A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [124]
“Well, I waited until your guests left, didn’t I?”
“I suppose I should be thanking the gods for giving you one little crumb of good sense. Look at you—like a prize bull, properly bred and twice as sweaty! And you’re drunk, and you stole from me, and—” He sputtered briefly, then took a deep breath. “Ye gods, Ganno! Do you know how late it is? You’ve been out carousing most of the night. And now you’re going to go staggering into the guildhall, I suppose, with your eyes as red as a weasel’s, and everyone will know what you were up to. By the Lord of Hell’s black ass, what will people think of me for having a son like you?”
Wersyn strode back into his bedchamber. When he slammed the door behind him and his candle, the reception chamber went dark. Stumbling over furniture, Ganedd found his way to his own bedchamber, fell down on the bed fully dressed, and passed out.
But he woke in the morning in a sullen temper. During breakfast, which he could barely eat, he had difficulty looking at his father, who prattled on about lower taxes as if the rebellion were already won.
“Now remember what I said about the vote this morning,” Wersyn announced finally.
Ganedd tried to swallow a spoonful of barley porridge, then shoved the bowl away as a bad job.
“The loan’s going through no matter what we think about it,” Wersyn continued. “So when it comes to the vote, we’re giving our approval, too.”
Ganedd started to argue, then got up and rushed out of the room. He never made it to the privy, but no one cared when he heaved the contents of his stomach onto the dungheap out back of the inn.
The vote on the loan was the last item on the guild’s agenda, rather as though the master were putting it off as long as possible in the vain hope that some omen might make the decision easier. Ganedd sat sullenly on his bench—way at the back since he’d come in late—and nursed the mead-sick throb in his temples and the queasiness in his stomach. All at once, a bustle on the dais caught his attention. The guildmaster rose, tossed his cloak back from one shoulder, and blew on his silver horn to bring the meeting to order, the long sweet note echoing through the abruptly silent hall. Sunlight hung heavy on the sea of color that was the finery of the guild: gold-shot banners, checks and stripes of all colors on cloak and brigga, rainbow-hued tapestries on the painted walls.
“We come now to the matter of the loan of two thousand silver pieces to his grace, Gwerbret Aberwyn,” the guildmaster called out. “Is there any more debate to be laid before the convocation?”
Silence, stillness—no one spoke or moved. The guildmaster raised the horn to his lips and blew again.
“Very well. Those in favor, to the right. Those against, to the left. Scribe, stand ready to count and record the numbers.”
Slowly, a few at a time, the men rose, starting in the front of the hall, and walked to the right, so unanimously that the motion was as smooth as uncoiling a rope. Ganedd watched as first his father took a place at the right, then his father’s close friends trotted meekly after. His row, the last, began to get up. Ganedd followed them free of the benches, then abruptly turned and marched to the left side of the hall. He’d be cursed and frozen in the third hell before he’d back a doomed scheme like this one. It was also the sweetest pleasure he’d ever tasted to see his father’s face literally turn purple with rage. Ganedd crossed his arms over his chest and grinned as the entire guild gasped and stared: whiskered faces, lean faces, shrewd eyes, watery eyes, but all of them outraged.
“Done, then,” the guildmaster called. “Scribe, what is your count?”
“Ninety and seven in favor, two members missing from the count, and one against.”
“There’s one man in Eldidd who’ll hold for the true king,” Ganedd yelled. “You stinking cowards!”
At the shriek that rose he felt as if he’d heaved a rock into the middle of a flock of geese. The men swirled round, nudging each other, whispering and cursing, then shouting and cursing, louder and louder