Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [30]
"I'm sorry, love," he said. "Coincidence, and that 'twas a cold night. No man is perfect, right?"
There was silence for a long moment. Greyt, who was purposefully not looking at Lyetha once more, could feel her eyes on him. He took a long time cutting a piece of lamb into tiny pieces and raised the pink meat to his lips. Though it was too hot, he suppressed the wince. Such an expression would not do, not in the current situation.
He noticed again her black dress. Of course Lyetha would be wearing mourning colors near the end of winter. This year made even more sense, being the fifteen-year anniversary of the murders that had claimed the last thing she had loved.
"But that name-" Lyetha started.
"Yes?" Greyt asked impatiently.
She opened her mouth to ask a question.
At that moment, the door from the inner hall flew open and Meris stormed into the room, muttering something. He wore his white tunic, but there was a black robe in his hand. No sword was belted on his hip, but the fierce expression on his face was just as dangerous as any length of sharpened steel. Lyetha started, almost leaping from her chair.
Meris stopped and scowled at her.
"Don't rise, Lyetha," the dusky scout snapped. "I won't be staying."
Greyt stretched lazily. "Meris, sit-eat with us," he offered.
"I'm not hungry." Meris didn't bother regarding either of them. "I'm going out."
"At least offer a kind word to your lady mother," Greyt said. "You've startled her."
Meris stopped in his tracks. He turned his head toward them. "I am under no obligation to show any courtesy to her," he said to the Lord Singer. "My mother was not an elf-get trollop." With that, he looked away and strode through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him.
"No, your mother was Amnian," Greyt mused as he sipped his wine.
After a moment, he became aware that Lyetha was staring at him. He looked over at her, met her cold blue gaze, and shrugged.
"Pay it no mind, dear," he said. "Young men say things without thinking. I've oft thought he needs a cool head to temper him, but I haven't found any worthy woman."
Lyetha sniffed.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and silently took her leave. She stopped at the door but did not turn.
"Dharan," Lyetha asked, without looking back. "About Gharask… and Rhyn. Is there any doubt that your father killed my son?"
"No, my dear. Of course, no," he replied without turning his head or missing a beat. "No more than scarlet falls the snow."
He took another sip of his wine and pretended to ignore her. It was not difficult.
Lyetha sighed and slipped out the door, seeking the refuge of her chambers.
* * * * *
After spending plenty of silver on drinks for potential informants and learning nothing of import, Arya gave up and climbed out of the tavern. The meaty barkeep Brohlm thanked her and swept up her coins with a flick of his thick wrist.
While the customers of the Red Bear were very knowledgeable about Quaervarr's history and the surrounding lands, they knew nothing of Stonar's couriers. They had told her all about Greyt and Stonar's rivalry-the two seemed at odds over every public issue, but it was a friendly competition, by all appearances. She did not blame them-they were simple frontiersmen-but she found her search's fruitlessness irritating.
Besides, she had heard far too much about her adored step-uncle.
In the cold once more, Arya shivered and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. The ale stain on her breeches was freezing. Not for the first time, she wished she had sent Derst on this foray instead. He was more adept at gathering information, for pressing into the right threads of a conversation, and for discerning something useful where she found only local history and superstition. Perhaps she would have him go out the following night.
Arya set out through the streets toward the Whistling Stag, where a warm bed and a pair of drunken, invariably laughing compatriots awaited her. She knew she would enjoy the former, but she wasn't especially looking forward