought wearily.
Possible danger.

The runes, it seemed, hadn't been lying after all.

Ardagh glanced about with quick Sidhe curiosity as he, his Eriu followers and his Saxon escort travelled along. A good, wide road, this, paved with large, worn cobblestones (old, his Sidhe senses told him, far older than these folk), though the occasional stretch of rough ground or holes told of fading maintenance. Small, neat farms lined the road to the left, interspaced with patches of forest not quite as dense as that of Eriu. A good deal of oak in that forest, wonderful, he'd learned, for the building of house or ship. And yes . . . even with all the human dwellings, there should be enough natural Power left to keep him healthy.

The Itchen rushed its way to their right. It ran, according to his guide, up from Hamwic all the way to Uintacaester but, alas for swift travel, was far too shallow at most times of the year to support decent river traffic. As the party crossed the Itchen over a small stone bridge, Ardagh felt the same prickle of (older than these folk) and wondered,
Relics of the . . . what did Aedh call them? The Romhanach—no, no, the
Romans,
that's what they called themselves. Long gone from these lands, but judging from what they left behind, they must have been master builders.