The Fire Dragon (6 page)

“Don't kneel,” the prince said. “My rank can give way to your age, sir.”

The prince let him go, then stood up. The man bowed as best he could with both hands clutched on his stick.

“My thanks, my prince.” The fellow was stammering. “I have a matter to lay before you, you see, and—”

“Two matters,” Branoic interrupted. “Your Highness, Councillor Oggyn demanded a coin from this fellow for the privilege of coming to you for justice.”

“Oh by the gods!” Maryn snarled. He rose and spun around, looking out over the hall, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Oggyn! Get over here!”

With a tight little smile Branoic rose, dusting off the knees of his brigga, and escorted the old man and his stick out of the way. Bellyra twisted round in her chair and saw Oggyn making his way across the hall. Like a hound with chicken feathers still clinging to his muzzle, Oggyn slunk through the tables. The talk and jesting among the lords died down as they turned, a little puzzled, to see what the prince was up to. Bellyra also noticed Maddyn and the page, stopping a little distance away to wait their turn for the prince's attention. At last Oggyn reached the table of honor and knelt at the prince's feet.

“Branoic tells me you extorted money again,” the prince said.

“My liege, I never did such a thing!” Oggyn's voice swooped on an obvious lie. “Truly, I—”

“Can you look me in the face and deny it?”

Oggyn started to speak, then merely sighed and shook his head no.

“I told you, no more of this.” Maryn's voice was level but cold. “My justice is free to all who ask. Do you understand that?”

“I do, my prince.” Oggyn spoke so softly that Bellyra could hardly hear him. “I welter in apologies. I beg your pardon most humbly.”

“Give him the money back,” Maryn said.

Slowly and with trembling hands Oggyn fumbled with the pouch at his belt. His lips trembled as well, and his face had turned scarlet all the way up and over his bald skull. When he held out a silver piece, the suppliant snatched it from his sweaty fingers. Oggyn slumped down and stared at the prince's boots.

“Good,” Maryn went on. “Now then, what shall we do with you? I made you a threat, the last time I caught you grafting. I think me I'd best live up to my word.”

“Not that, my prince.” Oggyn looked up, his lips working, his hands trembling. “I beg you—”

“It behooves a noble-born man to carry out what he threatens, councillor, lest his men think him weak-willed. Maddyn! Where's your harp? There's a song I want you to sing.”

“My lord.” Bellyra got up and laid a hand on the prince's arm. “The poor man! Isn't it a bit much?”

Maryn hesitated, glanced at Oggyn, who was studying the straw on the floor, then back to her. “It's only what he deserves, but your kind heart becomes you, my lady.”

With a little sigh Bellyra took her chair again. For a few moments confusion swirled around the table of honor. Nevyn appeared from somewhere and rushed forward to speak with the suppliant. Maddyn and a Cerrmor bard talked earnestly; then the bard's apprentice hurried forward and handed Maddyn a small lap harp. Through it all Oggyn stayed kneeling, folding over himself with his face as low to the floor as he could get it. At length Gwerbret Daeryc, who had been dining across the table from the princess, got up and pulled his chair out of the way so that Maddyn could climb up onto the table and sing.

For a moment or two Maddyn fiddled with the harp while the great hall gradually fell silent. Bellyra studied his face, carefully impassive. She should have known, she felt, that he would refrain from gloating. Maddyn looked up with a polite smile and a nod for the prince, cleared his throat, and began to sing the song of Farmer Owaen and the fox. At first the cheerful little melody and the subject matter made it sound like some sort of children's song, and Bellyra could see Daeryc and the other nearby lords looking puzzled.

As the song progressed, however, and the fox found himself snatched bald by the farmer, the true import became clear. Verse after verse bounced by, and the resemblance to Oggyn grew more and more obvious. A few men snickered, a few others laughed. Bellyra could see some
whispering and pointing at the councillor crouched at the prince's feet, as if they were explaining the joke to those around them.

“So a fox went to the henhouse,” Maddyn finished, “but he found a wolf on guard. And he ended up as smooth and bald as any stone in the yard.” He ran a trill up and down the strings, then struck a chord with a flourish of his wrist.

The great hall cheered and clapped, but Bellyra was watching Oggyn. Tears ran down his face. She leaned over and grabbed her husband's arm.

“It's enough, Marro,” Bellyra said in his ear. “Do let him go.”

