Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [77]
“Coming here was a really stupid thing to do,” he remarked.
“The warleader is known far and wide for his graceful tact,” Devaberiel snapped. “By the Dark Sun herself, why do you have to pour bitter gall into a man’s cup when he’s thirsty?”
“Well, sorry, but—”
“You’re forgetting the rose ring,” Jennantar broke in. “The dweomer said Rhodry should have it.”
“Now, that’s true,” Calonderiel said. “So I suppose Dev had some excuse.”
Snarling under his breath, Devaberiel went to unpack a skin of mead from the travois. Jennantar followed, squatting down next to him.
“Don’t take everything Cal says to heart. He’s always like that.”
“Then I’m cursed glad I don’t march in one of his squadrons.”
“It takes some getting used to. But I was wondering, how are you going to get that ring to your lad? Do you have any idea?”
“I was thinking about that on the ride here. I’ve got another son, you know, who had a Deverry mother. He looks more like her folk than he does ours.”
“Of course—Ebañy.” Jennantar looked worried. “But are you really going to trust him with the ring?”
“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I have my own doubts. Ye gods, he’s a wild lad! Maybe I never should have taken him away from his mother, but the poor lass couldn’t support a child on her own, and her father was livid with rage that she had one. I don’t understand these Deverry men sometimes. They don’t have to carry the baby, do they, so what business of theirs is it if their daughter’s got one? But anyway, if I lay a father’s charge on Ebañy to get the ring to his brother, he’ll doubtless do it. It’s just the sort of wild escapade that would appeal to him.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You never know with that lad. I’ll just have to put out the word that I want to see him and hope that it reaches him, sooner rather than later.”
By this time, the eleventh century after the Great Migration, Cerrmor had grown to a city of some hundred thousand people. Not only did it stretch far up the river, but rich merchants had built splendid houses on the cliffs above, far away from the noise and dirt of the town. The dun where once Glyn had ruled as king had been razed a hundred years before, and a new, even larger, one built for the gwerbrets of Cerrmor. Down near the waterfront, however, was a section of town that had nothing splendid about it. Brothels, cheap inns, and taverns stood close together in a maze of winding streets and alleys that decent citizens never entered, except for the gwerbret’s wardens, who entered there far more frequently than the inhabitants would have liked. It was called the Bilge.
Whenever he went to the Bilge, Sarcyn always walked quickly, kept his eyes moving, and wrapped his aura tight around him, a dweomer that made him very hard to notice. He wasn’t truly invisible—anyone walking straight toward him would have seen that he was there—but rather he caught no one’s attention, especially when he walked close to walls or in shadows. That particular afternoon it was overcast, and several people nearly bumped into him as they strode past, unmindful that they shared the street with someone else. Still, he kept his hand on his sword hilt.
Since it was late in the day, the streets were growing crowded. Sailors with pay to spend strolled along through street vendors hawking cheap food and cheaper trinkets. A few whores were already out, the kind known as “cobblestones” because they had only the dark back alleys to take their clients to. Here and there he saw a group of Bardek sailors, their brown faces neatly painted, their dark hair oiled for their night of liberty. Once six city wardens marched