Hawkmistress! (27 page)

Orain flinched, and for a moment did not answer. Then he said, “I have come here for sanctuary, lad, since I am no longer welcome at the court where your father rules the king. Will you give the alarm, then?”

“Certainly not,” said the boy with dignity, “Under the roof of Saint Valentine, even a condemned man must be safe, sir. All men are brothers who shelter here - this much the cristoforos have told me, Master Rumal, if you wish to go with your master, I will put the birds on their perches for you.”

“Thank you, but I can manage them,” said Romilly, and took Temperance on her fist; Caryl trailed her with the other bird on his two hands. He said in a whisper, “Did you know he was one of Carolin’s men? They are really not safe here.”

Romilly pretended gruffness and said, “I don’t ask questions about my betters. And you should run along to choir, Caryl.”

He bit his lip, flushing, and turned away, dashing barefoot through the snow. Romilly drew a long breath; she would have turned and spoken to Orain, but his hand closed with an iron grip on her shoulder.

“Not here,” he said. “Outside these walls; I am not sure, now, that they have not ears, and the ears are those of a certain lord.”

Silent, Romilly finished her work with the sentry-birds and followed Orain through the gates of the monastery. The street was white and silent, muffled with the thick snow. At last Orain said, “The Hastur-whelp?”

She nodded. After a moment she said in an undertone, pitching her voice so that Orain had to lean close to listen, “That’s not the worst of it. His father - Lyondri Hastur - is outside the city and will be visiting him for the holiday.”

Orain’s clenched fist drove into his other hand. “Damnnation! And Zandru knows, he’s not one to observe sanctuary-law! If he sets eyes-” Orain fell silent. “Why did Dom Carlo have to go away at this time of all times-” he said at last. “Ill-luck dogs us. I’ll try and get a message to him.”

Silence; even their footsteps were silent in the snow-muffled street. At last Orain said, dismissing it, “Let’s go down to the tavern. With such news as this I need a drink, and they have spiced cider in honor of the holiday, so you may drink too.”

Romilly said soberly, “Shouldn’t Alaric and the others be warned to watch themselves, if the Hastur-Lord is likely to be about?”

“I’ll pass a word to them,” Orain said, “But for now, no more talk.”

In the tavern where Orain had taught her, some days ago, to play at darts, he commanded wine, and hot cider for Romilly; it smelled sweet with spices, and she drank it gratefully and accepted his offer of a second mug. He said, “I have a gift for you - that filthy cloak you wear is hardly worthy of a stable-man’s son. I found this in a stall - it’s old and worn but suits you, I think.” He beckoned to the serving-woman, said “Bring me the bundle I left here yesterday.”

He tossed it across the table at her. “A good Midwinter-night to you, and Avarra guard you, son.”

Romilly untied the strings; took out a green cloak, spun of rabbithorn-wool, finely embroidered and trimmed with clasps of good leather. It must have been very old, for it had sleeves cut in one with the cape, in a fashion she had seen in portraits of her great-grandsire in the Great Hall at Falconsward; but it was richly lined and comfortable. She flung aside the shabby old cloak she had taken when she fled from Rory’s house in the woods, and put on the new one, saying after a moment, embarrassed, “I have no gift for you, Master Orain.”

He put his arm round her shoulders. “I want nothing from you, son; but give me the hug and kiss you’d give your father if he were here today,”

Blushing, Romilly embraced him, and touched her lips gingerly to his cheek. “You are very good to me, sir. Thank you.”

“Not at all - now you are dressed as befits your red hair and the manner you have of a nobleman’s son,” he said. There was just enough irony in the words that Romilly wondered; did he know she was a woman? She had been sure, at one time, that Dom Carlo knew.

“That old thing, you can make into a horse-blanket,” said Orain, motioning the tapster’s boy to make it up into a bundle. Romilly would rather have thrown it away where she need never touch it again, but in this weather horses could not go unblanketed, and the horse-blanket she had, had been meant for warmer climates. Her horse would be grateful for the extra warmth, with this midwinter storm.

There were but few patrons in the tavern this evening; the approaching storm, and the morrow’s holiday, contrived to keep most of the men at home, Romilly supposed, by their own hearths.

