The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr
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Our Neb can read and write.’
‘Luck indeed!’ Lady Galla smiled brilliantly. ‘My husband’s had need of a scribe for ever so long, him and half the noble-born in Arcodd, of course, but what scribe would be wanting to travel all the way out here, anyway, if he could find a better place down in Deverry? Well and good, young Neb, we’ll see how well you form your letters, but first you need to eat from the look of you, and a bath wouldn’t hurt either.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ Clae looked up with wide eyes. ‘We’ve been so hungry for so long.’
‘Food first, then. Coryn, take them to the cook house and tell Cook I said to feed them well. Then do what you can about getting them clean. Clothes – well, I’ll see what I can find.’
The food turned out to be generous scraps of roast pork, bread with butter, and some dried apples to chew on for a sweet. The cook let them sit in the straw by the door while she went back to work at her high table, cracking dried oats with a stone roller in a big stone quern. Coryn helped himself to a handful of apples and sat down with them. He seemed a pleasant sort, chatting to the brothers as they wolfed down the meal.
‘I do like our lady,’ Coryn said. ‘She’s ever so kind and cheerful. And our lord’s noble and honourable, too. But watch your step around Gerran. He’s a touchy sort of man, the Falcon, and he’ll slap you daft if you cross him.’
‘The Falcon?’ Neb said with his mouth full. ‘What –’
‘Oh, everyone calls him that. He’s got a falcon device stamped on his gear and suchlike.’
‘Is it his clan mark?’
‘It’s not, because he’s not noble-born.’ Coryn frowned in thought. ‘I don’t know why he carries it, and he probably shouldn’t, ’cause he’s a commoner.’
The cook turned their way and shoved her sweaty dark hair back from her face with a crooked little finger. ‘The mark’s just a fancy of Gerran’s,’ she said. ‘After all, he was an orphan, and it’s a comfort, like, to pretend he’s got a family.’
‘Still,’ Coryn said, ‘it’s giving himself airs.’
‘Oh, get along with you!’ The cook rolled her eyes. ‘It comes to him natural, like. He was raised in the dun like Lord Mirryn’s brother, wasn’t he now?’
‘Why?’ Clae said with his mouth half-full.
The cook glared narrow-eyed.
‘Say please,’ Neb muttered.
‘Please, good dame,’ Clae said. ‘Why?’
‘That’s better.’ The cook smiled at him. ‘When Gerran was but a little lad, his father was killed in battle saving the tieryn’s life, and the shock drove his poor mother mad. She drowned herself not long after. So our Cadryc took the lad and raised him with his own son, because he’s as generous as a lord should be and as honourable, too.’
‘That’s truly splendid of him,’ Neb said. ‘But I can see why Gerran’s a bit touchy.’ He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve. ‘I’ll do my best to stay out of his way.’
‘Now you’ve got dirt smeared in the grease.’ Coryn grinned at him. ‘We’d better get you that bath.’
Rather than haul water inside to heat at the hearth, they filled one of the horse troughs and let it warm in the hot sun while Coryn pointed out the various buildings in the fort. Eventually Neb and Clae stripped off their clothes and climbed into the water. Neb knelt on the bottom and kept ducking his head under while he tried to comb the worst of the dirt and leaves out of his hair. They were still splashing around when Salamander came strolling out of the broch with clothing draped over his arm.
‘Well, you look a fair sight more courtly,’ the gerthddyn said, grinning. ‘Lady Galla’s servant lass has turned up these.’ He held up a pair of plain linen shirts, both worn but not too badly stained, and two pairs of faded grey brigga. ‘She says you’re to give her the old ones to boil for rags.’
‘My thanks,’ Neb said. ‘Our lady’s being as generous as the noble-born should be, but truly, I’d rather go back to Trev Hael.’
‘Ah, but here is where your wyrd led you. Who can argue with their wyrd?’
‘But –’
‘Or truly, wyrd led you to me, and I led you here, but it’s all the same thing.’ Salamander gave him a sunny smile. ‘Please, lad, stay here for a while, no more than a year and a day, say. And then if you want to move on, move on.’
‘Well and good, then. You saved our lives, and I’ll always be grateful for that.’
‘No need for eternal gratitude. Just stay here for a little while. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.’
‘Will I?’ Neb hesitated, wondering if his benefactor were a bit daft. ‘You know, I just thought of somewhat. The lady wants to see my writing, but I’ve got no ink and no pens, either. I saw some geese over by the stables, but the quills will take a while to cure.’
‘So they will, but I’ve got some reed pens and a bit of ink cake, too.’
‘Splendid! You can write, too?’
‘Oh, a bit, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t fancy having some lord demand I stay and serve him as a scribe. Me for the open road.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, truly. Why have you come all the way to Arcodd? There’s not a lot of folk out here and most of them are too poor to pay you to tell them tales.’
‘Sharp lad, aren’t you?’ Salamander grinned at him. ‘Well, in truth, I’m looking for my brother, who seems to have got himself lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘Just that. He was a silver dagger, you see.’
‘A what?’ Clae broke in. ‘What’s that?’
‘A mercenary soldier of a sort,’ Salamander said. ‘They ride the countryside, looking for a lord who needs extra fighting men badly enough to pay them by the battle.’
Clae wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Neb leaned forward and grabbed his arm before he could say something rude. ‘Your hair’s still filthy,’ Neb snapped. ‘Wash it out.’ He turned to Salamander. ‘I’ll pray your brother still rides on the earth and not in the Otherlands.’
‘My thanks, but I truly do believe he’s still alive. I had a report of him, you see, that he’d been seen up this way.’
Neb found himself wondering if Salamander were lying. The gerthddyn was studying the distant view with a little too much attention and a fixed smile. He refused to challenge the man who’d saved his life. Besides, having a silver dagger for a brother was such a shameful thing that he couldn’t begrudge Salamander his embarrassment.
‘I’ll just be getting out,’ Neb said. ‘Come on, Clae. We’ll have to help the stableman empty this trough. Horses can’t drink dirty water.’
Neb hoisted himself over the edge and dropped to the ground. He shook himself to get the worst of the water off, then, still damp, put on the clothes Salamander handed him. The baggy wool brigga fitted well enough, but when he pulled the shirt over his head, it billowed around him. The long sleeves draped over his hands. He began rolling them up.
‘We can find you a bit of rope or suchlike for a belt,’ Salamander said. ‘And eventually, a better shirt.’
Later that afternoon, with pen and ink in hand, Neb went into the great hall and found Lady Galla waiting, sitting alone at the table of honour. She’d gathered a heap of parchment scraps, splitting into translucent layers from hard use. A good many messages had been written upon them, then scraped off to allow for new ones.
‘Will these do?’ Galla was peering at them. ‘I looked