The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [215]
“It looks that way.” Gerran gladly turned away from his thoughts. “Here, I’ll go ahead of you, just in case there’s someone hiding up there, someone with a sword, I mean.”
As he followed Gerran up to the top floor of the broch, Neb was hoping that any possible swordsmen were long gone, and his hope was realized. The trapdoor to the roof already stood open, with the ladder in readiness. As Neb climbed up and out, he heard the distant voices of the noble-born, loud and angry in two languages. Apparently the banadar was invoking Elvish gods as well as arguing with the gwerbret in Deverrian.
Above the clouds were thickening in the gray sky. He’d have to work fast, Neb realized. Once the stones were rain-slick, the boy could slip and fall to his death whether he wanted to die or not.
“There’s some rope.” Gerran was standing on the ladder with only his head and shoulders out of the trapdoor. “I figured there’d be a coil or two lying about up here, just in case the defenders had a chance to escape over the side. The lad probably didn’t think to use it.”
“Most likely,” Neb said. “You’d best not be here when I get the lad to safety.”
“True spoken. I’ll go down and leave the broch.”
Neb picked up the longest rope and walked across to the edge, some ten feet above Matto, who was clinging spread-eagled and trembling against the rough stones of his dead father’s broch. Neb tied one end of the rope around a crenel and tested the strength of his knot with a good hard pull. It held, and he turned the other end into a noose.
“Matto!” Neb called out. “There’s no use in dying. A royal prince is here, and he’s offering you mercy.”
The arguing far below suddenly stopped. Apparently the noble-born had heard him. What counted, however, was the lad’s reaction, not theirs. When he leaned through the crenelation, Neb saw a dark-haired little boy looking back at him, his mouth half-open, his face streaked with tears.
“You’re stuck, aren’t you?” Neb said, and he smiled.
“Who are you?” Matto’s young voice was steady, but just barely so. “You don’t look like one of the prince’s men.”
“I’m a scribe who’s been helping the chirurgeons. Look—I’m not armed.”
Matto didn’t answer, but neither did he throw himself down.
“Come to think of it,” Neb went on. “I’m one of your kinfolk. I just got betrothed to your mother’s cousin, Lady Branna.”
For a moment Matto looked as if he’d speak, but he kept silent.
“I’ve come to get you up safely,” Neb continued. “I’ll swear it on my honor, I mean you no harm.” With that he lowered the rope. “Slip that loop around you. Lift one arm at a time, then snug the rope up—under your shoulders, like. Then hang on for all you’re worth.”
“Matto!” Cadryc’s shout drifted up to them. “Don’t be a fool, lad. Do what he asks.”
For a moment the rope and young Matyc’s wyrd both dangled uselessly in front of the boy. Neb was just about to coax him further when Matyc reached out with one hand and caught the rope.
“Good lad!” Neb called down to him. “Now, over your head and under your arms, one at a time. Good—get a hold on a stone with that hand now and use the other to—right! Snug up that noose a bit. Splendid! Now, hang on, and up we go!”
Secured by the rope and Neb’s weight above him, Matyc could push off and use his legs to clamber up the rough stonework. When the boy reached the top, Neb hauled him between the crenels over the edge to safety. Down below the watching Westfolk broke out in cheers. Matyc freed himself from the noose and flung the rope to the slates.
“Will I truly be safe?” he said.
“Of course,” Neb said. “If anyone tries treachery, they’ll have your grandfather to argue with.”
Matto managed a brief smile. “No one argues with my gran and wins.” He let the smile fade. “Is my mam safe?”
“She is, and your sister with her. They’re at Cengarn with your grandmother.”
“That’s splendid.” Matyc was staring down at the men in the ward so far below. “You have my thanks. I—” His voice broke suddenly, and he covered his face with both hands. He began sobbing so hard his shoulders heaved.
Neb