The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [152]
“Or at least, the only one I could think of.”
They went on down to the meadow below, where the dun’s pavilion and the elven tents stood, ghostly in the pale light of the stars. In camp Dallandra, who had changed back to her tunic and leather leggings, and the prince were sitting by a small fire in front of the royal tent. Although most of the Westfolk archers and the men of the Red Wolf warband had turned in for the night, Gerran was still awake, sitting next to Dar.
When Salamander and Calonderiel joined the group by the fire, Salamander noticed that Cal not only sat down next to Dallandra, but clasped her hand as well. I don’t know why he’s jealous, Salamander thought. He’s the only man I know with the guts to court her, or at least, court her openly, unlike some that I could mention—and where is that little weasel, anyway?
“Where’s Meranaldar?” Salamander said aloud.
“We’ve not left him behind, have we?”
“You didn’t. I was transcribing my notes.” The scribe came out of the tent, then sat down across from the prince.
“I’ve been telling the captain here about the council of war,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Well, as much as I could sort out of the general noise, anyway. By the gods of both our peoples! How do you Deverry men ever decide anything? I’ve never seen a council with so much shouting, arguing, cursing, and general confusion.”
Gerran laughed and nodded his agreement.
“Fortunately,” Daralanteriel went on, “Prince Voran finally saw fit to call an end to the wrangling.”
“But by then, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “he and the gwerbret knew what every lord in the chamber was thinking. If any of the noble-born are going to cause trouble, they know that, too.”
“Good point,” Daralanteriel said. “Your people seem held together by a web of alliances. They’re so complicated that I can’t say I understand them all. It looks fragile to an outsider.”
“Spiderwebs don’t look like much either, Your Highness, but when a fly blunders in, they hold up well enough.”
“Um, what were they arguing about?” Salamander said. “I thought the gwerbret had already decided to march on Honelg.”
“He had,” Dar answered him. “The questions in dispute were with whom and how many of them. Day after tomorrow, he’ll be taking half his own warband, our archers, the prince’s men, and Cadryc’s warband. The rest of the men will stay in Dun Cengarn on fortguard. The other lords will ride home and get their men and alliances ready for the march on Zakh Gral.”
“Which is the real prize, of course,” Calonderiel put in.
“Of course.” Gerran turned to Salamander. “I’ve only seen Honelg’s dun once, years ago, when I was but a lad. It stood on a good-sized hill, then, but it didn’t sport much in the way of earthworks. His highness here told me that Honelg’s fortified the gates.”
“He’s built a veritable maze.” Salamander paused for a small groan. “There’s a narrow path that twists back and forth through high earthworks. A murder alley, I’d call it, since he’s got archers.”
“We might have to invest the place and leave a force there, then,” Calonderiel put in. “Some of the lords were arguing for that.”
“You’ll need every man you can get for Zakh Gral,” Salamander said. “The place is teeming with Horsekin warriors.”
Gerran swore under his breath.
“Let me make sure I understand.” Dallandra leaned forward to interrupt. “We can’t storm the gates, because Honelg’s archers will be able to pick our men off. And our archers won’t be able to get near enough to pick them off. Is that it?”
“It is and well put,” Gerran said.
“Ah.” Dallandra sat back. “I see.”
The men waited for her to go on, but she merely smiled blandly at them.
“Well, Captain,” Daralanteriel said at last, “we’d best get some sleep, I think. I wish we were marching out tomorrow.”
“So do I, Your Highness.” Gerran rose and bowed to him. “My thanks for telling me about the council.”
Gerran strode off into the darkness in the direction of the Red Wolf pavilion. Calonderiel waited, listening until his footsteps had died away. Then he glanced