Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 5

  More than ever he wished he could simply scry through the fire and talk with the other dweomermasters who were part of this scheme. He badly wanted to know whether the situation in Cerrmor had changed since his last talk with the priests of Bel there, and he would have liked some opinions on the character of this Tieryn Elyc, too. There remained as well the problem of their enemies, who might well have seen through their ruse.

  “Nevyn?” It was Maddyn, hesitating in the doorway. “Have you seen Maryn?”

  “Not since you two brought up my things.” Nevyn leapt to his feet like a bounding hare. “Have you?”

  “I haven’t. I’ve looked all over this cursed inn, even out in the privies.”

  Swearing under his breath Nevyn followed the bard down to the tavern room, where a handful of silver daggers were drinking and dicing in the uncertain lantern light. From the way they fell silent and froze at the sight of their lieutenant, Nevyn felt trouble brewing. Maddyn apparently agreed.

  “I want answers!” he snarled. “Where’s Maryn?”

  The men looked back and forth between one another for a good minute before a slender lad named Albyn finally spoke, and he stared fixedly at the far wall rather than at Maddyn.

  “Out and about with a couple of the lads.”

  “That’s not good enough. Out where and with whom?”

  “Er, well, Branoic and Aethan, so he’s in good hands.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Ah, well, we were all talking, like, during the evening meal, and it turned out the lad had never”—he glanced Nevyn’s way with a nervous tic of the cheek—“never been with a lass, like. So we were all thinking what a pity that was, and . . . ”

  “By every god in the sky!” Maddyn’s voice was a growl. “Are you saying those two piss-poor excuses for dolts took Maryn to a brothel?”

  “Just that. Er, it was just a prank, Maddo.”

  “You lackwit dog! Which brothel?”

  “How would we know, Maddo? None of us have ever been in Dun Trebyc before. They went out to ask around, like.”

  When Maddyn’s cheeks flushed a dangerous shade of purple, Albyn shrank back, half ducking a blow that never came. With a deep exhalation of breath, Maddyn got himself under control.

  “We’re all going to go out and ask around. All right, you six—hunt up the other lads and go out in squads, four men to a squad, say, and scour this wretched town down. Find him. Do you hear me? Find him fast.”

  As the men scrambled up and hurried off to follow orders, Nevyn barely saw them leave. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, partly from rage, but mostly fear. Maryn was off in one of the most lawless towns in the kingdom, and he didn’t dare use a trace of dweomer to find him.

  “We’d best go look ourselves,” Maddyn said.

  “Just so. And when I get my hands on Aethan and young Branno . . . ”

  “Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’ll hold them down so you can do it.”

  Since Dun Trebyc was the kind of town it was, finding a brothel turned out to be easy enough. Down near the river the two silver daggers with their prince in tow came across the Tupping Ram, a surprisingly big two-story roundhouse with its own stableyard out in back and a palisade made of split logs all round. Over the gate, right next to the painted wooden sign, hung a well-worn broom smelling of sour ale.

  “I’ll wager they sell more than beer, judging from the look of that sign,” Branoic said with a grin. “In we go, lads.”

  The stable turned out to be a big open barn without stalls. As they hitched their horses to a rail near the far side, Branoic noticed Aethan looking over the various other horses, as well as he could in the dim lantern light, anyway.

  “There’s a lot of devices and suchlike on this gear. Looks like the marks belong to some free troops. Listen, young ones: watch what you say in there. We’ve got rivals, and I don’t want a brawl. Understand?”

  “Just so,” Branoic said. “I didn’t come here with fistfights on my mind anyway.”

  The ale room was stinking-hot from the fire in the hearth and the press of men packed into it—merchants, riders for the local lord, a couple of other silver daggers, and a good-sized mob of men from a mercenary troop that wore a black sword embroidered on one sleeve for a device. Strolling around or perching suggestively on the tables were a variety of young women in varying states of undress while three older women with hard eyes rushed round serving ale. Even though they’d had plenty to drink back at the inn, Aethan insisted on collaring one of the women and ordering three tankards of dark. Once they had their beer they found a free spot to stand in the curve of the wall and eyed the merchandise. Maryn’s face was flushed scarlet, whether from the heat or embarrassment, Branoic couldn’t tell. A little of both, he supposed.

