Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [111]
Out in the ward he paused, buckling on the heavy belt, sword to the left, silver dagger to the right. It was hot that morning, with a sweep of mackerel clouds across the sky that promised coming rain. As he headed for the gates, the wind picked up, sighing across the ward in a rustle of thatch and a banging of shutters. Spring had turned into full summer. The days were growing longer and longer, and he’d heard the servants talking about the first harvest of winter wheat and short hay. If you had to send someone off on a fool’s errand, it was as good a time as you were going to get, he supposed. At the gates a sleepy guard greeted him with a yawn.
“Where are you off to so early?”
“Oh, Rhodry’s leaving town today. He owes me money.”
“Better get it while you can, then.”
Yraen smiled and strode on, wondering why he’d lied, why he had to pretend to some cold reason for saying farewell to a friend. All round him the town was just coming awake, with much banging of shutters and the smell of newly lit fires. He walked down the middle of the streets, ready to dodge slops as he made his now-familiar way to the dwarven inn. In the brightening light Rhodry stood outside, yawning and leaning against die stonework round the open door. He was wearing a strange pair of boots, cut from sheepskin with the fleece inside and bound to his ankles with strips of dirty cloth, like a peasant would wear, a strange contrast to the gold-trimmed baldric across his chest and the painted quiver slung at his hip. Leaning next to him was a big peddler’s pack—stiff canvas sacks and a bedroll, lashed to a wooden frame—and beside that a curved elven hunting bow, loose-strung for carrying. When he saw Yraen he grinned and strode over to meet him.
“You’re up early,” Rhodry said.
“So everyone tells me. Ye gods, you look like a cursed woodcutter!”
“At least do me die honor of calling me a gamekeeper.” Rhodry patted the quiver. “Please note the drinking cup at my belt, and the ax hanging from the pack. Our generous Otho has hung me with trinkets, all suitable to my new life as a creature of wood and heath.”
“Imph. Where are the Mountain Folk?”
“Squabbling inside. I’m cursed glad Garin’s coming with us. He’s the only one Otho’ll listen to.”
“And what are they fighting about?”
“I wouldn’t know. They’re talking in their own tongue.” Rhodry paused for a laugh, but mercifully just a normal one. “This is going to be a journey fit for a bard to stag about, Yraen my friend. The question is, will it be a noble tale or a satire on men’s folly?”
Yraen tried to think of some jest and failed. Rhodry grinned, looking away toward the east, glancing up as if he were watching the sun brighten on the town wall.
“Are you supposed to carry that thing, by the by?” Yraen pointed to the peddler’s pack.
“I am, and so I will” Rhodry looked at it with grave doubt. “Well, it’s going to be the strangest road I’ve ever traveled, but who knows? Maybe it’ll lead me at last to the bed of my one true love, my lady Death.”
“Will you hold your ugly tongue?” Yraen realized that he’d shouted and reined in his voice as he went on. “I’m sick as a man can be of you indulging that wretched daft fancy.”
“It’s not daft. She’ll have us all in the end, she will.”
Again, Yraen found that he had nothing to say. Suddenly solemn, Rhodry turned to him.
“My apologies. Keep yourself safe, will you?”
“I’ll do my best. And the same to you, you berserk bastard.”
Rhodry smiled briefly. There was, Yraen