The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [64]
Another round of ale, and the fellow was glad enough to repeat all he remembered on the subject. Some of the other men joined in with bits and pieces of information about this new kind of religion, though they all mocked it, and quite sincerely.
“Still,” Salamander said at last, “it makes a good story. Now, the Horsekin had taken some of our people prisoners, hadn’t they?”
“They had,” Mallo said. “Some lasses and children, but the gwerbret’s men rescued them.”
“Ah, that sounds promising. Lasses in danger always add life to a tale. Do they live in Cengarn?”
“Not that I know of. Farm women, they were, or so I heard.” He gestured at his stiff leg. “I wasn’t riding with the rescue party.”
“Now, one of them,” the red-haired fellow joined in, “she married a man who farms north of here, Canna her name is. They hold land in the old Mawrvelin demesne.”
“I’d like to talk to her,” Salamander said. “I need some details, you see, to make the tale a good one.”
“I don’t remember her man’s name.” He frowned into his tankard for a moment. “She was a pretty little thing back then. Red hair down to her waist.”
“Who holds those demesnes now, anyway?” Salamander said. “The ones that used to belong to the traitor lords, I mean. It sounds like there’s another good story in that.”
Mallo answered him this time. “The priests of Bel have the big ’un, the one that used to belong to that wormy dog of a Matyc. His brother Tren’s dun went to a cousin line. The current lord, now, let me think—Honelg, his name is.”
“Honelg? That’s a strange sort of name.”
“He’s a strange sort of man.” Mallo shrugged elaborately. “But then, that whole clan’s always been a bit strange, up there on the edge of nowhere like they are.”
Salamander spent the rest of the day wandering around the market, stopping now and then to chat with local farmers. By late afternoon he’d pieced together a fairly good idea of the country to the north of town as well as the details of Zaklof’s death, which had left a strong impression in everyone’s mind. He bought market fare for his dinner, then went back to his room over the tavern. He paid the tavern lad—all of his possessions were safe and sound—then took his meal inside and barred the door.
Once he’d eaten, he had dweomerwork to do, and he didn’t care to be interrupted. Since it was far too warm to light a fire, he sat in the window seat and looked out at the sunset sky. Wisps and streamers of clouds, caught in the scarlet light, made a serviceable scrying focus. He contacted Dallandra easily and told her what he’d learned at the market fair.
“So I’ll travel north on the morrow,” Salamander finished up. “There’s a woman up there who was taken prisoner by the Horsekin some years ago. She may know useful things, such as where she was when the warband rescued her.”
“That’s true,” Dallandra thought to him. “After you find her, what next?”
“It depends on what she tells me, but most likely I’ll keep going north. At one point there was quite a colony of Alshandra worshipers up there, thanks to a certain Lord Matyc, who seems to have been a traitor. His demesne is now in the hands of the priests of Bel, so I’m not going to find a flourishing temple or the like, but again, someone might remember some useful thing.”
“Matyc certainly was a traitor. Do you know why the priests have that land?”
“I don’t, why?”
Dallandra’s image appeared troubled. “Your brother killed Matyc in a trial by combat. The priests presided, and the demesne was their reward.”
“I’d better watch what I say, then, about Rhodry and Alshandra both.”
“You should be careful, no matter where you are. It’s dangerous, scouting for Horsekin.”
“I do realize that, oh princess of powers perilous. If I’m going to find them before the summer’s out, I’ll need to work fast, too. It’s a pity that I have to ride or walk. If I could only fly—”
“It’s too soon for that.” In the cloud-vision her expression turned stern. “Your mind isn’t fully stable yet.”
“It never