The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [117]
‘Welcome,’ Pir said. ‘Here come the others.’
She turned to see a sizeable number of Horsekin men walking out of the forest cover, at least two dozen by her rough count, dressed in a rag-tag assemblage of clothing: leather leggings, wool trousers, linen shirts, wool shirts, all of them dirty and torn. They kept their weapons, however, sparkling clean, since the last of the sunlight was glinting off spear points and the blades of long knives. They formed a semi-circle around her, Pir, and the horse, then knelt, bowing their heads. At a rustle behind her she glanced round and saw Laz, free of the raven form but still barefoot, standing in the doorway. He wore loose grey trousers in the Slavers’ Country style and a once-white shirt, belted at the waist. On the belt he carried a bone-handled hunting knife in a dark leather sheath.
‘Welcome and three times welcome,’ Laz said. ‘Come in, come in, my love! Men, this woman owns my heart and all my joy. Protect her as you’d protect me.’
With a shout the men hefted their spears in salute. Sidro raised her hands to acknowledge them, then turned away and joined Laz. He led her inside, down three steps to the sunken floor of the cabin. It proved to be one large room with a floor of rushes. In the corners, heaps of green pine needles filled the air with a cool, clean scent, a profound relief after the stench outside. A square plank table with two cut tree stumps for chairs stood in the middle. In one corner lay a straw-filled mattress with reasonably clean blankets upon it. Diagonally across from the bed stood a perch made of branches. She pointed at it.
‘For the raven, I assume,’ she said.
‘Yes, it makes the transformation easier,’ Laz said. ‘I wish I had a fine house to give you. Do you remember my mother’s?’
‘Of course.’ She tossed her blanket onto the bed, then sat down on one of the stumps and laid her sack of belongings on the table. ‘It was all so beautiful and clean. And the floors—there were so many colours of marble it was like you walked across flowers. I didn’t even mind scrubbing them.’
‘Someday perhaps you’ll be the mistress of a fine house like it. I’ll do my best to provide one. If of course your holy fools don’t kill me first. They would, you know. And Pir the horse mage—why do you think a man with his gifts is willing to live here in this filthy stinking camp? They’d kill him, too, if they got their claws into him. Well, wouldn’t they?’
Sidro saw no reason to argue, since he was speaking the truth. ‘What about your other men?’ she said. ‘Do they have gifts, too?’
‘A few of them. Most, alas, are the criminals and renegades you called them. Those who know wizardry help me and Pir control the others.’
For a moment Sidro sat yawning, looking around the cabin, while she tried to remember—tried to remember—what had happened, why she was there, what he’d told her—tried to remember. A detail swam to the surface of her mind.
‘You told me you had something to show me,’ she said.
‘I do indeed.’
Laz went between the wooden perch and the far wall, then stooped down with his back towards her. For a moment he scrabbled through the rushes on the floor with both hands. She heard something metallic click and creak. In a moment he stood up and returned to the table carrying a plain wooden box. He sat down opposite her and opened the box, brought out a dirty wool pouch, opened that and took out a smaller pouch of sleek gold fabric.
‘What’s that made of?’ Sidro said.
‘It’s called silk,’ Laz said. ‘It comes from the Black Islands, ultimately, but I got it in the Slavers’ Country. Here’s what it’s covering.’
With a flourish he pulled a glittering object out of the pouch and set it on the table. It proved to be a narrow pyramid cut from white quartz, about six inches high with a base that fitted comfortably