  “I rather fancy that redhead over there,” Aethan said. “Either of you want her?”

  Maryn merely shrugged and buried his nose in his tankard.

  “Not me,” Branoic said. “Go to, lad!”

  As Aethan strolled off, a pale blonde who reminded Branoic a bit of Clwna came bobbing over, wearing nothing but a drape of red Bardek silk around her hips. Although she gave Branoic a smile it was Maryn that she sidled up to.

  “And what’s your name, lad?” she said, batting eyelashes pitch-black with Bardek kohl.

  “M-m-maryn.” He could hardly keep his eyes off her breasts and their nipples, which gleamed an unnatural red. “W-wh-wha—ah c-c-curse it!”

  “Oh, now here, don’t let a bit of a stammer bother you! A well-favored lad like you doesn’t have to worry about fine words when it comes to winning a lass’s heart.” She gave Branoic a sly sidelong wink. “As for you, my handsome friend, it looks like our Avra’s sitting all lonely over there.”

  By the fire a tousle-headed blonde in a gauzy shift was lounging on a cushioned bench and eyeing him with some interest. Branoic left the prince to the practiced attentions of the young whore and made his way across the room in a hurry, before someone else could claim her. As he approached she sat up and gave him a slow, sleepy smile. The shift was stuck to her back and breasts with sweat. For some reason, that night, he found the sight utterly arousing, and he sat down next to her and kissed her without saying a word. From the sweet taste of her mouth she’d been chewing cinnamon.

  “Oh, I do like that,” she said, giving him another smile. “A man who’s got his mind made up. Can I have a sip of that ale?”

  Grinning, he handed her the tankard, which she took in both hands so she could gulp like a thirsty child.

  “Hot in here tonight.”

  “Too hot.” She handed him back the nearly empty tankard. “It might be cooler upstairs. Want to go see?”

  For an answer he set the tankard down on the floor and got up, holding out his hand to catch hers and haul her to her feet. Moving carefully through the packed crowd they made their way to the back door and out, where a wooden staircase listed against the outside wall and led up to a doorway and a spill of light from lanterns hanging from the ceiling. At the top, just inside the open door, a toothless old woman, her hair dyed sunset-orange with henna and her gnarled fingers covered with cheap rings, sat on a high-backed chair and made a desultory pretense of spinning wool.

  “Take him down to the end, Avra love. The one with the window’s free,” she said, yawning. “Gods, things are busy tonight, eh?”

  Soot-stained wickerwork partitions cut the top story of the building up into a warren of tiny cubicles that reeked of spilled ale and sweat and other humidities, but somehow the squalor matched the whore’s sweaty breasts and tousled hair, as if they were all ingredients in some strange but potent sexual spell. When she pulled aside a dirty blanket to reveal a tiny cubicle with nothing but a straw mattress on the floor, he ducked in after her, caught her round the waist, and kissed her hard, his hands digging into her back.

  “Oh, this could be nice,” she murmured. “I like a man who’s a little bit
rough, if you take my meaning, like.”

  When he slapped her across the buttocks, she giggled and reached up to kiss him in turn.

  “Avra!” It was the crone’s voice, as harsh as a crow. “Avra, you come out here right now, you little wench! There’s Caer the blacksmith here, and he swears you stole a silver out of his pockets!”

  “May a demon shit in his eye!” Avra yelled. “Did naught of the sort, you old harpy!”

  “He’s threatening to bust up the place, he is! You get your ugly ass out here now!”

  “You’d best go.” Branoic was wishing he could strangle the old hag and be done with her. “I’ll wait. You look worth waiting for.”

  “My thanks, and I’ll say the same for you. Open the shutters for a bit of air, will you, love?” This last as she was leaving: “I’m on my way, sow-tits!”

