Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [86]
—The Secret Book of
Cadwallon the Druid
Grunting, sweating in the hot sun, the mules nipped and kicked as the muleteers tried to beat them into some semblance of order. The caravan turned into an unruly mob, swirling at the city gates in a cloud of brown dust. Cullyn of Cerrmor pulled his horse out of line and trotted over to the side of the road. By rising in his stirrups he could see Dregydd the merchant arguing about taxes and dues with the city guards, but the mules were raising so much dust that it was impossible to make out who was where in the caravan itself.
“Jill!” Cullyn yelled at the top of his lungs. “Jill, get out of that mob.”
After an anxious wait of a few minutes, Cullyn saw her guiding her chestnut gelding free and trotting over to join him. Sweat made streaks on her dusty face, and her blond hair looked the same color as her horse.
“I hope Dregydd just pays them,” Jill said. “I want a bath.”
“Me, too, and some ale as well.”
They looked wistfully at the high city walls of Cernmeton, one of the few real towns in northwest Eldidd. Despite the typical town reek, a drift of sewage on the hot summer air, it promised comforts after a long week on the road. Dregydd, a nervous sort, had hired Cullyn as an armed guard for this trip, even though bandits were a rarity in this part of the kingdom.
At last the caravan began to move, the men shouting, the mules braying, as they shoved their way into the close-packed warren of round houses, then wound along the curved streets until they reached a rambling stone inn. Cullyn dismounted and worked his way through the crowd of men and mules toward Dregydd. The grizzled merchant paid over a silver piece without haggling.
“I’ve never had an easier time with my men, silver dagger.”
As Cullyn turned away, the skinny innkeep, all greasy hair and narrow eyes, caught his arm.
“No silver daggers in my inn!”
“I’ve no desire to let your lice get a taste of me. Now get your hand off my arm.”
A bit pale, the innkeep jumped back.
Over by the east gate was a shabby wooden inn in a muddy yard where Cullyn and Jill had stayed before. Although the stables were only a row of tumbledown sheds, and somewhat cleaner than the tavern room itself, there the innkeep greeted Cullyn like a long-lost brother and gave them his best room, a tiny chamber in the upper story, with one skewed window. Bradd himself was a stout fellow who had lost an ear in a fight, to judge from the tooth scars on the remains.
“Well, little Jill! You’re not so little anymore, are you? Why aren’t you married by now?”
“Do you want to hold your tongue? Or do you want to lose your other ear?”
“By the hells, Cullyn! You’ve raised a hellcat, haven’t you?”
“Not truly. She was born a hellcat, and she’d be worse if it weren’t for me.”
Jill threw a fake punch his way. At seventeen, she’d grown into a tall young woman, lean and muscled from their peculiar life, with a boyish stance and a boyish swagger to her walk that somehow did nothing to detract from her golden-haired beauty. She helped Bradd haul up the heavy buckets of hot water and the big wooden tub as easily as Cullyn did, then chased her father out of the chamber so she could lounge in her bath.
The big half-round tavern room was mostly empty. A couple of hounds were asleep by the hearth, and a couple of colorless young men sat at a table conveniently near the door and talked in cant over their tankards. Both glanced at the gleaming hilt of the silver dagger in Cullyn’s belt, then strictly ignored him. Cullyn settled in at a table with his back to the wall and accepted a tankard of dark ale from Bradd. He was working on his third one by the time Jill came down, her wet hair clinging around her face. She gave him a narrow-eyed look.
“And how many have you had?”
“None of your rotten business. Here, finish this while I haul up some clean water for the tub.”
He got up and left before she could say anything more. He refused to admit