Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [223]
Although it was a futile task, Urist kept his eyes sharp as we rode, his gaze fixed along the roadside for any signs of a big man's tracks breaking away and heading north. If anyone could spot them, it would be Urist. He didn't, of course. If we'd been a day or two behind Berlik, he might have had a chance. Not after three weeks, not along a well-trodden road.
Still, he tried.
For my part, I prayed. The responsibility for the decision weighed heavily on me. I held rank here and I'd claimed this quest for my own. Urist had been right to push me into making the choice. But I couldn't help fearing I'd chosen wrong, couldn't help fearing we'd lost Berlik's trail. And I was acutely aware, the farther we rode, that we were headed for the border of Skaldia.
On the sixth day, we reached Maarten's Crossing. It was a big place, bigger than I'd reckoned. Once, I daresay it hadn't been much more than an outpost in the woods, but like Zoellen and Bryn Gorrydum and so many other places, it had grown a great deal in the last decade. Unlike other places, its growth appeared planned.
We'd thought to make camp on the outskirts, but the entire town was enclosed in a vast wooden palisade with guards posted at the gate.
Skaldi guards.
There were only two of them, but there was a gatehouse above the entrance, and I'd no doubt other guards were within shouting distance. Our company drew rein, eyeing the guards. They regarded us with sharp interest. Not hostile, but not welcoming, either. There was nothing to do but present ourselves.
"They might grant you a warmer welcome," I said to Urist. "Terre d'Ange isn't trading openly with Skaldia yet. There's a lot of bad blood lingering.”
He grimaced. "It's not like we can hide your pretty face, lad! You should have listened to me and gotten your warrior's markings. Besides, I don't speak a word of Skaldic.”
I sighed. "Right.”
Urist deigned to accompany me. We dismounted and approached the guards on foot. Tall and strapping, the both of them, one blond and one ruddy-haired. They towered over wiry Urist, and stood a half-head taller than me. Small wonder Eamonn had been able to pass himself off as a Skaldi. The blond folded his arms across his chest and stared down at me.
"D'Angelina," he said with distaste. "Was wünschen Sie?”
At least it was a familiar dialect. I explained in my mangled Skaldic that we were following the pilgrims, hunting for the bear-man. I showed them the drawing of Berlik. The blond laughed and bracketed his eyes with splayed fingers, then nodded and with one hand indicated a big man, a few inches taller than he was. A profound wave of relief swept over me.
"Is he here?" I asked. "Ist hier?”
They shook their heads and conferred, looking amused. The ruddy-haired one pointed at the sun and held up both hands, twice. Ten fingers, twice. Twenty days. He made a dismissive gesture and said something that clearly meant, Go away, D'Angeline.
"Adelmar," Urist said slowly and deliberately. "A-del-mar." He pointed at himself, then me, then the other Cruithne, making a sweeping gesture toward the west. "Alba. Cruarch. Adelmar.”
The blond cast a dubious eye over us. "Cruarch?”
"Do you see this, you hulking idiots?" Urist said in a firm, reasonable tone. While I prayed silently that neither guard spoke a word of Cruithne, he tapped the golden torc around my neck. "Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba, gave this to him with his own hands. He's a Prince of Alba, and he's here on the Cruarch's business. And if your sodding Adelmar wants to continue enjoying trade rights with the Cruarch of Alba, believe me, he will see us.”
I glanced at Urist. He gave a slight shrug.
And against all odds, it worked. After a good deal of rapid deliberation, the guards admitted us. The blond pointed in several different directions, giving me information I could only guess at. I thanked him graciously.
"What was that all about?" Urist asked.
"Damned if I know," I said.
Inside the palisade, I began to piece it together. There was a large cleared area where pilgrims