The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [41]
‘As well it should be. And now we’d best get inside, because it’s starting to rain.’
By the morrow the weather had cleared, and they took up their slow travelling west again. At intervals Gwairyc would think about Nevyn’s words. Try though he did, the only benefit he could see was that he wouldn’t die in this summer’s fighting, which was a coward’s benefit and beneath contempt.
On the longest day of the year they reached Matrynwn, a proper town near the headwaters of the Vicaver. From the dusty village square they could see mountains, rising squat and rocky off to the west.
‘They mark the Eldidd border,’ Nevyn told him.
‘Good,’ Gwairyc said. ‘That relieves my heart.’
‘Of what?’
‘The fear of meeting some lord I know. I’ve never been this far west in my life.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, we could easily travel on to Eldidd.’ Nevyn paused, thinking. ‘I’ve got friends off to the west.’
‘What about the herbs you were looking for? In old forest, I think you said.’
‘I did say just that, and truly, old forest’s easy to find in western Eldidd. Done, then! Let’s ask around about the road ahead of us.’
Matrynwn turned out to be the last town on the only road that would lead them through the mountains. Thanks to its position it sported several proper inns, each with fenced pastures for the horses and mules of the caravans that came through. After a little asking around, Nevyn found an inn that was sheltering a caravan heading west. Its master, a Cerrmor man named Wffyn, considered himself lucky that a herbman wanted to join them. He was a burly fellow, with a sandy beard streaked with grey and a scatter of grey hairs on his mostly bald head. Judging by the heavy muscles of his long arms, though, he could still wield a quarterstaff if he had to. And sometimes, or so he told them, you had to.
‘You never know who’s lurking about the mountains, but you’ll be safe, riding with us,’ Wffyn said. ‘I’ve got ten men who can fight as well as tend the mules. By all means, good sir, you and your apprentice will be most welcome.’
Wffyn had an apprentice of his own, of sorts—very much of sorts, Gwairyc decided. Tirro was a skinny lad, probably no more than fifteen summers old, with the bright blue eyes and high cheekbones of a Cerrmor man, though red pimples dotted those cheekbones and clustered around his mouth. His hair—actually, he seemed to have none, because he wore on his head a little linen cap, all stained with some sort of grease—but his eyebrows were blond, as you’d expect of someone from the south. When Gwairyc first met him, Tirro refused to look him in the eye. Every now and then, while their two masters discussed the trip ahead, Tirro would stick a skinny finger under the cap and scratch viciously, to the point where he eventually made himself bleed.
‘Ye gods,’ Nevyn said. ‘What’s vexing you so badly, lad?’
‘Ah, well, uh.’ Tirro kept his gaze on the floor.
‘Ringworm,’ Wffyn broke in, ‘and come along, lad, you’re not supposed to scratch it. Get some more salve if you need it.’
‘I will, master.’ Tirro stood up. ‘My apologies.’ He turned and ran out of the tavern room.
‘What kind of salve is it?’ Nevyn said.
‘I don’t truly know. The apothecary in Cerrmor made it up for him. Ceruse, he called it, in emollients.’
‘Ah,’ Nevyn said. ‘Ceruse is the calx of lead, that is, whitened lead.’
‘Lead? Now that I know.’ Wffyn nodded sagely. ‘It does seem to be working, when I can get him to stop scratching.’
‘Good. Is he bloodkin of yours?’
‘He’s not, and I thank the gods for that. An unfortunate sort of lad, Tirro. I’m taking him along as a favour to his father, naught more.’
‘I see,’ Nevyn said. ‘Giving him a taste of the merchant life?’
Wffyn started to speak, paused, had a sip of ale, frowned into his tankard, started once more to speak, then sighed. ‘Well,’ he finally said,