Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [4]
“Well, Jill it is,” he said. “And it gladdens my heart to see you again. Where’s your father, and who’s this lad?”
“Da’s in Eldidd. He won himself a place as captain of a tieryn’s warband.”
“Did he, now?” Otho smiled in sincere pleasure. “I always thought he was too good a man to carry the silver dagger. But what have you done? Run off with this pretty face here?”
“Now, here!” Rhodry snarled. “Cullyn gave her leave to go.”
Otho snorted in profound disbelief.
“It’s true,” Jill broke in. “Da even pledged him to the silver dagger.”
“Indeed?” The smith still looked suspicious, but he let the matter drop. “What brings you to me, lad? Have some battle loot to sell?”
“I don’t. I’ve come about my silver dagger.”
“What have you done, nicked it or suchlike? I don’t see how any man could bruise that metal.”
“He wants the dweomer taken off it,” Jill said. “Can you do that, Otho? Remove the spell on the blade?”
The smith turned, openmouthed in surprise.
“I know cursed well it’s got one on it,” she went on. “Rhoddo, take it out and show him.
Reluctantly Rhodry drew the dagger from its worn sheath. It was a lovely thing, that blade, as silky as silver, but harder than steel, some alloy that only a few smiths knew how to blend. On it was graved the device of a striking falcon (Cullyn’s old mark, because the dagger had once belonged to him), but in Rhodry’s hand the device was almost invisible in a blaze and flare of dweomer-light, running like water from the blade.
“Elven blood in your veins, is there?” Otho snapped. “And a good bit of it, too.”
“Well, there’s some.” Rhodry made the admission unwillingly. “I hail from the west, you see, and that old proverb about there being elven blood in Eldidd veins is true enough.”
When Otho grabbed the dagger, the light dimmed to a faint glow.
“I’m not letting you in my workshop,” he announced. “You people all steal. Can’t even help it, I suppose; it’s probably the way you were raised.”
“By every god in the Otherlands, I’m not a thief! I was born and raised a Maelwaedd, and it’s not my wretched fault that there’s wild blood somewhere in my clan’s quarterings.”
“Hah! I’m still not letting you into my workshop.” He turned and pointedly spoke only to Jill. “It’s a hard thing you’re asking, lass. I don’t have true dweomer. The dagger spell is the only one I can weave, and I don’t even understand what I’m doing. It’s just somewhat that we pass down from father to son, those of us who know it at all, that is.”
“I was afraid of that,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve got to do somewhat about it. He can’t use it at table when it turns dweomer every time he draws it.”
Otho considered, chewing on his lower lip.
“Well, if this were an ordinary dagger, I’d just trade you a new one without the spell, but since it was Cullyn’s and all, I’ll try to unweave the dweomer. Maybe working it all backward will do it. But it’s going to cost you dear. There’s a risk in meddling with things like this.”
After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s asking price.
“Come back at sunset,” Otho said. “We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.”
Rhodry spent the afternoon looking for a hire. Although it was too close to winter weather for warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor, silver daggers were in much demand as caravan guards, because they belonged to a band with a reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could become a silver dagger. A fighting man who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with him awhile, and prove himself before he was allowed to meet one of the rare smiths who served the band. Only then could he truly “ride the long road,” as the daggers referred to their lives.
And if Otho