The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [169]
“They could petition the king.”
“Of course—and surrender part of their independence to our liege. No gwerbret in his right mind asks the king for help unless his proverbial back is to the wall. The king’s aid brings with it the king’s obligations, my little pigeon.”
“Are you telling me that the misbegotten gwerbrets are willing to let these swine breed here just so they don’t have to ask the king a favor?”
“Just that. Now come along, and leave the talking to me. Saying the wrong thing is a good way to get your throat cut in Slaith.”
As they rode down to the harbor, Jill noticed that all along the sand were wooden racks covered with fish drying for the winter. She could also smell a thick reek of rotting fish entrails, heads, and tails, the thinner smell of the fish themselves, and an undertone of swamp stench.
“One forgets about Slaith,” Salamander said in a strangled voice. “We should have brought pomanders.”
The town proper was about a mile north on the riverbank. The road picked a precarious way through swampland up to an open gate in a palisade of whole logs thickly covered with bitumen to keep the rot away. To Jill that protective covering showed utter arrogance; those walls would burn from a couple of thrown torches if ever the place came to a siege. Although the gate had a pair of iron-bound doors just like a dun, there was no one standing guard at them.
“Getting into Slaith is easy,” Salamander said. “Getting out again is another matter altogether.”
“And what were you doing here before, anyway?”
“That, my little nightingale, is another tale for another day. My lips for now are sealed.”
Inside the walls were about five hundred buildings, set on curving, nicely cobbled streets. Although most of the houses were well made and recently whitewashed, the swamp stench lay thick over everything. Jill supposed that after a while, one got used to it, just as one got used to the stench of the streets in a large city. In the center was a crowded market square that looked just like any market day in the rest of the kingdom, with peddlers and craftsmen displaying their wares in wooden booths, while farmers spread out produce on blankets or displayed rabbits in wicker cages and chickens tied by their feet to long poles. Not so ordinary, however, were the customers, men with the rolling walk of sailors, but all carrying swords, and women whose faces were heavily painted with Bardek cosmetics. As Jill and Salamander led their horses past the market, people looked up, gave them a glance, then carefully looked away again with no sign of curiosity. Apparently no one asked questions in Slaith.
All around the market square were inns and taverns, far more than a town of this size would normally have. They all seemed to be enjoying good custom, too. At one prosperous-looking place there were four horses tied up off to the side in the cobbled yard. With a hiss of breath, Jill grabbed Salamander’s arm.
“See that bay gelding? That used to belong to a man we know.”
Muttering an oath, Salamander slowed down, but he kept moving, looking at the horse out of the corner of his eyes. The gelding was no longer carrying Rhodry’s gear; instead of his obvious warrior’s saddle, it had a lightweight saddle that was little more than a pad with stirrups, such as a messenger or pleasure rider would use.
“It has a new owner, sure enough,” Salamander said. “Don’t stare so, my turtledove. Very rude.”
Jill turned away and casually looked over the various inns, but inside she was burning with rage. Everyone on these streets, everyone in this stinking town was her enemy now. She wanted to burn their walls, burn their ships, fall upon them and kill everyone as they ran screaming from the blazing death. Salamander interrupted this pleasant fantasy.
“We’re coming to our inn. I’m picking it because it’s likely to be empty except for us, but still, watch every word you say.”
Down a narrow alley stood a small inn, built along Bardek lines,