Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [134]
“That should slow the stinking silver dagger down,” Alastyr remarked, looking up from the fire. “The road’s turned to muck, good and proper.”
“Splendid, master. Then I should be able to catch him a good long ways from town,” Sarcyn said. “Are you sure that I shouldn’t just kill him? I know he’s the better swordsman, but I can ensorcell him and slow him down.”
“I’m tempted to tell you to just go ahead and get him out of our way, but the Old One ordered me to leave him alive.”
There was no arguing with that, of course. Sarcyn felt fear clutch his stomach with icy hands. Although he tried to keep up hope, every day that the stone eluded them was a day that brought them closer to failure, a failure that could mean their deaths, whether at the hands of the dweomer of Light or of the Hawks of their own Brotherhood, who never tolerated the weak and the failed for long. Alastyr looked haggard, as if he too were thinking such unpleasant thoughts.
“Well, Rhodry might well have the gem,” the master said. “After all, they travel together; things get shifted from one piece of gear to another all the time. If only I could scry out the wretched thing itself! Now, we know that she had it at one time. The Wildfolk were definite on that. If Rhodry doesn’t have it, I’ll simply have to summon them again, but ye gods, with the Master of the Aethyr keeping watch, it’s cursed dangerous.”
“So it is. For all we know, the gem fell out of her gear during that fight with the bandits.”
“Just so. Well, go look up our fat thief first, and then get on the road after the silver dagger. If all else fails, I’ll slip into town and try to ensorcell Jill myself. I’d forgotten that she must have dweomer-talent.”
“And a strong one, master. She brushed me aside like a fly.”
Alastyr snarled and stared into the fire. Sarcyn saddled his horse, told Gan to keep a good eye on Camdel, then left their camp among the trees and rode out through the dweomer-induced rain to Dun Hiraedd.
On Nevyn’s side of the mountains, the weather held clear and warm, and he reached Marcmwr well before noon. Since he kept track of every smith in the kingdom who served the silver daggers—and that sort of smith usually traded with thieves as well—he knew to inquire at a rundown little shop on the east side of town. Just below the filthy thatch hung a sign bearing a faded picture of a silver goblet. When he opened the door, silver bells tinkled above him, and Gedryc came out to greet him from an inner chamber. A skinny fellow with enormous hands, the silversmith was going quite badly bald.
“Well, if it isn’t old Nevyn!” he said with a smile. “What brings you to me, good herbman?”
“A matter of some stolen property you’ve received.”
Gedryc went pale.
“Now, don’t waste my time,” Nevyn snapped. “I’m not about to turn you over to the laws if you just give me the ruby.”
“The square one as big as a thumbnail?”
“The very one. I figured it would pass through your hands.”
“Right you are. Here, if I’d known it was yours, I wouldn’t have touched it.”
“It’s not mine, and anyway, I’m just as glad you’ve got it. Have you cut it yet?”
“I was going to this afternoon. Make it a little less recognizable, like, but it ached my heart to spoil a stone like that. You know, I paid a cursed lot for it.”
“That’s your ill luck. Do you want to add your right hand to the price you paid? Ah, I see you don’t. Just bring it out. Time’s short.”
When Gedryc handed over the enormous ruby, Nevyn cradled it in his palm. With his second sight he saw a faint crystalline pattern of force lines, the bound spirit within.
“My thanks,” Nevyn said. “I trust you’ll remember that honesty costs less than this sort of thing?”
“I will, indeed. Uh, I don’t suppose you could tell me what this is all about?”
“You’re quite right. I can’t. Good day, good smith.”