The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [40]
“I’d frown on it. I mean, I hope I’m not being rude, but I know him so well that I’d feel like I was marrying my brother. We even look a fair bit alike.”
“Not rude at all, dear. I’ll admit that I’d have qualms myself about marrying my cousin.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t make a good wife for a man of his rank.”
Galla hesitated—weighing words, Branna assumed.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Branna went on. “I’d hate to have to entertain emissaries from the gwerbret and suchlike.” She paused for a smile. “My dearest aunt, everyone knows I’m a bit strange. I’m moody and I have a nasty tongue. Isn’t that what they all say?”
“Well, plain speaking isn’t a good thing in the wife of a high-ranking lord, that’s true.”
Branna smiled and picked up her needle again. “What about in the wife of a captain?”
“You’d need to be courteous in the ordinary sort of way to get along with the other servitors’ wives, but other than that, it wouldn’t matter so much.”
“I see. Well, I’ll think about it.”
And what if I were the wife of a scribe? Branna kept that thought to herself. Like most Deverry girls, she’d always hoped that someday she’d find a good husband, but given the situation in her father’s dun, she’d never dared hope that she’d have two solid prospects. Neb has a good position here, she thought—and I’ll wager he’ll live a fair bit longer than Gerro, too.
Beyond that practical advantage of being the wife of a scribe, not a warrior, Branna had other reasons for favoring Neb. For as long as she’d known him, Gerran had kept his thoughts to himself so resolutely that he rarely spoke unless spoken to. The way he’d volunteered his opinion of her looks, earlier that day, had taken her utterly by surprise. She didn’t fancy long evenings of silence when she would wonder if her husband were brooding over some deep secret or merely half-asleep. On the other hand, she’d noticed that Neb always had a cheerful word for everyone he met and could be positively chatty when he had a moment to spare. The way he cared for his young brother impressed her as well. He would doubtless take a real interest in any children he might father, whereas for Gerran, children would always be women’s work.
Her gnome certainly favored Neb. Whenever she met the young scribe, the gnome would materialize, grin at Neb, and clap its bony little hands. Neb would glance around to make sure that no one else could see, then smile back at the little creature. Yet oddly enough, Branna could never quite bring herself to speak to Neb about the Wildfolk. They were always in danger of being overheard, but even more, she was afraid of where such a conversation might lead them—not that she could understand her fear.
Alone, up in her chamber, she could talk openly to the gnome, who did his best to answer her with gestures. Any mention of Gerran brought a sour face and a surly shake of the head. One evening, tired from her day’s work, she took a candle and went up to bed early. As she sat in the window, combing her hair, the gnome appeared to perch on her dower chest.
“Do you think I should finish the shirt in there to fit Neb?” Branna said.
It nodded a yes.
“It’s so odd about his name. I mean, that it’s so, well, familiar. He really is like that ancient sorcerer, isn’t he? He’s got the same blue eyes and everything.”
The gnome clutched its head with both hands and mugged disgust.
“It’s absolutely impossible that he’s the same person. My folk don’t grow younger with time, you know. Besides, how can there be real dweomer? It’s just somewhat from old tales, like the ones Salamander tells.”
The gnome pointed at itself, then at her face.
“Well, truly, I do see you, and so does Neb, and other people say the Wildfolk aren’t real, but—” She let her voice trail away. But what? she asked herself.