The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [56]
On the highest hill, perched above the sheer western cliff, stood the dun of the gwerbrets of Cengarn. Behind yet another wall the towers of a multiple broch complex loomed. The guards at the great iron-bound gates recognized Cadryc immediately and bowed, ushering him in to the crowded ward, which held the usual jumble of stables, storage sheds, pigsties, and the like. Pages and grooms came running across the ward to greet the tieryn and take the horses from him and his men. A councilor hurried out to lead him into the great hall.
While the tieryn was presenting himself to the gwerbret, Gerran made arrangements with the gwerbret’s captain for sheltering his men. Almost absentmindedly, he included the gerthddyn. The escort received bunks together at one end of the best barracks, up above the stables but near the broch complex. In the warmth of a summer afternoon, the stables below stank, and the stink rose through the rough wood floor.
“By your leave, Captain,” Salamander said in a strangled sort of voice. “I think I’ll find myself shelter in an inn.”
“Oh, you get used to the smell after a while.”
“A long while in my case.” Salamander dropped his voice to a whisper. “Besides, I want to ask around about the silver wyrm. Some of the farmers might have seen him fly, and maybe they’ll have some ideas about where he might lair.”
“Ah.” Gerran glanced around and saw that members of the warband stood close enough to hear. He decided to spare them Salamander’s crazed belief that the dragon was his long-lost brother. “Well, suit yourself, gerthddyn.”
“My thanks. Although—” Salamander hesitated. “I wouldn’t mind eavesdropping on our Cadryc’s conversation with the gwerbret.”
“Well, then, leave your gear on my bunk, and let’s go.”
Gwerbret Ridvar had inherited a splendid great hall, with room for enough tables and benches to seat his warband of a hundred men and nearly as many visitors. Neatly twined rushes covered the floor, and the pale tan stone of the walls sported carvings of various animals between each pair of windows. At the honor hearth, an enormous stone dragon embraced the fireplace, hind legs on one side, front legs and head on the other, with its back and folded wings forming the mantel. Years of smoky fires had darkened the carving. In those same years assorted maidservants had made desultory attempts at cleaning it, with the result that the most deeply carved lines were black, but the raised portions a dirty sort of gray. This contrast gave the sculpture so much depth that in dim light, the dragon seemed to stir and stretch as if it were waking from a long sleep. Five polished wood tables, all of them surrounded with chairs instead of benches, stood before it.
“The gwerbret must be a wealthy man,” Salamander remarked.
“He is,” Gerran said. “A lot of trade comes through here.” He paused, looking around the riders’ tables, which stood in profusion across the hall from the dragon hearth. “Let’s sit up front. I want to keep an eye on our lord.”
Gerran pointed Salamander to a battered plank table, then turned back to collect his men and get them seated. As he was doing so, one of the gwerbret’s sisters, Lady Solla, came hurrying to greet him. She was a slender woman, with dark brown hair caught back in a gold clasp, and wide hazel eyes that seemed to dance with life and good cheer. Most men found her beautiful; so did Gerran, but abstractly, thinking her not half so interesting as Branna.
“Good morrow, Gerro,” she said. “Have your men been looked after?”
“We have, my lady. We’ve been given a decent barracks to sleep in, certainly. It’s kind of you to ask.”
“Oh, it’s part of my duties here, truly. But why haven’t you been given