Dragon's Treasure (27 page)

He said, "Finle says that you are also an archer, that you were Kalni Leminin's archery master."

"I was."

"I am honored. Please teach me."

His sincerity touched her heart. She said gently, "Orm Jensen and Finle will teach you. They know everything I know."

"The child who was with you—Finle says that it was he who found me. How may I thank him?"

"You needn't. Dragon is giving him a pony."

Later that evening, she went to the apartment behind the kitchen to see Shem.

"He's sleeping," Beryl Gavrinson told her, with some heat. "He's worn out, poor lamb. Wherever did you take him, anyway?"

"Coll's Ridge," Hawk told her. She bent over the child's pallet. Shem's face was smooth in sleep.

But the placidity was deceptive: she could sense his exhaustion, and deep inside his mind, a vulnerability, an
opening
that should not have been there. She did not know what to do about it. She could not teach him; he was simply too young, and they were too different, hawk and wolf.

That night sleep did not come. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

In the morning, though, she knew what she had to do. She had paper and ink and stylus in her chest. She set them out on her table.

Shem would not understand. But this is what would be best. His father would have approved.

She wrote,
To Naika Dahranni, of Nyo; from Terrill Chernico, once of Voiana and Ujo, now of Dragon Keep: Greetings...

14

In dragon Keep, everyone was talking about the musicians.

They called themselves the Golden Sparrows. The folk of the Keep had standing orders to make all musicians welcome, and so they had been escorted to a guest chamber and fed, and their mules cared for.

There were three of them: a burly, mustachioed man, a slender, fair-haired youth, and an elegant, dark-skinned woman. They arrived just after midday. Dragon came to the courtyard to greet them. Lita, who had escorted them to the guest chamber, brought word to the kitchen that they had come.

"They brought letters," she reported.

"From where?" Anssa asked.

"One was printed with the blue arrow. The other was stamped with the wolf's head."

"That's Ydo Talvela's mark," said Ruth. "It must be about Juni. I hope it's happy news."

"He's better off here," Jess said. No one disagreed. The folk of the kitchen liked the youthful archer; he was always polite. They knew his story.
Bitter as the winds of Serrenhold,
men said, and evidently Juni had found them so, since he had walked nearly the length of Ippa rather than stay there. Why he had come to Dragon Keep was not entirely clear to the cooks and servers and scullions, but it seemed to have something to do with music.

The musicians were not the only guests at the Keep. An hour after the arrival of the musicians, Egidio diPrima's caravan rattled through the gate, its wagons filled with oils and spices, silks and ivory, sponges, parchment, and ink. DiPrima, with his guards, scribes, and drivers, was also staying at the castle.

Having extra mouths to feed made Boris testy: he growled his orders at the cooks, and barked at Ruth when she told him that they did not have sufficient leeks to make leek pies.

"What do you mean, not enough leeks? There are fields of them!" He waved a hand. "Send the girls out to pick some!"

She told him, sweetly, not to be a fool.

"Dragon has asked them to play tonight," Lita said. "The visitors. The woman's named Khorrem. The others are Angelo and Donatello. He's
really
pretty."

"Who?"

"Donatello. He looks like a dandelion."

Boris scowled. "Tell him to stay out of my kitchen, or I'll put him in the soup." Pico, who was stirring the soup, giggled. "And if you let that soup boil, I'll put
you
in it."

Pico giggled again. Boris swatted at him with the spoon. The boy ducked: right into the path of Simon, who was carrying a bowl of cream. Pico, Simon, and bowl tumbled in a heap. Boris roared. Simon thrashed out of his path. Taran plucked the spoon from Pico's hand as he fled dripping out the door. Boris chased Pico down the steps. A black cat slithered in through the open door and began to lick the cream.

"What are you smiling at?" Ruth said to Taran.

"Simon," he said.

"Huh." Her mouth quivered.

The meal that night was sumptuous: onion pies, roast boar, vegetables sauced in cream, and cherries cooked in merignac. The castle dogs fawned outside the kitchen door, licking at the scullions' hands as they passed in and out of the kitchen. Anssa, who had a taste for fat, snatched bits of succulent boarskin off the platter when Boris's back was turned.

Ruth passed Taran a roll. He dunked it in the drippings, and slipped it to Pico, who was hiding under the table.

His year was almost up. Amazingly, he had kept his temper, and his promise. He had served the Keep freely; he had not made trouble, nor skewered Simon, nor tried to escape. Soon, in a week, two, a month, Dragon would give him a sword, and let him go.

If I let you go, what will you do?

Kill Marion diSorvino.

And then what? He still had no answer. His solitary training had given him the strength, at least, to wield a sword left-handed. Skill would come.

Perhaps he could find work as a mercenary, or a guard at a brothel: anything, to stay alive. He imagined what his sister would say to that.

Would she hate him if he killed her father? He did not know that, either.

Midway through the feast, Dragon called the head cook out to take a bow. Boris returned to the kitchen smiling beneath the jut of his beard.

"The singing's about to start," he said. "Go out there."

The musicians stood by Karadur's table. The fair-haired one was indeed pretty, with smooth golden skin and eyes as tender as a baby's. The burly one carried a harp. The woman wore a night-blue robe patterned with silver leaves.

I gave my love a cherry; it had no stone

I gave my love a chicken; it had no bone

I gave my love a river; it had no bend

I told my love a story; it had no end....

A cherry when it's blooming; it has no stone

A chicken when it's peeping; it has no bone

A river when it's running; it has no bend

The story of our loving; it has no end.

