Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [117]
Since Seryl was spending the king’s money rather than his own, he was generous about Rhodry’s hire, offering him a silver piece a week and making no quibble about feeding Jill and her horse as well.
“And I’ll want you to round up four other lads,” the merchant said. “Twenty coppers apiece for them.”
“Done, then. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding guards in a town like this.”
Rhodry went back to the inn with a heavy heart. He had some very good reasons for never wanting to see Dun Hiraedd again, but since buying Jill’s mail had left them with only a handful of coppers, he was desperate for coin. The innkeep, a skinny fellow with greasy brown hair, was in fact waiting for him at the tavern door.
“Well?” he snapped.
When Rhodry handed him four pieces of the earnest money, the innkeep turned all smiles and went to fetch him a tankard of ale. The smoky half round of the tavern-room was crowded with young men who watched with great interest as he paid off his bill. They were a tattered lot, unwashed, poorly dressed and cheaply armed. All over the kingdom one found men like them, looking for a place in a lord’s warband, taking guard work while they did, all of them driven by the dream of battle glory that lies in the hearts of most Deverry men. Rhodry let them speculate for a little longer and sat down by Jill, who was nursing a tankard at a table where she could keep her back to the wall.
“You found one?” she said.
“I did. Guarding one of the royal caravans.”
Distracted with some thought of her own, she merely nodded.
“Is somewhat wrong?” he said.
“I’m worried about my gnome.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “He hasn’t come to me since we hit this stinking town, and while you were gone, I tried to call him. He’s always come to me before, but I couldn’t raise him.”
“Oh, well, who knows what goes on in their little minds?”
“This is serious!” Her voice shook with worry.
“My apologies, then, but what possibly could have happened to him?”
“I don’t know, but considering what we found?”
She meant, of course, that there was dweomer all round them. Rhodry patted her hand to reassure her, but he could think of nothing comforting to say.
Everywhere hung redness, and he could not move. He hated it, and he raged, desperately trying to move, until at last he felt merely hopeless. Although he had no words, he could remember pictures and feelings, of sailing free in his true home, of others appearing, ugly ones, twisted and cruel, who caught him and dragged him down. He remembered terror and a man’s voice chanting. Then there was only this redness, and he could not move. A picture of her face came to him. He was washed in terror and love, mingled to an ache. The only word he could say filled him: Jill, Jill, Jill.
On a hot, airless morning the caravan assembled at the east gate. Jill kept Sunrise off to one side and watched as Seryl and Rhodry conferred about the line of march in the middle of a swirling, braying confusion. There were forty mules, laden with the king’s bounty, and fifteen muleteers, armed with quarterstaves, four guards with swords, and Seryl’s young manservant, Namydd. Rhodry disposed his men along the caravan, told Jill to ride at the head with the merchant, then took the dangerous rear guard for himself. After Seryl offered a prayer to Nwdd, god of traders, they ambled off under the hot sun while the mules brayed in protest. Ahead the mountains rose dark, streaked with