Orain asked, when she had finished her meal, “Will we have a game of darts, then?”

“I am not a good enough player to make it worth your trouble,” she said, and Orain laughed. “Who cares? Come along, then.”

They stood, alternately flinging the darts and sipping from their tankards, as the evening passed. Suddenly Orain stiffened, went silent.

“Your turn,” Romilly said.

“You throw - I’ll be back in a moment,” Orain said, his speech slurred, and Romilly thought, he cannot possibly be drunk so early. Yet as he walked away he reeled drunkenly, and one of the sparse patrons of the tavern yelled jovially, “Drunk so early on midwinter-night? You’ll not hold your wine on the holiday, then, man!”

She wondered; is he sick? Should I go and help him? One of the things Romilly had carefully avoided, during her weeks in the town, was going inside the common latrine behind any of the taverns - it was the one place where she might possibly be discovered. Yet Orain had been good to her, if he was in trouble, surely he deserved help.

A small voice in her mind said; No. Stay where you are. Act as if everything were normal. Since Romilly was not yet accustomed to the use of her own laran - and it was rare for her to be so much in touch with the feelings of any human, though she now took rapport with her birds for granted - she was not sure whether this were actually a message reaching her, or her own projected feelings; but she obeyed it. She called out, recklessly drawing attention to herself, “Who’d like a game, then, since my friend’s overcome with drink?” And when two townsmen came up to her, she challenged them, and played so badly that she soon lost and had to pay the forfeit of buying them a round of drinks. It seemed that at the very edge of the room she could see movement in the shadows - had Orain not left the room after all, but only withdrawn? Who was he talking to? She kept the game going, and by a great effort did not turn to try and see the other figure, tall and graceful, a hood shrouding face and head, moving softly near Orain. But as if she had eyes in the back of her head, it seemed that she could see it, hear whispers… her spine prickled and at every moment she thought she would hear an outcry, voices, shouts. Holy Bearer of Burdens, whose day this is, tell me, how did I become entangled in this intrigue, as if it mattered to me which king sat on the throne of the Hali’imyr? Damn them both, outcast king and usurper king. Why should a good man like Orain risk a noose for his neck because one king or another holds the throne of the Hasturs?

If any harm comes to my friend, I will … and she stopped there. What could she do? Unlike her brothers, she had no knowledge of arms, she was defenseless. If I escape this night’s intrigue, she thought, I will ask Orain to teach me something of the arts of fighting … but she laughed and shouted, “Well thrown, whang in the cat’s eye,” and flung her own dart almost at random, surprised when it landed anywhere near the target.

“Drink up, young’un,” said the man who had lost, setting a mug of wine before her, and Romilly drank recklessly. Her head felt fuzzy, and she stopped halfway through the mugful, but they were all looking at her, and against her better judgment, she finished the drink.

“You’ll have another game? My turn to win,” said one of the men, and she shrugged and gave up the dart. Her neck felt that cold, vulnerable prickle that she knew meant she was

being watched, somewhere undercover. What is going on in that room? Damn these intrigues!

Then Orain was at her side again, clapping her on the shoulder. “Aye, now you have the way of it, but you can’t yet teach an old dog how to gnaw a bone - gi’me the darts, lad.” He took the feathered darts, poised them, called for wine all around; she saw the excited glitter of his eyes. When the next pair took the darts, he muttered next her ear, “Next round we must get away; I’ve a message.”

She nodded to let him know she understood. The next moment Orain shouted, “What in nine hells do you there, man, your big feet halfway over the line - I won’t play darts with a cheating bastard like that, not even at Midwinter-gifts. I will make but not be cheated out of a drink or a silver bit!” and shoved angrily against the man who was throwing. The man whirled drunkenly and swung at him.

“Here, you lowland bugger, who do you call cheat? You’ll swallow those words with your next drink or I’ll ram them down your throat-” He connected with Orain’s chin, and Orain’s head went back with a crack; he staggered against the wall, came out swinging furiously. Romilly flung her dart, and it landed in the man’s hand as he swung again at Orain; the attacker turned, howling, and barged toward her, hands out as if to strangle her. She moved away, tripped on a barrel and went sprawling in the sawdust. Orain’s hand grabbed her, pulled her upright.

