Lords of the Sky (6 page)

The cliffs that flanked the river were low, and about the harbor there was a wide cleft, gently sloped and covered at
the foot with cottages akin to those I had left behind. Higher, I saw what seemed to me very grand houses, with tiled roofs that glittered in the moonlight, some even sporting balconies about their upper stories. They were set about either side of a broad avenue that ran up to the clifftop, ending at a structure that trapped and held my eyes.

The keep, from this low angle, seemed a single vast column rising atop the ridge, a great stone cylinder set all around with bright-lit windows, a beacon blazing in the night. I stood gape-mouthed, a country bumpkin confronted with a dream. The houses along the avenue were dwarfed, dismissed into insignificance by this wondrous tower. This was the home hold of the aeldor Bardan: this was the gateway to my future.

I started as Andyrt thrust my bundle at me and clapped a cheerful hand to my shoulder. “Save you’d spend the night here, do we go on?” he chuckled. “The sea edges my appetite, and all well dinner will be served soon.”

I nodded, still staring upward, and fell into step, Rekyn on my left. She said mildly, “This is not so great a hold, Daviot. Wait until you see the towers of Durbrecht.”

I nodded again, lost for words; it seemed to me no place could possibly be grander than this. I shouldered my bundle and went with them across the cobbles of the harbor to the avenue. Now I tore my eyes from the great keep and stared instead at the marvelous houses, their windows paned with clear glass, not the yellow membrane of sheepgut, their woodwork carved and painted for no reason other than decoration. Robus and the mantis had sometimes been persuaded to speak of Cambar—as best I knew then, they were the only men in our village who ever came here—and I had wondered at their tales, but they did nothing to prepare me for this fabulous place, and I walked with eyes and mouth wide, dumbstruck.

And then the avenue ended at a wall, and I saw that the keep was not a single column but was surrounded by this dry-stone barrier, and through the open wooden gate that lesser buildings huddled about its foot.

I thought there should be guards there, but I was wrong. The only sentries were three enormous gray hounds, all shaggy hair and flashing fangs, they seemed to me, that came barking up, to be rebuffed by Andyrt with a shouted command
mand that sent them trotting back to the shelter of a stable where horses nickered and stamped. I took my hand from my knife’s hilt and pretended I had not been afraid as my two companions brought me across the yard to the keep’s entrance. Rekyn motioned me forward, but I hesitated, struck suddenly by a new concern: “Do I meet the aeldor now? How should I address him?”

“‘My lord’ will do,” she told me, “and you’ve no reason to fear him. Bardan’s no ogre, and you come as welcome guest to this hold.”

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded; we entered the keep. I saw how thick were the walls, marveling at the builder’s skill, then frowned as I realized we did not stand in the great hall I had expected but in a kind of cellar, a huge, circular chamber, dim and stacked all about with casks and barrels, firewood, sacks, haunches of meat hung from hooks set in the wooden roof. Rekyn touched me gently, indicating a broad stairway that rose around the curve of the wall. She moved ahead of me then, and Andyrt fell in behind, and we climbed toward another open door, light bright there, and noise.

On Rekyn’s heels I went in and gaped anew despite myself. This chamber was as large as the one below but set with deep-cut embrasures and circled by sconces in which candles burned, augmenting the blaze of the fire in the massive hearth and the lanterns that hung from the beams overhead. The floor was wood, scattered with rushes, long tables and benches occupied by more men than women, the latter sex emerging from doorways, carrying platters of meat, bread, steaming vegetables, pitchers of ale. Off to one side a minstrel—I had neither seen nor heard one before, but I knew from the kithara he plucked that was his calling—fought the roar of the diners. He stood behind a table set a little apart from the others, three men and two women seated there.

“The aeldor,” Rekyn murmured in my ear. “The Lady Andolyne is to his right; the other woman is Gwennet, wife of Sarun, who is heir. The other man is Bardan’s second son, Thadwyn.”

I nodded in thanks and acknowledgment, committing the names to my memory, eager to make as good an impression as I might, and walked with the commur-mage and Andyrt to stand before the table.

Andyrt sketched a casual bow; Rekyn ducked her head and said, “Lord Bardan, this is Daviot of Whitefish village.”

I bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor. I saw a bone there, and then another of the great gray hounds snatch it up. The room grew silent save for the soft strumming of the kithara, and then a deep voice said, “In the God’s name, Daviot of Whitefish village, will you stand up and look me in the eye, or are you bent-backed?”

I felt my cheeks grow warm. I stood, mumbling, “My lord aeldor, Lady Andolyne … No, I am not … I—”

Bardan laughed, the sound rumbling from his broad chest, and I met his gaze. I saw a rotund face, ale-flushed and dense-bearded, streaks of white in the russet, the eyes large and brown, twinkling with amusement. He was a heavy-set man, past his prime, but yet muscular. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled back, revealing forearms corded thick. He smiled at me, beckoning me forward.

“So you’re the one,” he said. “Rekyn speaks well of you—Andyrt, too—and I trust their judgment. You’d be a Mnemonikos, eh?”

“Does it serve you,” I said, and thought to add, “my lord aeldor.”

“Me,” said Bardan, “the Lord Protector, Dharbek. Aye, have you the makings of a Rememberer, then you shall serve us all.”

“And does that not work out,” said Andyrt, with what I then thought was massive presumption, “I’ll have him for the warband.”

Bardan laughed again, not at all put out, and shouted for places to be set at his table, ale to be brought us.

