The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [80]
Although Daeryc’s clan no longer ruled Glasloc, he knew the territory between Dun Deverry and Cantrae well. So did Nevyn, but he mostly held his tongue. Admitting his knowledge of the area would mean admitting when he’d lived there, and that in turn would bring awkward questions about his unnaturally long life. Dun Cantrae, the stronghold of the Boar clan, lay inside the town of Cantrae proper, which meant a double ring of walls to take should the matter come to siege. The town lay on what was at that time the farthest border of the kingdom, a good two hundred thirty miles to the northeast.
“For the first part of the journey,” Daeryc said, “the roads will be good ones, and the country’s flat. But past Glasloc you get into the hills.”
“That’s not good,” Maryn said. “The army moves slow enough on the flat.”
“Just so.” Tieryn Gauryc, a skinny man with hair cropped close to his skull, rose to speak. “We made what? Twelve miles a day when we marched from Cerrmor?”
“No more than that, truly,” Maryn said.
In the back of the chamber some lord or other let out a loud long snore. Everyone laughed and woke the man, who grinned sheepishly while he rubbed his eyes.
“My lords, I think we’ve had an omen,” Maryn said, smiling. “Let’s leave this lie for today.”
The assembled company cheered him. When the council disbanded, Maryn held Nevyn back for a private word.
“I need your opinion on somewhat,” Maryn said. “Oggyn approached me with this daft-sounding scheme. He wants to take a couple of scribes and ride around the royal demesne, writing down everything he finds there. Well, not everything, but how many farms, and how many bondmen, and so on and so forth.”
“That doesn’t sound daft to me, my liege. It sounds cursed sensible. We don’t have the slightest idea of what you can expect in dues and taxes.”
“So Oggyn says.” Maryn considered for a moment. “Well, rebuilding the Holy City is going to take coin, not just bound labor.”
“True spoken. Oggyn’s real worth lies in such matters. He understands coin, and more to the point he understands mustering labor and assigning duties and so on.”
“Very well. I’ll tell him to go ahead and start the survey. There’s no use in his coming along with the army, when we’re only riding on what amounts to a feint.”
When he left the prince, Nevyn went looking for Lady Merodda’s old chambers. He’d not forgotten the mysterious spirit presence who had appeared to him, and Merodda was the only clue he had. When he asked the servants about the chambers, they pointed them out readily enough. Since the taking of the dun, they’d stood empty, because no one wanted to sleep in a room where someone had practiced witchcraft and poisoning. It was amazing, he thought, how quickly the rumors about the lady had spread. The men of Maryn’s army and retinue hadn’t even known she existed six months ago. Now they all feared her, even in death.
When Nevyn walked into the suite, he found it bare. Not so much as a stick of furniture or firewood remained. She might have been feared, but apparently her possessions weren’t. In the emptiness Nevyn’s footsteps echoed; dust puffed and fell at his feet. He asked himself what exactly he expected to find, but he had no answer. He wandered into the empty bedchamber, looked around for a moment, and wandered back out. Near the hearth a half-round chair had appeared, and in it sat Merodda—or a perfect illusion of her. Nevyn turned cold with little gasp of breath. The spirit had reproduced her image down to the unnatural shininess of her skin-a blonde woman, once beautiful, dressed in flowing blue, she sat with a simulacrum of a book open in her lap.
“I know you