Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [151]
“This thing is sharp,” he remarked.
“Dishonor or not, it’s the best dagger I ever had. Cursed if I know how the smiths mix the metal for it, but it never tarnishes.”
Blaen threw the dagger at the firewood stacked near the hearth, the blade whistling straight to the target and biting deep.
“A splendid blade, right enough. Well, everyone knows that the silver dagger brings shame with it, but I never knew it brought dweomer, too.”
Although Rhodry knew he was only jesting, the thought struck something in his mind. It was odd, now that he considered it, that first the dweomer had brought him the silver dagger, and then his first summer on the long road had taken him to the dweomer in return.
“Somewhat wrong?” Blaen said.
“Naught, truly.”
And yet he felt his Wyrd call to him, a whistling on the wind.
Although Salamander had passed through Dun Deverry several times, he rarely stayed long, because the busy streets offered a gerthddyn too much competition. At that time the city was a spiraled maze of streets stretching halfway round Loc Gwerconedd; the largest city in the kingdom, it sheltered nearly two hundred thousand people, all of whom demanded more sophisticated entertainments than a few tricks with scarves. In the open parks and market squares tucked away all over the city, one found gerthddynion and acrobats, minstrels from Bardek, showmen with performing bears or trained pigs, jugglers and wandering bards, all earnestly trying to part the passersby from their coin. In this mob no one noticed another gerthddyn, even one who asked the occasional question about the opium trade.
Since he was trying to avoid undue attention, Salamander had compromised his standards and was staying at a middling sort of inn in the old part of town along the Aver Lugh, a district of small craftsmen and respectable shopkeepers. The Wheatsheaf had entertainers stayed there, and he could pick up all the gossip there was. Not that hearing gossip about Lord Camdel’s crime was difficult; even though it was some weeks after the theft, the city was still buzzing over it.
“They say that the king’s sent messengers to every gwerbret in the kingdom,” Elic the innkeep remarked that afternoon. “What I want to know is this: How does one man slip through all those warbands and suchlike?”
“He might be dead,” Salamander said. “Once the news got out, every thief in the kingdom was probably keeping an eye out for him.”
“Now, that’s true spoken.” Elic considered, sucking on the edge of his long mustache. “He might be, at that.”
There was one patron of the Wheatsheaf who kept pretty much to himself, for the simple reason that he was a Bardek man who spoke little Deverrian. Enopo was about twenty-five, quite dark of skin, and he wore no face paint, which meant that his family had kicked him out of their house and clan for some reason. He was wandering the Deverry roads with a wela-wela, a complex Bardekian instrument that lay flat in the performer’s lap and had some thirty strings to be plucked and strummed with a quill. Since he knew Bardekian quite well, Salamander had been cultivating the minstrel, who was pathetically glad to find someone who knew his native tongue. At the end of their performing day they would meet back in the tavern room to compare their take and complain about the niggardliness of the folk in the richest city in the kingdom.
That particular day Salamander had done remarkably well, and he stood them a flagon of fine Bardek wine. When they settled into a table by the wall to drink it, Enopo savored each sip.
“A fine vintage,” he pronounced. “Ah, but it brings back bitter memories of home.”
“So it must. Here, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but—”
“I know.” He flashed Salamander a grin. “Your storyteller’s heart is aching with curiosity about my exile. Well, I don’t care to go into all the details, but it had to do with a married woman, very highborn, who was far too beautiful for the ugly and old rich man she married.”
“Ah. It’s not an uncommon tale.”
“Oh, no. Far from it.” He sighed profoundly. “Ugly or not, her