The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [9]
‘He is,’ Neb said, ‘but Cadryc can’t possibly ask for the use of him. Have you forgotten his grandson, Matto? Ridvar did want him killed.’
Salamander said something in Elvish that sounded immensely foul, though Branna had no idea of what it meant. ‘Well, I can read and write.’ Salamander switched back to Deverrian. ‘I’m not much for scribing, Neb, but if you packed me up some inks and pens, I could do a passable job, and Dar’s scribe will be riding with us as well.’
‘But it’s my duty to—’
‘Hang duty! Neb, you and Branna both are far too valuable to risk your lives in a dangerous venture like the one we have in hand. Don’t you understand? Your dweomer is the hope of the border.’
Branna turned away, saw the books lying on the bed, and turned back again. Her heart was pounding as badly as if she’d run a long way.
‘I see.’ Neb, however, sounded perfectly calm. ‘What I can’t see is how to explain that to the tieryn.’
‘Imph,’ Salamander said. ‘No more can I, but it has to be done. I’ll consult with Gerran.’
‘Does he know?’ Branna turned back. ‘Gerro, I mean.’
‘He does, if you mean about dweomer and Neb having it,’ Salamander said. ‘And he suspects it about you. He doesn’t know the bit about the hope of the border and all that. Think! Even if we wipe Zakh Gral off the face of the earth, this is only the first skirmish in a long war. Do you think the Horsekin are going to go meekly back to their own lands and stay there if they lose?’
‘I see your point,’ Neb said. ‘The more dweomermasters we can muster, the better.’
‘It’s the best weapon we have against them,’ Salamander said. ‘We’ve got some days before Voran and Ridvar arrive. I’m bound to come up with a good tale for the tieryn’s ears before then.’ He paused for a sunny grin. ‘I’m good at tales.’
Whenever the tieryn left the great hall, Gerran went back to his old place at one of the warband’s tables. He had the only chair, and he liked to lean it back on its rear legs to allow him to put his feet up on one of the benches. He was just starting on his first tankard of ale for the day when Salamander came trotting down the stone staircase. The gerthddyn hailed him and hurried over.
‘I need your advice on somewhat,’ Salamander said. ‘May I join you?’
‘By all means. Fetch yourself some drink.’
Salamander found a tankard and filled it from the barrel over by the servants’ hearth, then sat down on the bench not occupied by Gerran’s boots.
‘It concerns Neb the scribe,’ Salamander said. ‘He tells me he’ll be riding with the army. He shouldn’t. He needs to be here in the dun. The fortguard can’t keep watch against certain kinds of danger, but he can, if you take my meaning.’
‘I do.’ Gerran had a long swallow of ale. ‘Not that I like thinking about it.’
‘I realize that.’ Salamander paused for a nervous glance around, but none of the servants were in earshot. ‘I can take his place, if our good tieryn will let him stay behind. But I need a tale that will convince Cadryc, some clever ploy, some magnificent obfuscation, a lie, in short, since I can’t tell him the truth.’
‘There’s no need to pile up horseshit.’ Gerran set his tankard down. ‘You’re not inventing a tale for the marketplace.’
‘Well, what else can I do?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll go speak to his grace right now.’
Gerran found Tieryn Cadryc out in the stables, where he and the head groom were making an important decision: which horses the warband would take to Zakh Gral. Gerran waited for a lull in their talk.
‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘A private word with you?’
‘Of course.’ Cadryc nodded at the groom. ‘I’ll be back straightaway.’
They walked across the kitchen garden and out to the curve of the dun wall, where no one could overhear.
‘What’s all this, Gerro?’ Cadryc said.
‘Your grace, do you trust me?’
‘What? Of course I do!’
‘And do you trust my judgment? You don’t think me daft or suchlike, do you?’
‘Of course not! Gerro—’
‘Then