The Spell of Rosette - Kim Falconer [62]
‘Of course it’s his name! R. L., Rowan Lawrence! It’s just that personal initials are not often used in correspondence to initiates. Could it mean he is going to make me his apprentice?’
You read a lot into it. Drayco looked up briefly before twisting around to reach a spot directly between his shoulderblades.
Rosette smiled at her companion. ‘Just let me have this thrill. He wrote to me. He called me by name. I will be in his class!’
Drayco looked at her and sneezed.
‘I can’t wait to tell Clay.’
He’s gone.
‘I heard.’
He left earlier tonight, headed for Morzone. Supposedly he’s playing for a wedding celebration on Sunday.
Rosette turned her head. ‘What do you mean, “supposedly”?’
Drayco stood, bow-stretched and lay down on the sheepskin in front of the fire. He tucked his front paws under his chest before responding. I mean ‘supposedly’ because first of all, he took with him a bird of prey, hooded and clutching his gloved wrist. Tell me, when did he become a falconer? Second, he left by the south gate. If he was going to Morzone, he planned to get there the long way around.
Rosette stared at him. ‘How’d you get so good at geography?’
I know what you know, Maudi, and then some. Clay wasn’t going where he said. He was going south, towards Lividica.
‘Or maybe he was just going home to Cusca first.’
Maybe.
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
If he was going to Cusca first, he’d never get to Morzone in time for a Sunday wedding.
CHAPTER 8
Drayco was right. Clay hadn’t gone to Morzone; he’d gone to Lividica.
He sat at a table in the harbour pub, smoke floating in drifts around him. He’d drained three pints of home draught in the last half hour and was on his fourth. If he didn’t stop guzzling, his performance would definitely suffer, but he didn’t care. He wanted to escape.
He picked up his guitar and checked the tuning. Low E was flat and he tightened the tuning peg slowly while plucking the string, comparing it to his top E and the harmonics further up the neck. His ear was bent close to the fret board as he strained to hear the subtle changes in pitch—not an easy task in the boisterous pub with glasses clanking, people cackling, an argument exploding in one corner, and fists pounding the table behind him accompanied by shouts for more beer. The cacophony was more than distracting—it felt like debris floating down the river of his mind, smacking into his thoughts, bumping them out of place.
‘I never heard of the girl,’ a drunken voice declared.
‘Nor I. It’s a ghost he’s after, I’ll wager.’
‘Plenty of them around.’
‘How would you know? You weren’t there.’
‘Neither were you.’
The voices drifted into the background of his mind as a fight broke out, a table overturning and glasses breaking before the barman tossed the drunks out. Clay sighed. They would call for more songs any minute and though he was exhausted, and quite drunk himself, he looked forward to getting lost in the music again. His performances were a success even if nothing else about this trip had been. Damn the Sword Master and his cryptic intentions.
Seven days ago, on his way to meet Rosette at the bathing pools, Clay had been waylaid by An’ Lawrence—the mission urgent. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to her or even offer an explanation. Of course, it would have been a lie, whatever he said, but at least he could have seen her. He didn’t like the idea of leaving her stranded with only a message from Amelia. He could just imagine how that would translate. He sighed again.
Women…
An’ Lawrence had given him an assignment he didn’t like, yet he couldn’t—or was it ‘wouldn’t’—refuse. He was to take a mountain horse, along with one of the Sword Master’s falcons, and travel down through Cusca, skirting the Jacor mountain range to the port of Lividica, Rosette’s home town, or so she said. He was charged with finding out anything he could about the young witch.
‘Find her family, Clay,’ An’ Lawrence had instructed. ‘Discover everything you can about her past.