  Shrieking at each other they moved off down the hall, where their voices were met by an angry masculine bellow. With some care for the rotting leather hinges, Branoic opened the shutters and stuck his head out to breathe the night’s cool. Down below in the stableyard, in pockets of lantern light men were standing around, drinking, singing, or merely laughing together at some jest or another. When a woman giggled behind him he pulled his head in, hoping for Avra back again, but the sound was coming from the other side of the rickety partition to his right. Although he could hear a woman plain enough, the man with her was talking in a rumbling dark voice, and he couldn’t understand a word.

  “I learned it from a Bardek sailor,” she went on, giggling. “And you’ve never felt anything like this before, I swear it. Oh, come along, five extra coppers can’t be much to a man like you.”

  The rumble sounded skeptical.

  “Because it’s not so easy on a lass’s back, that’s why! First you’ve got to . . . ” Here her words were drowned by mutual giggling. “And then I squeeze a bit, like. They call it coring apples. What do you say?”

  Judging from his snigger of laughter, he was agreeing to the extra expense. Branoic paced over to the doorway and pulled back the blanket to look out, but there was no sign of Avra. As he was considering leaving to find her, the couple next door began giggling and grunting in turn, as if whatever exotic trick she was showing him took a great deal of coordinated effort to bring off properly. Branoic did make an effort to do the honorable thing and ignore them, but he was, after all, only human, with the stock of curiosity normal for that breed. He went back to the window, hesitated, then bent down to peer through the tiny holes in the partition, which proved to be clogged with old filth.

  “Ooooh, ye gods,” the wench next door snickered. “Well, let’s try again, shall we?”

  Her piece of work agreed with a long bellow of laughter. Cursing his own curiosity, Branoic looked around and discovered that the wickerwork stopped somewhat short of the ceiling about two feet above his head, and that the windowsill stood about three feet off the floor. After one last attempt to ignore this perfect confluence of circumstance, he gave in and hauled himself up to totter on the sill and look over the top of the partition. Unfortunately he’d forgotten that he’d been drinking ale for hours on a hot night, and the effort made his head lurch and swim. Without thinking he grabbed at the flimsy wickerwork to steady himself. It buckled, he grabbed harder, the couple beyond yelped and swore, and his foot slipped on the mucky sill. With a yell of his own that was half a warning Branoic pitched forward, all fifteen stone of him, and crashed into the partition. In a tangle of broken wicker he swooped down and landed on the half-naked pair.

  Shrieking and screaming, the woman writhed around and got free just as the next partition over went down from the impact, and knocked the one beyond it, too, into the one beyond—and so on all along the round room. Stammering out a stream of apologies of some sort—he never could remember exactly what he said —Branoic rolled over and staggered to his feet just as the fellow jumped up, pulling up his brigga and struggling to belt them, a big burly man and too furious to swear. The blazons on his shirt showed him to be a member of the Black Sword troop.

  “Who are you—a cursed silver dagger! I’ll have your ugly head for this, you young cub!”

  “I didn’t mean—my apologies—” Branoic was gulping for air out of shame, not fear.

  Although the fellow started to draw his sword, his brigga slid down to his knees and forced a brief moment of peace as he swore and fumbled round for his belt. Just to be on the safe side, Branoic reached for his own hilt and was rewarded with another bellow of rage. The lass started screaming just as Aethan came plowing into what was left of the doorway.

  “Put that sword away, Branoic you asshole, and come with me!”

  The fellow was so stunned that he merely stood there, hiking his brigga, as Aethan shoved Branoic bodily ahead of him, down the collapsed corridor. Judging by the shrieking and writhing under the pile of broken wickerwork the brothel had indeed been busy that night. They shoved their way out the doorway and clattered down the stairs fast to the stableyard, where a curious crowd was beginning to form.

  “I was just going downstairs again with the red-haired slut when I saw your stupid ugly mug poking up over the wall.” Aethan’s voice was so choked that Branoic thought him still furious until all at once the older man broke out into a howl of laughter. “Oh, ye gods, the look on everyone’s face! Wait till we tell Maddo about this!”

  “Ah shit! Do we have to?”

