A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [123]
“Oh, the situation’s truly vexed, good Dallandra,” said Timryc the chirurgeon. “It seems that every hill lord is up in arms, and so you’re going to have a fine job finding your silver dagger.”
“So it seems. On the other hand, no doubt I’ll find plenty of work for my herbs.”
A tiny, wrinkled man with a face as brown as a walnut, Timryc nodded in sad agreement. Drwmyc, Gwerbret Dun Trebyc and master of the Pyrdon hills by the power of the king and the council of electors, was the lord he served as head chirurgeon, a position that kept him current on everything worth knowing about the affairs of the gwerbretrhyn. The exotic medicines from Bardek that Dallandra was carrying (stolen from some priests who were rich enough to spare them, or so Evandar had assured her) had gotten her ushered right in to the presence and the favor of this important man. After buying as much of her stock as she could spare, the chirurgeon had invited her to dine with him, out of sympathy, no doubt, for her supposed advanced age.
“The war started over some cattle rights,” Timryc went on. “But now there’s a bit more at stake than that. You see, His Grace Drwmyc is going to create a tierynrhyn up in the hill country soon. I’ll wager the various lords are sorting themselves out to see who’ll receive the honor.”
“Ah. And so his grace doubtless won’t intervene right away.”
“Not unless he receives a direct appeal, which is unlikely. After all, he’ll want to appoint a tieryn who has the respect of his vassals.” Timryc idly picked up a bone-handled scalpel from the table in front of him and considered the fine steel blade. “Of course, if things get out of hand, and too many of the freemen and their farms are threatened, the gwerbret will intervene. No doubt the feuding lords know that, too.”
“Let’s hope. A formal little war, then?”
“It should be.” Timryc laid the scalpel back down. “It had better be, or his grace will end it. But I’m glad to have that opium and suchlike you’ve sold me.”
Dallandra looked absently round Timryc’s comfortable chamber. In the midst of oak paneling and fine tapestries, it was hard to think about warfare, particularly a noble-born squabble, fought by rules as clear as a tournament, with the one difference that death was an allowable part of the sport.
“The latest news is that Lord Adry’s dun is under siege,” Timryc went on. “A certain Lord Erddyr is leading the faction that’s trying to keep Adry’s allies from lifting the siege. If you insist on riding up there, be very careful. There’ll be skirmishing along the roads.”
“Where is this dun, anyway? I’m truly grateful to you for all this information.”
“Oh, it’s naught, naught. I’ll offer you somewhat more valuable—a letter of safe conduct. Even the most ignorant rider can recognize the gwerbret’s seal.”
Later that evening, with the letter tucked safely inside her tunic and a map of the road to Lord Adry’s dun as well, Dallandra returned to her chamber in the inn where she was staying. Since the eight was too warm for a fire, she used the dancing reflections of candle flame in a bucket of water for her scrying, but she saw nothing but a stubborn darkness, telling her that the bone whistle was tucked away in Rhodry’s gear. In a way, she was relieved to fail and have done with it, because her day’s traveling had left her exhausted. Every muscle in her legs and back burned from riding, and she felt as if the rest of her were made of lead, It had been a long time since she’d lived in her physical body. That night she dreamt that she lounged in the sunny grass with Evandar, in the land where life meant ease and dweomer, only to wake in tears at the sight of the dingy chamber walls.
Rhodry rode for most of the eight, stopping at the dun of Lord Degedd,