“Here, here-” the barman came over, scowling, separating them with rough hands. “No brawling, friends! Drink up!”

“The rotten little bastard threw a dart at me,” growled the man, shoving up his sleeve to reveal a red mark.

“You’re a baby to bawl at a bee-sting?” demanded Orain, and the barman shoved them apart.

“Sit down! Both of you! The penalty for fighting is a drink for the house, from each of you!”

With a show of reluctance, Orain pulled out his purse, flung down a copper piece. “Drink up and be damned to you, and I hope you all choke on it! We’ll be off to a quieter place for drinking!” he snarled, grabbed Romilly’s elbow and steered a drunken path toward the door. Outside he straightened up and demanded in a low, quick voice, “Are you hurt?”

“No, but-“

“That’s all right, then. Let’s make tracks!” He set a pace up the hill that Romilly could hardly follow. She knew she had had too much to drink and wondered, as she staggered dizzily after him, if she was going to throw it up. After a moment he turned and said, gently, “Sorry - here, lad, take my arm,” and supported her. “You shouldn’t have drunk that last cup.”

“I couldn’t think of anything else to do,” she confessed.

“And you saved my neck by it,” he said in a whisper. “Come, perhaps you can get a bit of rest at the monastery before - look,” he gestured at the clearing sky, “The snow’s stopped. We’ll be expected to show at the Midwinter-eve service, any guest at the monastery who’s not abed with a broken leg is expected to be there for their damned hymn-singing! And with the weather cleared, that rat Lyondri-” he clenched his fists. “He may well be there, large as life and twice as filthy, sitting smug in the choir and singing hymns like a better man.”

Romilly asked, troubled, “Would he recognize you, then, Uncle?”

“That he would,” said Orain grimly, “and others than me.”

She wondered; can it be that Carolin himself is somewhere in the monastery? Or did he speak of Alaric, whose family had been condemned to death by the Hastur-lord? Or of Carlo, who was certainly an exiled man and high in Carolin’s confidence? Orain’s hand was beneath her arm.

“Here, lean on me, lad - I’d pretend to be sick and hide in the guest-house, but then they’d hale me off to the infirmary, and find out soon there’s nothing wrong with me but a cup too many of their wine.”

She looked at the settled snow, cringing in the keen wind that came as the snow had quieted. “Is there truly a laran which can work sorcery on the weather?”

“So I have heard,” Orain muttered, subsiding into gloom again. “Would that you had some trace of it, son!”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Midwinter-night service in St. Valentine-of-the-Snows was famous throughout the Hellers; people came from all through Nevarsin, and from the countryside round, to hear the singing. Romilly had heard some of the music before this, but never sung so well, and she would have enjoyed the service, had she not been so troubled by Orain’s obvious worried state. He insisted that they should sit at the back, and when she asked where Dom Carlo was, and why he had not come to the service, scowled and refused to answer. He had cautioned Alaric, too, not to enter the chapel at all. But toward the end of the service, when there was a moment’s lull, he whispered “No sign yet of Lyondri Hastur. We may be lucky.” His face twisted and he muttered, “We’d be luckiest if he fell off a cliff somewhere and never made it to Nevarsin at all!”

And, as Caryl said, same weather magic has been done. I did not think the weather would clear so quickly.

She saw Caryl, scrubbed and shining, in the front row of the choir, his mouth opening like a bird as he sang; it seemed to Romilly that his voice soared out over all the choir. It was as well, perhaps, that Dom Carlo was not here, except for Orain’s dread; it seemed that the big gaunt man could hardly sit still, and no sooner was the service ended than he was up and out of his seat, pushing for the back of the chapel. He walked with her to the stable, and busied his hands checking on the sentry-birds, so that Romilly would have been annoyed - did he think she could not care for them properly, then? Later she knew what he had been looking for, why he had arranged everything close together so that they could be snatched up and ready to ride at a moment’s notice, but at the moment she was only exasperated and wondered if he was still drunk, or believed she was too drunk to handle them properly. He checked on the chervines and horses too, turning up each hoof, arranging saddle-blankets and saddles, until she thought she would scream with nervousness at his fiddling. Or was he lingering so that he would see it, if Lyondri Hastur actually arrived at the monastery?