The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [6]
Dallandra found her fellow dweomermaster standing on the edge of the camp well away from the children’s chaos. She was talking with a Gel da’Thae man who wore a filthy gray shirt and trousers, the remnants of a regimental uniform, Dallandra assumed. Indeed, Grallezar introduced him as Drav, an officer in one of Braemel’s old cavalry troops.
“He does want to take his men away from Laz and join us,” Grallezar said. “I did tell him that only the prince could decide such a thing.”
“That’s very true,” Dallandra said. “How many men are there?”
“But four, and one of them wounded. Two others did die in the rescuing of that caravan.”
“I can’t see, then, why Dar wouldn’t agree. By all means, take Drav to him. I think Cal’s over there, too. Could you ask Drav if Laz is going to come tell us about that crystal?”
The two Gel da’Thae conferred briefly. Drav rolled his dark eyes and swung one hand through the air, a gesture that Grallezar had often used when dismissing someone as a fool.
“He tells me,” Grallezar said in her dialect of Deverrian, “that Laz be in a fair foul mood over Sidro. He does walk around swearing and kicking at things that be in his way. So he knows not what Laz might or might not do.”
“I see. Thank him for the information, will you? Then we can go talk with Dar.”
By then the royal alar had grown used to traveling with individuals of the race they’d always called Meradan, demons, now that they knew that these “demons” were real flesh and blood, not some faceless horde but individuals who were capable of changing their minds and their allegiances. The prince was glad enough to have more highly trained warriors in his warband, even if these were Gel da’Thae.
“Besides,” Dar told Dallandra in Elvish, “they understand the Horsekin, and they despise them even more than we do.” He rubbed his hands together. “Drav has some solid information about their forces.”
Drav returned to his former camp to collect his men, but not long after he sent a messenger. Grallezar brought him and his news to Dallandra: Laz and those of his men who were unwounded were striking camp and planning on riding out.
“What?” Dalla snapped. “He’s leaving his wounded behind?”
The messenger spoke; Grallezar translated, telling her that the wounded men had asked to change their loyalties and stay with the alar. They would ride under Drav’s orders, or so they’d sworn on the names of the old Gel da’Thae gods.
“Good riddance to the rest of them,” Grallezar said, “or truly, it would be good riddance if we needed not to know what Laz knows.”
“But we do need to,” Dalla said. “I’ll go talk with him.”
“Might that not be dangerous?”
“It might, but I doubt it, not with his band so badly outnumbered, and Drav and his men right there.” Dallandra considered briefly. “On the other hand, you might collect a few archers and come—oh, say, about halfway to his camp.”
Grallezar grinned with a flash of needle-sharp teeth.
In the midst of a welter of half-struck tents and bedrolls, Laz’s remaining men hurried back and forth, saddling horses and gathering gear. Dallandra found Laz standing by his saddled and bridled horse, a stocky chestnut that bore a Gel da’Thae cavalry brand. The bright sun picked out the pink scars on his face and those cutting into his short brown hair. He’s got a face like a knife edge, Dallandra thought, all sharp angles and bone and that beaky nose. He looks half-starved, too. His smile did nothing to soften the impression.
“Welcome,” Laz called out. He spoke surprisingly good Deverrian. “Or perhaps I