The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [57]
“It’s not my place, my lady. I’m as common-born as the rest of them.”
Solla winced, then smiled in a vague sort of way. “Well,” she said at last, “let’s get your men fed.” She turned away and signaled to one of the servant lasses. “Bread and ale for the tieryn’s men. And tell Cook about our visitors.”
Gerran joined Salamander, who had managed to acquire a pair of full tankards ahead of everyone else. He handed one to Gerran.
“That’s a lovely lass you were speaking with,” Salamander said. “She seems much taken with you.”
“Horseshit! What would she see in a common-born man like me?”
Salamander seemed to be about to say more, but with a small sigh he turned away and looked across the great hall. From their bench they had a clear view of Cadryc, seated at the gwerbret’s right hand. Across the table were two other men, silent as Cadryc talked urgently to his overlord, who sat at the head of the table in a half-round carved chair. Dark-haired and slender like his sister, Ridvar of Cengarn had just turned fourteen that spring, but he held himself straight and proudly, and every gesture he made was measured and firm.
“Ye gods!” Salamander whispered. “He’s but a lad.”
“He is, but never let it slip that you think him one. He had an elder brother, but he died of a fever a few years after the Horsekin slew their father.”
“Leaving a child in charge of the rhan.”
“These things happen. See those two men at the gwerbret’s left?” Gerran pointed as he spoke. “The graybeard sitting across from Cadryc is the chief councillor, Lord Oth. The young dark-haired one in the next chair down is the gwerbret’s equerry, Lord Blethry.”
A painfully thin man, Oth had sparse gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and an abundant gray mustache that seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of hair elsewhere. Blethry was stocky and not particularly tall, though he wasn’t particularly short either. His narrow eyes, set under full dark brows, and wide mouth spoke of some High Mountain blood in his clan.
“They’re an interesting pair,” Salamander said. “Different as chalk and cheese.”
“They’re both loyal men. That’s what counts.”
“True spoken, of course.”
“Where’s our scribe?” Gerran turned in his chair and addressed his men. “I don’t want him lost.”
“He hared off to the marketplace, Captain,” Daumyr said. “Looking for ink and suchlike.”
“Well and good, then. Let’s hope he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“I’ll go look for him later if you’d like,” Salamander said. “But I think we’d best stay here for the nonce.”
Gerran turned his attention back to the honor table. Even from his distance he could see that Cadryc was fighting to keep his temper. The tieryn leaned forward, left hand balled into a fist, the other clutching the table edge as if he were afraid he’d float to his feet and hit someone.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Gerran said. “But I can’t just go and impose upon the noble-born.”
In a few moments a page solved the problem by coming to fetch him. Salamander tagged along uninvited, walking a few paces behind. Gerran decided that sending him back to the table would make bad manners into an incident and ignored him. When Gerran knelt by Cadryc’s side, the gwerbret acknowledged him with a small nod.
“I’ve been telling his grace here about this last lot of brigands,” Cadryc said. “He thinks sending more riders to Lord Samyc should be adequate. Do you agree, Captain?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t, and besides, Samyc can’t feed any more men.”
Gerran looked only at Cadryc while he spoke, but the gwerbret leaned forward.
“You can speak up, Captain,” Ridvar said. “I intend to maintain the men for Samyc out of my own pocket, and it won’t be some token force. Twenty-five good men and coin to maintain them.”
“Well, truly, Your Grace,” Gerran picked his words carefully. “That would be more than enough to handle ordinary bandits and the like. But these are Horsekin.”
Ridvar sipped mead from a silver goblet and made no answer.
“Twenty-five men won’t be enough.” Cadryc’s voice snapped with barely-concealed