The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [148]
Voran nodded and smiled with a wry twist of his mouth, as if he knew perfectly well how much Ridvar resented the offer. He probably does know, Salamander thought. He doesn’t miss much, I’ll wager, froggy grin or not.
Calonderiel stepped forward to rejoin the conversation. “I suggest that we deal with Honelg immediately. He’s like a dagger aimed at your back.”
Ridvar considered him but said nothing. Blethry cleared his throat. “I think he’s right, Your Grace,” the equerry said, “for what that’s worth.”
“I’ll consider it,” Ridvar said. “The man is my vassal.” He put just a touch of stress on the “my.” “If I remember Honelg’s dun properly, we might need the Mountain Folk’s help to breach his walls.”
Calonderiel glanced at Salamander and gave him an encouraging nod.
“It’s well fortified, all right,” Salamander said. “The banadar has a point, Your Grace, because Honelg has a great many points on his side—iron ones, attached to arrows.”
“And—” Cal hesitated, glancing at Daralanteriel, who shook his head ever so slightly. “As my lords decide, then.”
“You have my thanks, banadar,” Ridvar said. “As you do, too, gerthddyn. You risked your life to bring us the truth. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
The gwerbret’s thanks were apparently the only reward he considered Salamander deserved, but Councillor Oth thought otherwise. When Ridvar gave Salamander leave to go, Oth followed him out and pressed a small sack of coins into his hand.
“A token of our gratitude,” Oth said, “and good silver, too. Please forgive my lord, gerthddyn. I fear me that he so hates being proved wrong that he’s forgotten all his generosity.”
“My thanks to you,” Salamander said with a little bow. “As for your lord, it’s a hard thing to rule men twice your age and more. I can understand his stubbornness.”
“Good.” Oth paused, his eyes suddenly wide. “Oh, ye gods! I just remembered—a few days ago Cadryc sent messengers off to Honelg’s dun. I hope to every god that he hasn’t had them killed.”
“Would Honelg be that dishonorable?”
“I have no idea. Who knows what a madman will do?”
“True spoken, alas.” Salamander was remembering Honelg standing between his gates, sword at the ready to cut him down if need be. “But, equally truly, he has no reason to kill them. Not yet, anyway. Although I just had an ugly thought. There must be other Alshandra worshippers in Cengarn. Do you think we should keep our news about Honelg quiet?”
“Ugly it may be, but a good thought nonetheless. It would doubtless be for the best. I’ll speak to the gwerbret about it the first chance I get.”
Despite Oth’s fears, the Red Wolf messengers returned that very afternoon, some hours before the evening meal. The noble-born guests and as many of their captains and men who could crowd into the great hall had taken their places at the tables early, partly to honor the gwerbret’s new wife but mostly to get a good start on the drinking to come. Salamander had talked himself into a seat at Tieryn Cadryc’s table, where he had a good view of the gwerbret and the princes, seated together at the table of honor along with Lady Drwmigga, Calonderiel, and Dallandra, who had condescended to put on a blue linen dress—one of Branna’s, judging from the fancy embroidered spirals down the sleeves.
Serving lasses were rushing around, filling tankards with ale and goblets with mead, when two dusty, road-stained men, one tall and beefy, the other skinny and short, appeared in the doorway. They stood hesitating, afraid to come forward, until Branna pointed them out to Tieryn Cadryc. He stood up and waved until he’d caught their attention.
“Oh, good!” Lady Galla said to Salamander. “Warryc and Daumyr have come back.”
The messengers worked their way through the crowd and knelt in front of Cadryc. When Daumyr handed the tieryn a silver message tube, Neb shoved his chair back, ready to answer the tieryn’s summons to read it.
“What?” Cadryc was examining the lump of wax at the end of the tube. “This is my seal.”
“It is, Your Grace,” Warryc said.