The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [166]
“Well, that was tactless of me in turn, Your Grace,” Madoc said with a self-deprecating smile. “My apologies, but this matter of your cousin is beginning to vex me. He belongs in Aberwyn, but if the king won’t recall him …” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Just so. I’m afraid to request another audience. If I have annoyed our liege, I don’t want to make things worse. I must say I appreciate all you’ve done in my service. You can count on me for aid whenever you need it.”
“My thanks, but the dweomer has a great interest of its own in our Rhodry.”
“So it would seem.” Blaen had a sip of mead, then put the goblet down on the table. When he was at court he preferred to stay sober and on his guard. “I don’t suppose I can ask why.”
“Certainly. It’s no true secret. When Rhodry was a lad Nevyn received an omen about him. Eldidd’s Wyrd is Rhodry’s Wyrd, or so it ran.”
“Oh.” Blaen was too staggered to say more. “Oh.”
Madoc smiled, then got up to pace restlessly to the window and look out at the night sky, stippled with clouds in the light of a half-moon. At that moment he reminded Blaen strikingly of Nevyn, just in the warrior-straight way he stood and in the look in his eyes, as if he were seeing a much wider view than that from the physical window. The gwerbret wondered all over again if Madoc truly were the old man’s blood kin. Although he’d doubted it before, the relationship was beginning to seem plausible.
“So,” the equerry said, “I’ll see if I can have a word with our liege myself. Never in all the time that I’ve been here have I asked for a private audience, so perhaps I can get one now. We’ll see on the morrow.”
When the coaster put into Dun Mannanan, early on a clear day whose crisp wind proclaimed the coming autumn, Jill was profoundly glad to get onto dry land again. In her joy at feeling solid ground under her feet, she barely registered Salamander’s stream of chatter as they unpacked their gear and piled it up at the end of the pier. Finally, though, some of his words caught her attention.
“… can’t stay in an inn, it’s too dangerous.”
“Probably so,” Jill said. “I’ve got a friend here in town, but I don’t think he’ll put you up.”
“What? How ungracious, my turtledove. Why not?”
She leaned close to whisper.
“Because he’s a dwarf, and he thinks all elves are thieves.”
“And I consider his people to be dullards and sots, and bad cess to him. But you’re right enough. We’d best acquire some horses and get on our way.”
“We might stop in at Otho’s, though.” Jill was looking forward to seeing the silversmith again. “He’ll be able to tell us the best place to buy stock.”
Otho’s house was at the edge of town, down by the river. Over the door hung three silver bells that rang in a gentle cascade when Jill pushed it open. They went into the antechamber, a narrow slice of the round house, set off from the rest by a wickerwork partition. In the partition hung a dirty green blanket for want of a proper door.
“Who’s there?” Otho called out.
“Jill the silver dagger, and a friend.”
Wiping his hands on a rag, the smith pushed aside the blanket and came out. He glared at Salamander in exaggerated suspicion.
“So, young Jill, your taste in men gets worse and worse. You’ve left one misbegotten elf for another, but this one’s a fop to boot!”
Salamander’s mouth dropped open, but Jill hurriedly started talking before he could recover from his surprise.
“I haven’t left Rhodry at all, Otho! This is his brother, not some lover of mine.”
“Humph. Fine family you’ve married into.” He paused, looking the gerthddyn over carefully. “You