  “I do,” Aethan gasped out. “Don’t know about you. I—oh, ye gods! Where’s Maryn?”

  In a wave of ice-cold shame Branoic spun around and headed, all unthinking, back toward the stairway with Aethan right behind. By then, though, men and women both were rushing down, clutching pieces of clothing or struggling to get clothing on, cursing and snarling and swearing they’d find the lout of a silver dagger who was responsible and slice his heart out. Aethan grabbed Branoic by the arm and pulled him back into a patch of shadow.

  “Go get the horses and take them round to the street,” he hissed. “I’ll find the lad and try to warn the rest of our men, too.”

  Keeping to the dark places Branoic scuttled to the stable and found their three mounts. His heart was pounding in terror—what if something had happened to the one true king of all Deverry and it was all his fault? All at once he realized that their little prank was a dangerous one all round, taking Maryn into the heart of a strange town with only a couple of guards—who had then let him go off with a whore on his own. What if the lass had been in someone’s pay? He gathered the horses’ reins in one hand, threw open the stable door with the other, and started out only to run straight into Maddyn and Nevyn.

  “Where’s the prince?” Maddyn snarled.

  “I don’t know. Aethan’s looking for him.”

  With a foul oath Maddyn slugged him backhanded across the face.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d do such a stupid thing, but I expected better from Aethan. And why by the name of every god is this wretched crowd milling round out here?”

  Branoic tried to speak, but his voice clogged and tears filled his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to choke them back. Nevyn grabbed his arm and shook it.

  “Think, lad! Save the cursed shame for later.”

  “I—I—I . . . ”

  The horses began to stamp and toss their heads. By then Branoic’s hands were so sweaty that he could barely hang on to the reins.

  “Nevyn!” The whisper came from directly above them. “Is th-th-that you?”

  “It is!” The old man sounded as if he’d weep, too, but from relief. “Maryn, where are you?”

  “In the hayloft. We c-c-came up here to be private, like.”

  “Then come down! Give the lass some coins—I imagine she’s more than earned them—and get down here right now!”

  “I will, sir. S-s-straightaway.”

  There was a chink of silver, a giggle, and a rustle of hay; then Maryn clambered down the rope ladder and dropped lightly to th
e floor nearby. Nevyn threw both arms around him and hugged him.

  “My apologies,” Maryn stammered out. “But I—”

  “I don’t want to hear a word more about it, but if you ever do such a stupid thing again . . . ” All at once Nevyn broke off with a warning glance up at the hayloft, where the lass was lingering, prudently out of the way. “Well, no harm done, I suppose.” He turned to Branoic. “Here, lad, you don’t need to grovel and look like cold death. The prank ended well enough.”

  Branoic only shrugged for an answer. He could never explain that what was eating his heart was Maddyn’s scorn. The bard himself had run over to the stable doors and was peering out the crack between them; with an oath he came trotting back.

  “Nevyn, take two of these horses and get Maryn out of here. When we rode in I saw a back gate over near those trees. Branoic, you come with me. We’ve got to find Aethan. I don’t like the look of that crowd.”

  Much later it occurred to Branoic that he should have told Maddyn the truth right there and then, but at the time he was quite simply so miserable, wallowing in shame and the bard’s disgust, that he was sure that Maddyn would think him a coward if he didn’t go back. Outside, they found about thirty people of both sexes milling around and talking at the top of their lungs. Quite a few people were laughing, actually—one could guess that they’d all been elsewhere when the walls started going down—and promising to spread this magnificent jest around town, much to the rage of those caught in Branoic’s unintentional trap.

  “I think that’s Aethan over by the tavern-room door,” Maddyn whispered. “You’re taller—can you see?”

  Branoic raised himself up on the balls of his feet and shaded his eyes against the lantern light with one hand.

  “It is.” He started waving. “Good, he’s seen me.”

  Unfortunately so had the burly fellow from the next cubicle. Fully dressed now and howling like a banshee he came shoving his way through the crowd.

  “You! You’re the little prick that started this whole cursed thing!”