Khorrem's voice was cool and clear as water. The blond boy's voice followed hers, weaving in and out of the melody. It was a simple song, one they all knew. Then Khorrem sang a Chuyokai lullaby. Donatello and Angelo sang a set of ribald verses about a boy who went to romance his sweetheart, and ended up in bed with her sister.

"Sing 'Ewain and Mariela,' " someone yelled. Angelo scowled theatrically through his mustaches. "Never," he said. Everyone hooted. "Sing 'The Red Boar of Aidu'!"

"No," Angelo said. "That is a song of Ippa, and there is one here who knows it far, far better than we three southerners ever could. We would not insult him." He turned to the dragon-lord. "My lord, is there aught you would like to hear?" Karadur said, "Sing a song from Selidor." The three conferred. Then Angelo said, "My lords, ladies, visitors, and friends, we give you the tale of the 'White Ship of Mantalo'."

It was a song of battle; the story of a pirate ship, and of the ship that bested her. It had a steady beat, and a melodic, mournful chorus that went,
And the rains fall, And the rains fall forever, on the white sands of Mantalo!
When it ended, the warriors beat their knife hilts on the table.

Karadur said to Azil Aumson, "Now, you sing."

Azil drank from his cup, then set it aside. He said, "My lord, my friends, guests: tonight I will sing you an old song. It is the story of Ewain of Ragnar and the treachery of Gundahara." Rising, he beckoned. At his place at the far table, Juni Talvela rose. He was cradling a small harp in his arms. He made his way to the singer's side, and struck a chord.

Clear and tender, the singer's voice filled the high-ceilinged hall.

Proud heroes hearken To the doom of Ragnar

And the death of Boris, Derrenhold's king;

And of Ewain the warrior Ever-faithful;

Broken and betrayed By his own liege.

Some of the listeners had heard it before, but many had not. It was a tale of forbidden love, a king's treachery, and the death of a hero.

Ewain takes counsel With his chosen comrades;

Sworn brothers all Through battles dire;

Though treachery waits Strong hearts remain steadfast;

Dishonor disdaining; Ragnar's pride.

In the morning Women are weeping;

For brave Brunhilda, Who killed a king.

Great warriors died In the dooming of Ragnar;

Where darkness gathers And ravens feed.

When the last note of the harp died away, the hall was silent. Then the cheering started. It went on a long time.

"Bow," Azil said to Juni. "They are thanking you; you have to thank them back." Flushing, Juni bowed, and bowed again.

"Taran," Ruth said softly, "you're weeping." Taran touched his face. It was so. It was ridiculous to weep over a dead hero. Silently, he went to the kitchen and wiped his cheeks with a rag.

Eilon came in. "One-arm, there's a man out here asking for you."

"Who?"

"Some wagon driver. He's waiting for you by the whipping post."

"Thanks." Taran could not imagine who it might be. He walked into the yard. A three-quarter moon silvered the dark space. A man beside the post waved an arm. Taran maneuvered around the sleepers to his side. The man dropped his hood.

It was Edric. He'd grown a beard.

"Surprised?" he said jauntily.

"Stupefied. I thought you were dead," Taran said.

"I thought
you
were." He grinned. "I thought they'd killed you, in Lienor. Then I heard you'd been brought here. I was certain you were dead, then. They tell me you've a new name. I hear they call you Taran."

"Or One-arm," Taran said.

Edric shot a quick look at his right sleeve. "Aye. I heard about that, too."

Directly at their feet, a man lying in a bedroll opened his eyes. "Get out of here, or I'll break your face," he snarled.

"Sorry," Taran said. They moved away from the post. "How did you get out of Lienor?" Taran asked. "How have you fared?"

Edric shrugged. "Well enough. I've been doing honest work—sort of. As to how I got out of Lienor: they let me go. Dumped me outside the wall one morning, told me to leave Kameni and never come back, if I wanted to keep my skin."

Above them, the scrape of a boot heralded a passing guard. Edric looked up unhappily. He dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Is there somewhere we can be alone? I've got something I'd rather say in private. Too many ears here."

"What sort of thing?"

"It's an offer of employment. All you have to do is listen to it, and say then yes, or no." He clapped Taran awkwardly on the left shoulder. "By Imarru's horns, I can't believe you're standing there alive! Leo and Oliver and the rest of the lads, they'd shit to know of it." He looked again at the guard. "Can we get out?"

"Out where?" Taran asked.

"Outside the walls. It's a fair night, no harm in taking a little walk, is there? Surely they don't chain you up at night like one of the dogs." He laughed a bit, to show it was a joke.

Taran wondered what would happen if he were caught outside the walls. Would they think he was trying to run? There were ways to get out without being seen, he knew.

"Come on," he said recklessly. They walked to the storage barns. The hole in the wall Pico had shown him was still there. They wormed through the narrow lightless tunnel. Then they were out. Cicadas called in the fields. The hillside shimmered in the moonlight.

"What's that?" Edric asked.

"The old buttery."

"Let's go there."

They strolled toward the moonlit ruins, past tall green mounds, and across the remnants of an ancient creek bed. The buttery stones were wreathed in thorn-clad vines. A heavy perfume hung in the night air. The June stars blazed.

"This is better," Edric said. He sat On a stone. An owl hooted nearby. "More private. Good place to bring a girl."

Taran nodded. It was a favorite place for the men of the war band to come with their girls, or with each other.

"What's this offer you have for me?"

Edric said earnestly, "I'll tell you. But I need your promise first."