The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [147]
“Horsekin work, no doubt about that.” Ridvar set the plate down again. “How did you find this dun?”
“By a bit of luck, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “The gods must favor you highly, because I found a traitor among your vassals as well.”
“Honelg!” Lord Blethry snapped out the name, then covered embarrassment with a cough. “Well, er, I mean—”
“I see you’ve had your suspicions, my lord.” Salamander allowed himself a wry smile. “And you were quite right. Allow me to tell you how I found him and the dun both.”
Salamander had put some thought into the telling of his story. He managed to touch the important points quickly while barely mentioning Rocca at all. She became only “the priestess I followed to the fortress.” The noble-born had little interest in priestesses, anyway; they wanted to hear military details—the fort’s size and distance, an estimate of how big the garrison there would be, how it might be provisioned, and the like. Since Salamander could supply plenty of hard information, he also managed to gloss over his means of escape and the journey back to the Westfolk camp.
“Very well,” the gwerbret said at last. “We’re going to have to move quickly, before they turn more of their wooden walls into stone ones.”
“Just so, and, worst thing of all, it’s in a very defensible position, Your Grace,” Salamander said. “It’s on top of a cliff, overlooking a river gorge.”
“On top of a cliff?” Ridvar paused for a grin. “We just happen to have an alliance with some people who can bring it right down again.”
“But, Your Grace, do you truly think they’ll join us?” Lord Oth said. “The Mountain Folk keep to themselves.”
Calonderiel laughed, just a cold mutter under his breath, but everyone in the council turned to look at him.
“It’s been forty years or so since this happened,” Calonderiel said, “but a party of Horsekin once attacked some farming settlements that belonged to the Mountain Folk. They killed every man there, and in one of the most gruesome ways I’ve ever heard of. Forty years, good councillor, but I’d wager my bow and quiver that they still remember the names of every single dead man.”
Salamander felt as if a cold wind had swept through the council along with the banadar’s words. He shuddered beyond his control, but young Ridvar laughed as coldly as Calonderiel.
“You’d win that wager easily,” the gwerbret said. “Very well.” He gestured at Lord Blethry. “My Lord Equerry, get messengers on their way to Lin Serr. Better yet, go with them. We don’t want the Mountain Folk to feel slighted because I’ve sent only common-born riders.”
“Just so, Your Grace,” Blethry said. “I’ll do so gladly.”
“And give my regards to your kin on your way there.” Ridvar smiled, as if he’d just realized he’d been brusque with his servitor. “As for my vassals,” he turned serious again, “we’ll wait till we’ve heard from Dun Deverry to begin the muster.”
“You can count on my archers, Your Grace,” Calonderiel said. “I can easily raise five hundred of them.”
“And swordsmen,” Prince Daralanteriel put in. “Fewer of those, but all good men.”
“You have my sincere thanks, Your Highness, and so do you, banadar,” Ridvar said. “I also have hopes that my new wife’s father will aid us.”
“No doubt he will,” Prince Voran said. “Ultimately this matter concerns every lord in the western provinces. I’ll send messengers off to our king tomorrow. They have a fair bit farther to travel than yours will, so they’d best leave straightaway. I think I may safely say that his highness will lend his support. And of course, my men and I will accompany you when you ride west.”
“That’s most generous, my prince,” Ridvar said, but his voice turned tense. “My humble thanks.”
“More than generous, Your Grace,” Oth broke in, “princely, indeed!” He turned toward