Maryn nodded his agreement and pointed at Oggyn to give him leave to speak.

“My liege!” Oggyn howled, then choked on his words.

“You may leave us, truly,” Maryn said. “Don't stand on ceremony.”

Blubbering thanks, Oggyn hauled himself to his feet. He turned and headed for the staircase on the other side of the great hall as fast as he could manage—not very, in the clutter of tables and human bodies. Long before he reached it the laughter started, a huge wave of it that followed him up, lapping over the steps as he ran for the safety of the floor above. Scarlet-faced, Oggyn was puffing and panting so badly as he staggered up the staircase that Bellyra felt a sudden concern. She leaned over and yelled so that Maryn could hear.

“What if he has an apoplexy or suchlike?”

“Nevyn's on his way after him,” Maryn answered. “Fear not.”

Indeed, the dweomermaster had reached the staircase and was bounding up, as vigorously as a young warrior. He caught up with his fellow councillor, and for a moment Bellyra could see them both. Then, somehow, things got confused. She stopped watching the stairs, glanced back, found the two councillors no longer visible, glanced around and saw that no one else in the great hall seemed to be looking at the stairs either. I must ask Nevyn how he did
that, she thought, but in a few beats of the heart she'd forgotten what she wanted to ask him. Out among the tables, the normal talk picked up again.

Maddyn had climbed down from the table and was handing the harp back to its owner. Bellyra waited till he'd finished, then waved him over. He knelt in front of her and the prince.

“Well sung, Maddo.” Maryn was grinning. “Oggyn will think twice before he extorts any more coin from my subjects.”

“So we may hope, Your Highness,” Maddyn said.

“I've got a little trinket for you,” Bellyra said. “May it bring you luck in the wars.”

“My lady is too generous,” Maddyn said.

“You deserve somewhat for escorting me round to all those dusty rooms all winter.”

Smiling, Maryn nodded at Maddyn, as if to say “take it.” When Maddyn held out his hand, Bellyra dropped it into his open palm. The bard looked at the rose pin, then grinned up at her.

“It's beautiful, my lady,” Maddyn said. “You and your husband have my humble thanks.”

“Most welcome,” Bellyra said with a little nod.

Maddyn pinned the rose to his shirt collar. “I'll treasure it always, Your Highness.”

“That gladdens my heart. And now I think I'd best summon my women and get back to our hall.” Bellyra rose, glancing idly away, as if Maddyn's smile meant naught to her.

At the end of the table Elyssa stood waiting for her, but Degwa seemed to have left already. Oh gods! Bellyra thought. Poor Decci, having to watch all that! With a wave to Elyssa to follow, she left the table and hurried for the stairs, but by the time the two women reached the upper landing, neither Nevyn, Oggyn, nor Degwa were anywhere to be seen.

Nevyn had led Oggyn into the first empty chamber they came to, a tiny room containing naught but one chair. Oggyn sank down upon it and allowed himself to sob aloud.
Repeatedly he ran his face over his sleeve, and eventually the tears stopped coming. Nevyn leaned against the wall and waited while Oggyn pulled a rag from his pocket and blew his nose. He shoved the rag back, then sat slumped, his hands hanging limply between his knees.

“Ah ye gods,” Oggyn moaned. “My life is over.”

“Oh come now!” Nevyn said. “It's not as bad as all that.”

“But I'll have to leave court. How can I possibly stay in the prince's service now?”

“The prince will consider you amply punished and forget the matter.”

“But the shame! Ye gods, everyone will talk of this for years.”

“They won't. You forget their vanity.”

Oggyn looked up, startled.

“The noble-born in particular,” Nevyn went on, “think of very little but their own doings. The servants will remember for a few days, truly, but with the wars starting, soon everyone will have plenty of gossip, fears, and bereavements to occupy them. Besides, you'll be riding with the army, and you won't even be here to snicker at.”

“You're right, truly. My thanks, Nevyn! A thousand thanks and more!” Oggyn sat up, squaring his shoulders like a warrior. “If I can just get through the next few days…”

“You'll have plenty to keep you busy, with all the provisions to tally.”

“Right again. But I don't think I'll go straight back to the great hall.”

“I wouldn't either if I were you.” Nevyn stood up. “Shall we go?”

As they were leaving the chamber, they saw Lady Degwa, trotting toward them. Her widow's black head scarf had slipped back, and locks of her curly dark hair dangled free around her face.

