The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [177]
That night sentries ringed the fortress on both sides of its walls. The men slept with weapons and armour close at hand, but no sally came.
The morning brought with it mounted patrols, trotting back and forth in front of Zakh Gral. The rest of the men began to set up tents and dig more ditches at a further distance back from the fortress. Salamander crouched behind the chirurgeons’ tents and hoped no one noticed that he was scrying. He could see inside the fort easily enough, at least when it came to the places that had existed during his brief visit there. Everywhere armed men stood in groups or paced back and forth, talking together or merely staring at the walls around them as if wondering how long they’d hold.
When Salamander turned his mind to Rocca, he saw her in dim light surrounded by stone. For the first time he saw most of the Inner Shrine, simply because she knelt in a crowd of priestesses and servant women, most of whom he’d physically seen. At the altar Lakanza stood, arms upraised before the picture of the goddess. Oil lamps burned on the dark altar stone, and the black pyramid glimmered with its sullen sparks.
‘There he is!’ Calonderiel’s voice cut into his consciousness.
The vision wavered and disappeared. Salamander looked up to see Calonderiel hurrying towards him. Maelaber, carrying a staff wound with ribands, trotted after him.
‘What’s all this?’ Salamander rose and met them. ‘Mael, it looks like your father’s decided you’re a herald.’
‘He’s got the memory for one,’ Calonderiel said before Maelaber could open his mouth. ‘Ebañy, we need you to pretend to be a bard.’
‘Uh, what?’
‘Grallezar told us about a Gel da’ Thae law,’ Maelaber said. ‘They can’t hold a parley unless a bard’s present. The gods only know if there’s one in Zakh Gral.’
‘The only other possibility is Meranaldar.’ Calonderiel paused to spit on the ground. ‘Not much of a choice at all. You’ll have to do.’
‘My most humble thanks!’
‘Oh by the silver shit of the Star Gods!’ Calonderiel set his hands on his hips. ‘There’s no time to stand on courtesies.’
‘When you stand on them, they only get trampled anyway.’ If he gave in to his heartfelt longing and punched Calonderiel in the mouth, Salamander supposed, he’d be broken into several pieces before he could land a second blow. ‘How exactly do I pretend to be a bard?’
‘I have no idea,’ Calonderiel said. ‘Figure something out.’
Smoothly Maelaber stepped in between them and raised the staff. ‘Hold and stand!’ he barked. ‘Father, if you’d just leave this to me?’
With a shrug, Calonderiel strode off, heading back to the main camp. Mael’s going to make a good herald, Salamander thought. If we all live through this.
‘What are we parleying for?’ Salamander said.
‘The princes want to offer the women their protection and a safe passage out of the fortress.’
‘Thanks be to the gods! For that I’ll be glad to feign the bardic calling.’
‘It should be simple enough. Grallezar told me about their bards. All you have to do is carry the drum I found and stand there looking grim, but if you could chant something impressive now and then it would help.’
‘I can certainly—wait! Where is this parley going to take place?’
‘Out in neutral ground.’
‘Where the men on the walls can see me? What if they recognize me? I’ve been in the fortress before, you know. I don’t want a well-placed arrow as a reward for my spying.’
‘Oh.’ Maelaber paused to chew on his lower lip in thought. ‘Ah! I know! Do you remember how Danalaurel killed a wolf a couple of years ago? He was so cursed proud of doing it that he takes the skin with him everywhere. What if we put it on you for a head-dress? We could add a bit of cloth for a scarf if it doesn’t cover enough of you.’
‘That should do it. Very well, then. Will your father be coming with us?’
‘Why would I want the parley to fail? Of course he won’t.’
Salamander found the small hand drum easy enough to carry, but the wolfskin was hot, smelly,