The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [4]
But then, what was one more pair of hungry fangs now? They were outlaws, every man's hand raised against them. As a ripple slapped his face with chilling water, Hawkril recalled their desperate scheming, over a meager fire high in the Wildrocks.
It had been cold then, too, and he'd challenged his clever-tongued, spiderlike comrade to find them a warm lair before the winter snows.
"With what?" Craer had snarled.
"Your wits, Longfingers," the armaragor had told him, almost merrily, knowing they hadn't even coins enough between them to buy an ax to hew firewood. Craer Delnbone was quick-witted, too (no army procurer prospered for long who wasn't). After all, "procurer" was just a handsome title for a word most folk knew rather better: thief.
"The only places that seem to have coins to spare are Sirlptar," Craer had reasoned, "which holds far too many prying mages for my liking-and Silvertree, which already regards us as foes to be slain."
"I knew we were going to end up charging right at the throat of the strongest foe you could find," Hawkril had answered. "How are we going to find out where Faerod keeps his gold? His castle fills an entire island! He's got that wizard Gadaster, too!"
Craer had smiled, and shared his one good bit of news: "I heard two merchants in Dranmaer hawing on about how important they were and how much they'd make off of Silvertree. One of them said old Mulkyn died whilst we were away at war. They wondered about his replacements-and if Aglirta has heard nothing of them, they can't be powerful mages hired from someone else in the Vale-and so can only be more feeble at magic than Gadaster was… and thus hopefully less likely to find and track down two gown thieves."
"'Gown thieves'?" Hawkril had asked patiently, as he'd known he was supposed to.
"Who's the richest woman in the baronies?" Craer had asked briskly.
He hadn't had to frown for long. "The Lady of Jewels," he'd replied, "or so rumor has it."
"Exactly," the procurer had agreed, proceeding to make a show of leisurely taking a tiny bite of the stolen lamb they were sharing.
The armaragor had put the toe of one of his boots into Craer's thigh, not ungently, and the procurer had added hastily, "A tall, beautiful thing, or so we're told, whom no one ever sees these days-not that many folk have ever been welcome to step into Castle Silvertree, or wanted to. She wears gowns festooned with gems; everyone still agrees on that, and she certainly did when she was a wisp of a girl; I saw her… and her forty-three guards."
"Not a pleasant memory?"
Craer had shrugged, licking grease from his fingertips. "I'm sitting here talking to you with all of my limbs intact, am I not?"
Hawkril had given him a grin. "Yet I'd not be mistaken in thinking she lost no gems that day?"
The procurer had sighed theatrically, and told his fingernails, "I thought that if I let the girl be, she'd grow much larger… and of course, her gowns would grow with her, so I'd have more and bigger gems to harvest, some day…"
"We set off to conquer the Isles," Hawkril had growled slowly, "and now we're talking about stealing a lady's dress."
"Not just any lady," Craer had reminded him. "And recluse or not, this one can hardly be innocent or even nice-after all, she's Baron Faerod's daughter! The Lady of Jewels, famous for her life of indolent luxury. She probably has forty gowns festooned with gems- and only one body to wear them. "Why, she probably has wardrobes and even whole robing chambers full of gowns she's tired of and won't wear. We'll be doing her a favor by taking one off her hands-and one, just one should be good for five or six seasons of guzzling wine and searching for just the right woman in Sirlptar, or even fabled Renshoun across the Spellgirt Sea."
Hawkril had shrugged. Craer had done it again. "Well, if you put it that way…," he'd said slowly.
"Yes, we may well