Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [80]
His way back to the inn took him through one of the many open squares in the city. Although there was no market that day, a good-sized crowd had gathered round a platform improvised from planks and ale barrels. On the platform stood a tall, slender man with the palest hair Sarcyn had ever seen and smoky-gray eyes. He was also very handsome, his regular features almost girlish. Sarcyn stayed to watch. With a flourish the fellow pulled a silk scarf from his shirtsleeve, tossed it up, and made it disappear seemingly in midair. The crowd laughed its approval.
“Greetings, fair citizens. I am a mountebank, a traveling minstrel, a storyteller who deals in naught but lies, jests, and fripperies. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, come to take you for a few pleasant hours to the land of never-was, never-will-be.” He made the scarf reappear, then vanish again. “I hail from Eldidd, and you may call me Salamander, because my real name’s so long that you’d never remember it.”
Laughing, the crowd tossed him a few coppers. Sarcyn considered simply returning to his inn, because this sort of nonsense had nothing to offer a man like him, who knew the true darkness of the world. On the other hand, the gerthddyn happened to be an excellent storyteller. When he launched into a tale of King Bran and a mighty wizard of the Dawntime, the crowd stood fascinated. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for a beautiful maiden, snarling for the evil wizard, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then he sang a song as part of the tale, his clear tenor ringing out. When he stopped halfway and pleaded exhaustion, coins showered down on him to revive his flagging spirits.
Even though he felt foolish for doing so, Sarcyn enjoyed every minute of the tale. He was amused for more than the obvious reasons. Whenever the crowd shuddered with pleasurable fear at the abominable doings of the evil wizard, Sarcyn inwardly laughed. All that wanton slaughter and ridiculous scheming to do people useless harm had no place in the dark dweomer. Never once did the tale touch on the true heart of the working: mastery. First a man mastered himself until he was as cold and hard as a bar of iron, then he used that iron soul to pry what he wanted from the clutches of a hostile world. True, at times other people died or were broken, but they were the weak and deserved it. Their pain was only incidental, not the point of the matter.
At last the gerthddyn finished his tale, and the ragged edge to his voice showed why he wouldn’t do another, no matter how much the crowd pleaded. As the crowd broke up, the gerthddyn hopped down from his perch and walked away. Sarcyn worked his way through and pressed a silver coin into Salamander’s hand.
“That was the best-told tale I’ve ever heard. Can I stand you a tankard of ale? You need somewhat to ease your throat.”
“So I do.” Salamander considered him for a moment, then gave him a faint smile. “But alas, I cannot take you up on your most generous offer. I have a lass here in town, you see, who’s waiting for me at this very moment.”
There was just enough stress on the word “lass” to convey a clear message without discourtesy.
“Well and good, then,” Sarcyn said. “I’ll be on my way.”
As he walked off, Sarcyn was more troubled than disappointed. Either the gerthddyn had unusually good eyes, or he’d revealed more of his sudden interest than he’d meant to. Finally he decided that a man who wandered the roads for his living had seen enough to know a proposition when he heard one. Yet on the edge of the square he paused for one last look at the handsome gerthddyn and saw a crowd of Wildfolk trailing after him as he walked away. Sarcyn froze on the spot. Although Salamander seemed unaware of his strange companions, their interest in him might have well meant that he had the dweomer of light. You were cursed lucky he turned down that tankard, he told himself. Then he hurried