Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [60]
Jill supposed that his answer made sense, but still, she was left with the feeling that there was something very odd about Otho the silversmith.
That evening, the tavern room filled up fast with merchants who’d been to the fair and farmers having a last tankard before they went home. Although the room was hot from the fire in the hearth, and clouds of midges swarmed around the candle lanterns, Cullyn showed no inclination to leave after dinner. With coin in his pocket, he would drink all night, Jill knew, and she got ready to argue with him later to keep him from spending the lot. Eventually four riders in the local lord’s warband, wearing fox blazons on their shirts, came in to drink and chivy the serving lass. Jill kept a nervous eye on them. Three of them were laughing and talking, but the fourth stood on the edge of things. Since he looked no older than fifteen, doubtless he had yet to prove himself in battle or in a brawl. Jill hoped that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to challenge Cullyn, because he was a handsome lad in his way. All at once, she realized that he was boldly looking back at her. She grabbed her tankard of ale and buried her nose in it.
“Not so fast,” Cullyn snapped.
“My apologies, Da. Here, shall I fetch you another? The tavernman’s so busy he never looks our way.”
Jill got the ale from the tavernman and began making her way back, carefully keeping her eye on the foaming-full tankard. When she felt a touch on her shoulder, she looked up to find the young rider grinning at her.
“Hold a minute,” he said. “Can I ask you somewhat?”
“You can, but I might not answer.”
The other Fox riders gathered round and snickered. The lad blushed and went on in wavering determination.
“Uh, no insult, mind, but are you a lad or a lass?”
“A lass, but it’s nothing to you.”
The riders laughed. One nudged the lad and whispered, “Oh, go on.”
“Uh, well, I thought you were a lass, because you’re so pretty.”
Jill was caught speechless.
“Well, you are,” the lad went on, a bit more boldly. “Can I stand you a tankard?”
“Now, here.” It was Cullyn, striding over. “What’s this?”
“He was just talking to me, Da.”
The lad stepped back sharply, stumbling into his friends.
“Listen, you young dolt. I happen to be Cullyn of Cerrmor. Ever hear that name?”
The lad’s face went pale. The other Fox riders joustled each other in their hurry to fall back and leave the lad to face Cullyn alone.
“I see you have,” Cullyn said. “Now, none of you are going to say one more word to my daughter.”
“We won’t. I swear it.”
“Good.” Cullyn turned on Jill. “And you’re not saying one more word to them. Get back to the table.”
Slopping the ale a bit, Jill hurried back to the table and sat down. Cullyn stood with his arms folded over his chest while the Fox riders unceremoniously ran out the door; then he came and sat beside her.
“You listen to me! The next time any young lout says a wrong word to you, you walk on by and find me. By the hells, you’re getting older, aren’t you? I never truly noticed how much older before.”
When their eyes met, Jill felt that she’d somehow become shameful and failed him. She disliked the way her father was looking at her, too, a cold appraisal that made her feel unclean. Abruptly he looked away, and she knew that he was as troubled as she was. She sat there miserably and wished that she could talk to her mother. It was only later that she remembered the young rider telling her she was pretty. In spite of herself, she was pleased.
II
On a day when the trees stood scarlet, and a cold drizzle turned the streets to muck, Nevyn rode into Dun Mannanan. He rented a chamber in the inn, stabled his horse and pack mule, then wrapped himself in his patched cloak and hurried to the shop of Otho the silversmith. For reasons of its own, the dweomer watched over the band of silver daggers; since most of them were decent enough lads who had only committed one grave fault, they came in handy for those rare times when the dweomer