The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [214]
“Is that Honelg’s son?” Gerran said, pointing with his sword.
“It looks like it, truly,” Salamander said. “And it looks like others have seen the lad as well. Come on!” He took off running for the broch.
A little clot of Westfolk and Deverry men, Tieryn Cadryc and Gwerbret Ridvar among them, stood in the ward and craned their necks to look up. By the time that Gerran and Salamander joined them, the skinny little lad had gone over the side in a futile attempt to escape. He was clinging to the outer wall of the broch, a few feet down from the roof and a good long way above the ward.
“We’ve got him now,” Ridvar said.
“Got him?” Prince Daralanteriel said. “It seems to me that he’s a fair bit higher than we can reach.”
“I meant, Your Highness, that one of the archers can strike the lad down easily enough.”
“What?” Calonderiel stepped forward and set his hands on his hips. “Do I have this right? You want one of my men to kill a frightened child for you, and in cold blood? How old is he? Eight summers? Seven?”
“It’s not his age that matters,” Ridvar said. “He’s Honelg’s heir, the heir of a rebel against my rule. When he comes of age, he’ll swear vengeance for this, and that makes him a threat. It’s not like I want to kill him.” Ridvar’s voice carried little conviction on this last. “But I can’t tolerate rebels and keep the respect of my men.”
“Indeed?” Calonderiel paused to let his lip curl in contempt. “Well, if that matters so much to you, fetch him down yourself.”
Ridvar’s face flushed red, and he set his lips together hard. He turned his gaze to Daralanteriel and raised one eyebrow in a silent question.
“The banadar’s men are his to command,” Dar said, “not mine.”
“Now here!” Cadryc shoved himself between Calonderiel and Ridvar. “Your Grace, that lad is my grandson.”
Ridvar began to speak, then hesitated. Cadryc crossed his arms over his chest and stared the young gwerbret full in the face. For a long moment the impasse held.
“I can’t have heard you a-right, Gwerbret Ridvar,” Prince Voran came striding over. “Come now! If we can take the child alive, I can send him back to Dun Deverry as a hostage. He’ll be no threat there.”
“Not until he grows up, anyway,” Ridvar said, “uh, Your Highness.”
“I take it, Your Grace,” Cadryc was speaking only to Ridvar, and his voice had grown tight as a strung bow, “that my word of honor’s not enough for you. One of my men died in that fight, just by the by, and now you’re insulting—”
“Naught of the sort!” Voran grabbed Cadryc’s arm before he could finish speaking and start a second rebellion on the spot. “Think, man! Having bloodkin at court will be of great advantage to the Red Wolf.”
Gerran had heard enough. He left them wrangling and ran into the broch. On tables in the middle of the great hall the chirurgeons were working frantically. Over by the honor hearth the dead were laid out, and the wounded or dying lay across from them on the commoners’ side. The hall reeked of blood-soaked straw, vomit, and the excrement of the dying. At the foot of the staircase, Neb stood washing his red-stained hands in a bucket of water.
“Gerro!” Neb hailed him. “Has anyone found Honelg’s son?”
“He’s stuck partway down the outside of the broch,” Gerran said, “and our ever so noble gwerbret wants one of the archers to kill the lad in cold blood. I thought I’d have a try at saving him.”
“Oh, ye gods!” Dallandra turned from her work to join the talk. “Gerro, the archers aren’t going to do it, are they?”
“Not while the banadar’s there.”
“Good. Please, do try to save the lad!”
“I will, my lady. If I can get onto the roof, maybe I can reach him.”
“He’s not going to trust you.” Neb shook red-stained water from his hands, then wiped them on his shirt. “You’re the man who killed his father.”
“I—” Gerran paused in mid-sentence, struck by a thought as painful as an arrow wound. At least I didn’t have to watch when the Horsekin killed my Da.
“Let me try,” Neb went on. “These stairs, do they go all the way