“There you are!” she burst out. “My poor Oggo! I simply had to see you. That awful bard, that awful song!”

When Oggyn held out his hands, she took them in hers and stared up at him. From her puffy eyes and trembling
lower lip Nevyn could tell she'd been weeping. Nevyn made them both an unobserved bow.

“My pardons,” Nevyn said. “I'll just be getting back to the great hall.”

He strode off, but at the staircase he paused and turned to look back. Oggyn and Degwa stood just as he'd left them, hands clasped. Oggyn had bent his head to speak to her in what seemed to be an anguished flood of words, while Degwa stared up adoringly, nodding her agreement now and again. For the first time it occurred to Nevyn that his fellow councillor actually cared for the lady as much as he did for her title. The insight made him end his eavesdropping and hurry downstairs.

In the great hall Grodyr was waiting for him, leaning on his stick over by the hearth of honor. The winter had not been kind to the man who had formerly been the head chirurgeon in Dun Deverry. When Maryn's forces had taken the dun the summer past, Grodyr had fled with the other servitors of the Boar clan, only to find that Lord Braemys distrusted him.

“It's been a long walk you've had,” Nevyn said. “All the way here from Cantrae.”

“I'm surprised I lived through it, good councillor,” Grodyr said. “Especially after I ruined my knee in that fall. It gladdens my heart that you'd take an interest in my plight.”

“Ah, I take it you don't remember me.”

Grodyr blinked, stared at him, then swore under his breath. “The herbman,” he said, “that old herbman who came to the dun—ye gods, how many years ago was it?”

“I don't remember either, but a good long while.”

“I take it you were a spy?”

“I wasn't, oddly enough. I merely decided that I'd find no place in Dun Deverry, so I moved on to Pyrdon, where the prince's father took me into his service. Here, let's sit down.”

At Nevyn's order, a page placed two chairs in the curve of the wall, where they could talk without being easily overheard. Grodyr sat down with a long sigh and propped his stick against the wall near at hand.

“Did you ever get to plead your cause to the prince?” Nevyn said.

“I did, and a well-spoken man he is,” Grodyr said. “But alas, he couldn't help me. When I fled the dun, you see, I was forced to leave some books behind, and I was hoping to reclaim them. He knew naught about them.”

“I may well have them. Any books came to me as my share of the looting—not that anyone else wanted them. Did yours discuss Bardekian physic and medicinals?”

“They did. With those in hand, I might be able to find a place in some great lord's dun. Without them, well, why should they believe a shabby beggar like me when I tell them I'm a chirurgeon?”

“True spoken. You shall have them back.” Nevyn hesitated, considering. “Or even—what would you think about staying here and taking the prince's service?”

“Would he have me?”

“If I recommended you.”

Grodyr leaned back and looked out over the great hall. “I served the Boar clan for years,” he said at length.

“Not as I remember it. You served the king's clan, when I first met you, and I'm willing to wager high that you hated the Boars then and hated them even more later.”

“You have sharp eyes.” Grodyr smiled thinly. “Very well. If the prince can forgive me my former service, I'll be glad to have done with all this cursed travelling.”

“I'll speak to him in the morning. There's someone else here, by the by, who might well remember you: Caudyr, your young apprentice who got himself run out by the Boars.”

“Ye gods! Did he end up in the prince's service, too?”

“He did. He's the chirurgeon for the prince's bodyguard, the silver daggers.”

“Ai.” Grodyr shook his head. “How the world changes, eh?”

“It does, it does.” Nevyn rose and held out a hand. “The stairs to my chambers are a bit steep, but come with me. You can wait down at the foot.”

“My thanks.”

As they were making their slow way across the ward, Nevyn saw Lilli walking alone and hailed her. “There's my apprentice,” he said to Grodyr. “We'll just send her up instead.”

Grodyr clasped his stick with both hands and leaned on it while he stared openmouthed at Lilli. “Your apprentice?” he whispered. “Ye gods! That's Lady Lillorigga of the Boar! Apprenticed to a chirurgeon?”

“She's a daughter of the Rams of Hendyr now, and I'm not exactly a chirurgeon.”

Smiling, Lilli trotted over, dropped them a curtsy, then suddenly stared at Grodyr in turn.

“It is me,” the chirurgeon said. “I fear me your cousin Braemys refused me shelter in Dun Cantrae last autumn, and wintering on the roads has left me changed.”