Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [83]
With a sigh, Gweran set the harp down and wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. He got off the table, took a tankard of ale from a waiting page, and wandered over to Nevyn.
“I need a bit of rest. Cursed smoky in here, and it affects your voice.”
“So it must. You sing beautifully, bard, though I wonder about your choice of tales.”
Gweran raised one eyebrow.
“Lord Benoic’s sad end fell upon some ears that are doubtless raw from hearing it,” Nevyn said.
“I only wish I could cut them from his head, if you mean the man I think you mean.”
“It takes a great deal of skill with a sword to bring the falcon down as he flies, my friend.”
“And that’s what all men think, isn’t it?” Gweran’s voice turned cold and flat. “That I’m to grovel in fear before this lout of a rider, because he can swing a blade and I can’t. I tell you, I’d rather die than be that kind of coward.”
“I only pray your words never come to the test.”
Gweran shrugged and had a long swallow of ale.
“Now, here,” Nevyn said, “If you mentioned to Lord Maroic that Tanyc was sniffing round your woman, the lord would turn him out. Maroic honors a bard the way he should be honored.”
“So he does, but that would only dirty Lyssa’s name. I can hear the old gossips wagging their heads and saying where there’s mud, there’s water below, and the stinking warband looking at her and wondering. What kind of a man am I if I can’t protect my own?”
“A dead man protects nobody.”
“Oh, don’t trouble your heart. I’ve no desire to die and leave my poor Lyssa a widow. This is all a warning, like, for our falcon. I truly think the lout didn’t know I knew. Well, he does now. It’ll put him in his place.”
It was perfectly reasonable, but Nevyn knew, with an icy touch of dweomer, that somehow Gweran was lying.
As he went over his stock of story songs, laid up in his mind where no thief could steal them, Gweran was surprised at just how many tales had adultery for a theme. It seemed to be a common pastime among the noble-born, like hawking, though with an even bloodier result. Every night, Gweran would sing one song about adultery and watch Tanyc when he came to the predictable doom at the end. From the tightness of his jaw and the cold flicker in his eyes, there was no doubt that Tanyc was listening. Tanyc wasn’t the only man with sharp ears. After a week of this sport, Doryn came up to Gweran one night for a private talk.
“Here, bard, how about a pleasant tale or two? I’m as sick as I can be of all this lusting after other men’s wives.”
“Are you, now, captain? So am I.”
Doryn winced, tossing his head like a fly-stung horse.
“Do you think I’m blind?” Gweran said.
“My apologies. It’s a shameful thing, truly, wanting another man’s woman.”
“Just that. I’m glad to see you share my opinion. Is there anything wrong with making a shameful man feel shame?”
“Nothing at all, and it’s a bard’s prerogative at that.”
The next time Gweran sang one of the tales, he had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of the warband avoiding Tanyc’s eye at the mention of adultery. For the next few nights, Tanyc glowered into his tankard and barely breathed during the crucial song. When he judged the time was right, Gweran sang a bawdy song about an adulterous miller, who thought he was close to seducing the tavernman’s wife. All the time, the wife had been confiding in her husband, who was there with two strong friends to greet the would-be swain. They clapped the miller into an empty barrel, rolled him down the village street, and set him adrift in the river. When the other riders howled with laughter, Tanyc’s face went dead white.
The very next morning, Tanyc met Gweran face to face out in the ward.
“You little bastard,” Tanyc growled.
“Am I, now? And what injury have I ever done you?”
Trapped. Tanyc could hardly admit his own guilt by mentioning the choice of songs.
“If you have an injury,” Gweran went on, “by all means, lay it before Lord Maroic for judgment. I’ll gladly accept his decree.