The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [86]
In a private talk with Sidro, somewhere away from all the others, he could use every weapon he possessed in the battle to get her back. If, of course, he could get the book in the first place. And if she happened to go to Haen Marn with Dallandra for the working. With a long sigh for the injustice of everything, he returned to his tent to tell Faharn that they’d be leaving on the morrow.
“Assuming you want to leave with me, that is,” Laz said. “You can stay with the Westfolk if you want. There’s no use in both of us riding off on what most likely will turn out to be a fool’s errand. Besides, it could turn dangerous. Wars often do.”
“Oh, I’ll stick with you,” Faharn said. “The Westfolk—all that noise and all those children and dogs running around—I don’t know why, but they put me on edge.”
“Very well, then, but you’ve been warned.” Laz was only making a jest, but his words made a ripple of cold run down his back. An omen? He doubted it, since they’d be joining a large army and as mere translators would stay behind the lines during any sort of fighting. Faharn merely smiled, unalarmed.
They would travel back with the messengers, four solid Deverry men all wearing tabards embroidered with Prince Voran’s wyvern. Rhidderc, their leader, a dark-haired fellow with a scar running across one cheek, looked Laz over with a cold eye.
“A scribe, are you?” he said.
“I am,” Laz said, “and a bit more than that, considering I can read and write in three languages.”
Rhidderc made a snorting noise that might have meant anything. He jerked a thumb in Faharn’s direction. “Who’s this?”
“My apprentice.”
“And just why are you two willing to help your enemies? He’s a full-blood Horsekin by the look of him.”
“He’s Gel da’Thae, not Horsekin. The Alshandra people are my enemies, too.” Laz held out his maimed hands. “Look what they did to me, and all because I refused to worship their false goddess.”
Rhidderc’s suspicion disappeared. He whistled under his breath. “Must not have been a pleasant afternoon’s work.”
“Most unpleasant.” Laz arranged a thin, cold smile. “And healing them was almost worse. The herbwoman had to keep cracking open the burns so the fingers wouldn’t fuse completely. She could only save a couple as it was.”
“You have my sympathy.” Rhidderc winced sharply. “Hurts to think about, like. Well and good, then, lad. My apologies for not trusting you.”
“It’s most understandable. Don’t let it trouble your heart. By the by, where exactly are we going? Is the prince still in Cerrgonney?”
“He was when we left, but we’re to meet him elsewhere. There’s an attainted dun that he’s handing over to the Mountain Folk. It’s north of Cengarn. Know where that is?”
“I do. Huh. The dun must be near Lin Serr, then.”
“A fair bit south of it, if you mean the Mountain Folk’s town, but in that general direction. Now, get yourself ready to ride. We need to get back on the road.”
They were on the verge of leaving when Neb brought Rhidderc messages in silver tubes from Prince Daralanteriel and Exalted Mother Grallezar. A Westfolk archer followed, leading a packhorse, laden with supplies for the journey, including a set of inks and pabrus in case Laz needed to act the scribe as well as translator. Faharn took the horse from the archer and led it away. Neb waited till he’d gotten out of earshot before he spoke.
“The inks and such are from Salamander,” Neb said.
“Then thank him most heartily for me, will you?” Laz said.
“I will. And I owe you some thanks as well, for taking me and my brother to my uncle’s. It’s only been a couple of summers, but so much has happened, and I fear me I simply forgot to thank you.”
“Most welcome, I’m sure. Will you forgive me for lying to you? It’s not just the name. I never was a priest of Bel, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now.”
“I have.” Neb paused for a brief smile. “And truly,