The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [12]
“Well and good, then. You saved our lives, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
“No need for eternal gratitude. Just stay here for a little while. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.”
“Will I?” Neb hesitated, wondering if his benefactor were a bit daft. “You know, I just thought of somewhat. The lady wants to see my writing, but I’ve got no ink and no pens either. I saw some geese over by the stables, but the quills will take a while to cure.”
“So they will, but I’ve got some reed pens and a bit of ink cake, too.”
“Splendid! You can write, too?”
“Oh, a bit, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t fancy having some lord demand I stay and serve him as a scribe. Me for the open road.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, truly. Why have you come all the way to Arcodd? There’s not a lot of folk out here, and most of them are too poor to pay you to tell them tales.”
“Sharp lad, aren’t you?” Salamander grinned at him. “Well, in truth, I’m looking for my brother, who seems to have got himself lost.”
“Lost?”
“Just that. He was a silver dagger, you see.”
“A what?” Clae broke in. “What’s that?”
“A mercenary soldier of a sort,” Salamander said. “They ride the countryside, looking for a lord who needs extra fighting men badly enough to pay them by the battle.”
Clae wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Neb leaned forward and grabbed his arm before he could say something rude. “Your hair’s still filthy,” Neb snapped. “Wash it out.” He turned to Salamander. “I’ll pray your brother still rides on the earth and not in the Otherlands.”
“My thanks, but I truly do believe he’s still alive. I had a report of him, you see, that he’d been seen up this way.”
Neb found himself wondering if Salamander were lying. The gerthddyn was studying the distant view with a little too much attention and a fixed smile. He refused to challenge the man who’d saved his life. Besides, having a silver dagger for a brother was such a shameful thing that he couldn’t begrudge Salamander his embarrassment.
“I’ll just be getting out,” Neb said. “Come on, Clae. We’ll have to help the stableman empty this trough. Horses can’t drink dirty water.”
Neb hoisted himself over the edge and dropped to the ground. He shook himself to get the worst of the water off, then, still damp, put on the clothes Salamander handed him. The baggy wool brigga fit well enough, but when he pulled the shirt over his head, it billowed around him. The long sleeves draped over his hands. He began rolling them up.
“We can find you a bit of rope or suchlike for a belt,” Salamander said. “And, eventually, a better shirt.”
Later that afternoon, with pen and ink in hand, Neb went into the great hall and found Lady Galla waiting, sitting alone at the table of honor. She’d gathered a heap of parchment scraps, splitting into translucent layers from hard use. A good many messages had been written upon them, then scraped off to allow for a new one.
“Will these do?” Galla was peering at them. “I looked all over, because I did remember that I had the accounts from our old demesne in a sack or suchlike, but I couldn’t find it. These turned up lining a wooden chest.”
“I’m sure they’ll do, my lady.” Neb searched through them and found at last a scrap with a reasonably smooth surface. “Now, what would you like me to write?”
“Oh, some simple thing. Our names, say.”
Neb picked the script his father had always used for important documents, called Half-inch Royal because the scribes of the high king’s court had invented it. Although she couldn’t read in any true sense of the word, Galla did know her letters, and she could spell out her name and Tieryn Cadryc’s when he wrote them.
“Quite lovely,” she announced. “Very well, young Neb. As provision for you and your brother, you shall have a chamber of your own, meals in the great hall, and a set of new clothing each year. Will that be adequate?”
Neb had to steel himself to bargain with the noble-born, but he reminded himself that without tools, he couldn’t practice his craft.