The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [178]
“There’s Val and the squad,” Salamander called out. “I think we can leave the messengers to her.”
“Very well,” Arzosah yelled back. “But this has been great fun.”
“What was? Scaring the messengers or me?”
“Both, of course.”
“You promised to keep me safe.”
“If I’d felt you slipping through the ropes, I’d have leveled off and caught you. Don’t you trust me?”
When Salamander didn’t answer, she rumbled with laughter, then went into a long smooth glide with outstretched wings. Salamander could see the four messengers throwing themselves down at the feet of Valandario and her archers in abject surrender.
“Head back east to the army,” he yelled. “Val seems to have everything under control here.”
Since her morning’s amusement had left her tired, Arzosah flew more slowly on their return journey. They reached the army late in the afternoon, just as it was making the night’s camp near Mawrvelin. From their height, the dun of Bel’s priests looked like a handful of pebbles. The dragon flew over it, giving Salamander a glimpse of the round temple inside the walls, then circled back over a pasture dotted with white cattle. With one last flap of wing to pull free of the turn, she began a long smooth glide down on silent wings.
“There’s the army by that stream,” Arzosah called out. “Just below the temple hill.”
“Good!” Salamander called back. “It looks like they’ve made splendid progress.”
“Splendid? They can’t have gone more than twelve miles!”
“For a spur-of-the-moment army like this, with those wretched supply carts and their wooden wheels, on a road that runs uphill—that’s splendid progress.”
Arzosah snorted in disgust, then concentrated on landing a decent distance from the army’s nervous horses. She curled her wings and hovered for a brief moment, then gently lowered herself to the earth in a nearby fallow field. Salamander let out his breath in a long sigh. When she lowered her head, he slid off her neck to the beautifully solid ground.
“A thousand thanks, O wyrm of great splendor,” Salamander said.
“What lovely manners you have when you’re not exploiting poor pitiful dragons!” Arzosah looked heavenward. “The gods know how I suffer, thanks to that wretched Evandar.”
With a shout and a wave of greeting, Dallandra came running across the field. Salamander hurried over to meet her.
“All’s well,” Salamander said. “Val and her archers have four prisoners.”
“Excellent!” Dallandra paused for a moment to catch her breath. “I must go thank Arzosah.”
“And take these wretched ropes off!” Arzosah had apparently heard her. “I am not a smelly old mule.”
“There’s no doubt about that.” Salamander called back. “I’m on my way to release you.” He glanced at Dallandra. “Where’s Neb?”
“Up at the temple with Ridvar and Voran. They took Cadryc and some of his men for an escort. The noble-born agree with you that the taxes the priests have set are far too high. Neb’s acting as scribe for the meeting.”
No one could have accused the head priest of Temple Mawrvelin of growing fat at the expense of his poverty-stricken villagers. Since the priest was wearing only a knee-length linen tunic and sandals, Neb could see the outlines of most of His Holiness Govvin’s bones under his pale skin. His shaved head looked more like a skull with deep-set dark eyes than part of a living body, except that, unlike skulls, he never smiled. He sat as straight as an iron poker on a backless bench, his scrawny hands clasped in his lap, and stared directly at Prince Voran, sitting opposite in a rickety chair, for the entire meeting, except for a few brief moments when his eyes flicked Ridvar’s way. The young gwerbret said very little, merely leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
Neb, who sat on the floor near the gwerbret’s feet, was profoundly relieved to be out of the priest’s line of sight. They’d been taken by the gatekeeper to a little reception chamber in what had once been barracks and stables, the usual long wooden building built into the curve of the wall. Aside from the