Dawnspell. Katharine Kerr
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the palace was filled with corruption. The omen came to him as the smell of rotting meat and the sight of maggots, crawling between the stones. He banished the vision as quickly as he could; the point was well-made.
As they were walking to the front gate, they saw a noble hunting party returning: Gwerbret Tibryn of the Boar, with a retinue of servants and huntsmen behind him and his widowed sister at his side. As Nevyn led his mule off to the side out of the way of the noble-born, he noticed Caudyr watching the Lady Merodda wistfully. Just twenty, the lady had long blonde hair, bound up in soft twists under the black headscarf of a widow, wide green eyes, and features that were perfect without being cold. She was truly beautiful, but as he watched her, Nevyn loathed her. Although he couldn’t pinpoint his reasons, he’d never seen a woman he found so repellent. Caudyr was obviously of the opposite opinion. Much to Nevyn’s surprise, when Merodda rode past, she favoured Caudyr with a brilliant smile and a wave of her delicately gloved hand. Caudyr bowed deeply in return.
‘Now here, lad,’ Nevyn said with a chuckle. ‘You’re nocking an arrow for rather high-born game.’
‘And don’t I just know it? I could be as noble as she is, but I’d still be deformed.’
‘Oh, my apologies! I meant naught of that sort.’
‘I know, good sir, I know. I fear me that years of being mocked have made me touchy.’
Caudyr bowed and hurried away with his rolling, dragging limp. Nevyn was heartsick over his lapse; it was a hard thing to be handicapped in a world where women and men both worshipped warriors. Later that day, however, he found out that Caudyr bore him no ill will. Just after sunset Caudyr came to Nevyn’s inn, insisted on buying him a tankard, and sat them both down at a table in a corner, far from the door.
‘I was wondering about your stock of herbs, good Nevyn. You wouldn’t happen to have any northern elm bark, would you?’
‘Now here! I don’t traffic in abortifacients, lad.’
Caudyr winced and began studying the interior of his tankard.
‘Ah well,’ the lad said at last. ‘The bark’s a blasted sight safer than henbane.’
‘No doubt, but the question is why you’re doing abortions at all. I should think that every babe these days would be precious.’
‘Not if it’s not sired by your husband. Here, please don’t despise me. There’s a lot of noblewomen who spend all summer at court, and well, their husbands are off on campaign for months at a time, and well, you know how things happen, and well, they come to me in tears, and –’
‘Shower you with silver, no doubt.’
‘It’s not the coin!’
‘Indeed? What is it, then? The only time in your life that women have come begging you for somewhat?’
When tears welled in Caudyr’s eyes, Nevyn regretted his harsh accuracy. He looked away to give the young chirurgeon a chance to wipe his face. It was the infidelities more than the abortions that bothered Nevyn. The thought of noblewomen, whose restricted life gave them nothing but their honour to take pride in, turning first to illicit affairs, then to covering them over, made him feel that the kingdom was rotting from the centre out. As for the abortions, the dweomer lore teaches that a soul comes to indwell a foetus only in the fourth or fifth month after conception; any abortion before that time is only removing a lump of flesh, not a living child. By the time a noblewoman was in her fifth month, Nevyn supposed, her indiscretion would be known already, and so doubtless Caudyr was solving their little problems long before the foetus was truly alive.
‘Now one moment.’ Nevyn was struck by a sudden thought. ‘You’re not using ergot, are you, you stupid little dolt?’
‘Never!’ Caudyr’s voice rose in a sincere squeak. ‘I know the dangers of that.’
‘Good. All it would take is for one of your noble patients to die or go mad, and then you’d be up to your neck in a tub of horseshit good and proper.’
‘I know. But if I didn’t find the right herbs for these ladies, they’d be cast off by their husbands, and probably end up smothering the babe anyway, or they’d go to some old witch or a farmwife, and then they would die.’
‘You split hairs so well you should have been a priest.’
Caudyr tried to smile and failed utterly, looking like a child who’s just been scolded when he honestly didn’t know he had done a wrong thing. Suddenly Nevyn felt the dweomer power gathering round him, filling his mouth with words that burned straight out of the future.
‘You can’t keep this sort of thing quiet. When the King dies, his murderers will need a scapegoat. It’s going to be you, because of this midnight physic you’ve been dispensing. Live ready to flee at the first sign that the King is sinking. Can Tibryn of the Boar find out about your unsavoury herbs?’
‘He could, the lady Merodda … I mean … ah ye gods! Who are you, old man?’
‘Can’t you tell dweomer when you hear it? The Boar will take his sister’s evidence, turn it against you, and have you broken on the wheel to avert suspicion from himself. If I were you, I’d leave well before the end comes, or they’ll hunt you down as a regicide.’
Caudyr jerked to his feet so fast that he toppled both his tankard and Nevyn’s, then fled, racing out of the tavern door. Although old Draudd gave Nevyn a questioning look, he also shrugged as if to say it was none of his affair. Nevyn retrieved the tankards from the floor, then turned on the bench so that he could look directly into the peat fire smouldering on the tavern hearth. As soon as he bent his mind to Aderyn, his old apprentice’s image appeared with his enormous dark eyes and his grey hair swept up in two peaks at his forehead like the horns of a silver owl.
‘And how’s your scheme progressing?’ Aderyn thought to him.
‘Well enough, I suppose. I’ve learned one very important thing. I’d rather die than put any Cantrae king on the throne.’
‘Is it as bad as all that?’
‘The palace stinks like the biggest dungheap on the hottest day of the longest summer. I can’t see how any young soul could grow up there without being corrupted from birth. I’m not even going to bother talking to the priests here. They’re corrupt, too, and doubtless in new and unusual ways.’
‘I haven’t seen you this angry in about a hundred years.’
‘Naught’s been so vexing in a hundred years. The most honourable man I’ve met here is an abortionist. Does that give you a hint?’
Floating about the fire, Aderyn’s image rolled its eyes heavenwards in disgust.
Caradoc and his band of mercenaries left the deserted hunting-lodge soon after Maddyn and Aethan joined the troop. Although everyone was speculating about where they would go, the captain told no one until the morning of their departure. Once the men were mounted and formed up in neat ranks that would have done the King’s Guard credit, Caradoc inspected them carefully, then pulled his horse up to face them.
‘It’s Eldidd, lads. We’ve got too many men who can’t let themselves be seen around Dun Deverry to take a hire on Slwmar’s side, and I don’t dare be seen in Cerrmor. I’ve hoarded some coin from the winter, seeing as our lodging was free and all, so I think we can ride straight there.’
Although no one cheered this prospect of leaving home for a foreign land, no one muttered in discontent, either. Caradoc paused, as if waiting for grumblers, then shrugged and raised his hand.
‘Otho the smith’s meeting us on the road with a wagon. Forward … march!’
With a jingle of tack the troop executed a perfect turn in ranks and began to file out of the dun gate, two by two. As a mark of honour to a bard, Maddyn rode next to Caradoc at the head of the line. Over the next few days, as they worked their way south-west as quickly as possible, he had plenty of chances to study