The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [72]
“Ah, I see. Well, shall I finish the tale?”
“Please do.”
Marth sat back down, and the crowd relaxed with sighs and murmurs, a soft sound like the wind in the yew trees that ringed the village in a living palisade.
That night Salamander camped outside the village in a fallow field. He could understand the villagers’ fear. If the priests of Bel got wind of an alien worship, they would head straight for Cengarn and demand that the gwerbret root it out. No doubt Honelg lacked the men and the influence to protect them. But what, he wondered, of the lord himself?
Roughly an hour’s ride on the morrow morning brought him to Lord Honelg’s dun, unprepossessing except for its elaborate defenses. It perched upon a low but steep hill, wound round with a path that led, eventually, to the gates. Deep ditches ran alongside the path to keep any attackers upon it, easy prey for bowmen. At the top, a stone wall surrounded the dun, but it was rough work, not much better than the dry-stone walls surrounding farmers’ fields, though the irregular rocks had been fitted with some care. In a few places Salamander saw mortar holding the largest in place.
When Salamander rode up to the wooden gates, he found them open, though only by a few feet. A gatekeeper, wearing a hauberk and carrying a sword, stood between them. Salamander dismounted and put on his best shallow smile.
“And a good morrow to you, my good man,” Salamander said. “I am a gerthddyn, ridden here from southern lands with a stock of tricks, tales, jests, and—”
“We know who you are,” the fellow interrupted. “Marth sent a lad up to tell us you were on the way.”
From the shadows on either side of the half-drawn gates two more armed men stepped out. Salamander kept smiling by force of will.
“Are you sure you’ve not mistaken me for someone else?” Salamander said. “I’m naught but a gerthddyn. I call myself Salamander, but my real name’s Evan from Trev Hael.”
The fellow’s mouth twitched in something like scorn. He was a tall man, with black hair swept back en brosse and narrow dark eyes. He wore new-looking brigga, woven in a blue, black, and tan plaid, and under his hauberk his shirt appeared to be fine linen.
“Do I have the honor of addressing Lord Honelg himself?” Salamander said.
“You do, but I’m not sure how much of an honor you’ll find it.”
His voice, flat and hard at the same time, made Salamander’s stomach clench. Salamander realized that he would have to risk everything on a bold gesture—because in one sense, he was risking nothing at all. Honelg would kill him in an instant should he think him a priestly spy or even just a busybody.
“A man named Zaklof told me you give a better welcome than this,” Salamander said, “to the right sort of guest.”
Honelg blinked several times, rapidly.
“I have a token to show you,” Salamander went on. “It’s in my saddlebags. May I bring it out?”
“You may.”
Salamander’s fingers shook, just slightly, as he unlaced the flap. What if I lost the wretched thing on the road? Worse yet, what if he’s been to Trev Hael and knows a gerthddyn never lived there? The gold arrow, however, still lay in its pocket, and the lord, apparently, never went far from home. As soon as Salamander held up the arrow, Honelg nodded to his men, and sheathed his sword.
“My apologies for the scare,” Honelg said. “Living so close to Bel’s priests—we can’t be too careful.”
“Oh, fear not, I most assuredly understand. Haven’t I been turned out by my own kin for my beliefs? Haven’t I wandered the kingdom ever since Zaklof’s death, desperate for more news of her yet afraid for my life?”
Honelg looked him over, his eyes narrow again. “Zaklof died a fair many years ago.”
“So he did. Every summer, my trade takes me this way and that, traveling all over the west. Once a town’s heard all your tales, they won’t pay for them anymore, so it’s taken me a while to return to the Northlands.”
The lord’s hand strayed to his sword hilt.
“I have—nay, I had—a wife and family,” Salamander went on. “I couldn’t just up and desert them. Not until our neighbors forced