Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [59]
“None of those, truly. But a silver dagger.”
Jill laughed, a crow of victory, and threw her arms around him. With a sly smile Cullyn untangled himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Now, that’s a strange gift for a lass,” Otho said.
“Not for this little hellcat here. She’s badgered her old father here into teaching her swordcraft.”
Otho turned to Jill in surprise. The gray gnome popped into existence, squatting on the workbench, and laid one long warty finger on a ruby. Jill reached out and swatted it away, then realized from the way that Otho’s eyes were moving that he, too, could see it. With an injured look, the gnome vanished. Otho gave Jill a bland conspiratorial smile.
“Well, lass, no doubt, you’ll want the same falcon device as your Da.”
“By the asses of the gods, Otho,” Cullyn broke in. “It was fourteen years ago when you made me my dagger. You’ve got a cursed long memory.”
“I do. Memory serves a man well if he’ll only use it. Now, you’re in a bit of luck. I’ve got a dagger all made up, so all I have to do is grave the device on. A year or so ago, another silver dagger brought me a lad to pledge to your band. I got the dagger finished, but cursed if the lad didn’t go and ask questions about the fishing boats, and so he never lived to pay me for it. Luckily I’d never put on the device, or I’d have been out a good bit of coin.”
Late in the afternoon, Jill went back to the smith’s to get the finished dagger. She ran greedy hands over the hilt and a cautious finger down the blade. While an ordinary Deverry craftsman would have drawn a falcon as a circle for a head on top of a pair of triangles for wings, Otho’s work was a lifelike side view, detailed to give the illusion of feathers, and yet it was only an inch tall.
“This is truly beautiful,” Jill said.
The gnome materialized for a look. When Jill obligingly held the dagger up, Otho laughed under his breath.
“You’re a strange one, young Jill,” Otho said. “Seeing the Wildfolk as clear as day.”
“Oh, I’m strange, am I now? Good smith, you see them, too.”
“So I do, so I do, but why I do is my secret, and not for the telling. As. for you, lass, is there elven blood in your mother’s clan? You can tell by looking at him that there’s no such thing in Cullyn’s.”
“What? How could there be? Elves are only a children’s tale.”
“Oh, are they now? Well, the elves you hear about are a tale and no more, perhaps, but that’s because no one round here knows about the true elves. They’re called the Elcyion Lacar, they are, and if you ever meet one, don’t trust him a jot. Flighty, they are, all of that lot.”
Jill smiled politely, but she was sure that Otho must be daft. He put his chin on his hand and considered her.
“Tell me somewhat,” he said at last. “Does it suit you, riding with your father? Cullyn’s a cursed harsh man.”
“Not to me. Well, most of the time, not to me. But it’s splendid, getting to go everywhere and see everything.”
“And what’s going to happen when it’s time for you to marry?”
“I’ll never marry.”
Otho smiled in pronounced skepticism.
“Well, some women never marry,” Jill said. “They get a craft, like spinning or suchlike, and they open a shop.”
“True enough, and maybe you will find the right craft someday. Here, young Jill, I’ll tell you a riddle. If ever you find no one, ask him what craft to take.”
“Your pardons, but what—”
“Told you it was a riddle, didn’t I? Remember, if ever you find nev yn, he’ll tell you more. Now you’d best get back to your Da before he gives you a slap for dawdling.”
All the way back to the inn, Jill puzzled over Otho and his riddle both. Finally she decided that the riddle meant that no one could ever tell her what to do, because she’d do exactly what she wanted. Otho himself, however, was not so easily solved.
“Da?” she asked. “What sort of man is Otho?”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, he doesn’t seem like an ordinary man.”
Cullyn shrugged in vague irritation.
“Well, it must be hard on a man, being born that short,” he said at last. “I suppose