As we waited I took the opportunity to study his kinfolk. His wife, the Lady Andolyne, was of an age with him, which is to say old in my eyes, but like the aeldor she seemed hale, if not so beautiful as I had thought so elevated a personage should be. Her hair was not yet touched with gray, but its brown was somewhat faded, and though her eyes shone bright, they nested amongst lines. Gwennet’s hair was a soft gold, and she was pretty in a vague way. She was clearly some few years younger than her husband, and the smile she bestowed on me was friendly. Indeed, they were all friendly, even Sarun, who was a hawk to his father’s bear, lean of feature, with the same brown eyes but those more piercing—appraising
me, I thought. Thadwyn was not much older than I and favored his mother. Much to my surprise, it was he who pushed a filled tankard to me when we sat.

After the ale I had already drunk, I had poor appetite for more, but I deemed it ungracious to refuse and so smiled my thanks and sipped. Bardan saw my caution and exaggerated a frown. “What’s this?” he demanded. “A would-be Mnemonikos who’s no taste for ale? In the God’s name, young Daviot, that’s a thing unknown.”

“Perhaps,” said Andolyne with a smile, “Daviot shall set a new standard, and introduce sobriety to his calling.”

“Unlikely,” said Sarun. “Have you ever met a Storyman without a taste for ale?”

“Or wine,” said Thadwyn.

“Or mead,” said Gwennet.

“Or fire-wine,” said Sarun, and studied me with hooded eyes a moment before grinning as if we were old friends. “I suspect you’ll learn in time, Daviot. The Storymen have a certain reputation, you know.”

“In your own time,” Andolyne said kindly. “And as I say—do you choose to introduce new ways …”

Then, basking in their ready friendship, I felt only put at my ease, grateful to them, and to Rekyn, Andyrt, that I, a plain fisherman’s son, should sit so welcome at their table.

And so, as my confidence grew, I ate, and drank more ale, and found my tongue. And as I talked, my mouth grew dry and I supped more, until I swayed in my chair and their faces began to blur, and I found the words become harder of finding, and harder still to speak.

Andyrt, I discovered, carried me to my bed, and Rekyn had the keep’s herbalist prepare a decoction for which I was later mightily grateful, though it tasted bitter and I fought it at the time. Thanks to that I passed the night in sound sleep, waking to the sounds of the rising hold, unaware at first of where I lay. This was the first morning of my life I had not woke in my parents’ home, and I experienced a moment of wild panic as I opened my eyes and wondered where I was. Then I remembered and sprang from my bed, only to totter, my head spinning, needles seeming to pierce my skull and eyes. I groaned and sat back, pressing hands to my throbbing
temples until I succeeded in focusing my eyes, and examined my chamber.

It was all stone, but with a faded carpet on the flags underfoot. I had never set foot on a carpet before. A lantern hung from the center of the ceiling, and opposite the narrow bed there was a washstand, beneath the window an ottoman. I went to the washstand, wondering who had removed my clothes and where they were, and drank deep of the wondrously cold water, then applied a liberal quantity to my face and head—carefully, for the needles were not yet gone from my skull. I found my clothes in the ottoman and quickly dressed, belted on my dagger, and belatedly remembered to tie back my hair. I felt simultaneously hungry and nauseated by the thought of food, nor sure whether I should remain or quit the chamber. I knelt on the ottoman as I pondered, marveling that the window be paned and thus allow me clear sight of the yard below.

I was on the west side of the keep. Beyond the encircling wall I could see planted fields and grazing sheep, woodland in the distance, hazy at this early hour. Within the confines of the wall I recognized a smithy, the farrier’s hammer already clanging, a small building I thought must be a fane, and others I could not define. The yard was busy, soldiers in their plaid striding to and fro, women, children, dogs, a few cats. I was entranced and might well have spent the entire morning observing all this unfamiliar activity had Rekyn not come for me.

She knocked at my door, which was unusual enough, and it was a moment before I thought to bid her enter. In place of her black riding gear she wore breeks of dark leather and a belted tunic, a long dagger sheathed there. She smiled, holding out a beaker of horn, and said, “Day’s greetings, Daviot. I suspect you’ll welcome this. Perhaps without a fight today.”

For an instant I found no memory at all of the previous night’s closing and frowned, then blushed as she explained and I remembered. I took the draught and drank it down, wincing at the taste and my embarrassment.

Rekyn settled on the bed, her gray eyes on my face. “Now tell me of last night,” she said. “All that you remember.”

I guessed this was a test of some kind. I composed my
thoughts, much aided by the herbalist’s skill, and recited all I could recall

When I was done, Rekyn nodded in satisfaction and I felt my discomfort evaporate as she said, “Excellent. The ale does not fuddle your memory.”

“Thanks to you.” I gestured with the beaker. “And this.”

“That helped.” Her face grew solemn. “Most men forget what they do when in their cups.”

I frowned and said, “But last night Sarun, the others, all spoke of the Storymen as drinkers. Does drink obliterate memory, how can they? Why do they?”

“Sarun and his kin spoke mostly in jest,” she told me, “albeit in jest there’s often truth. Aye, the Storymen
do
drink. Indeed, they’ve something of a reputation for their capacity, and often enough it’s the only payment offered for their tales. But also, they are not as most men. I suspect that whatever accident of blood gifts them with memory gifts them, too, with the ability to drink and still remember. I’ve not the
how
of it, but I believe that must be the way. Now, do we see if any breakfast’s left us?”

I found, to my surprise, that my appetite was returned: I nodded, and we quit the room.

As we ate, Rekyn told me that a trade ship was anticipated within the next few days and that it would take me north, save—an ominous reminder and grim portent of the future—the Sky Lords come again to delay the sailing.

I digested this thoughtfully, vaguely aware of the women who now began to clear away the detritus of the morning meal, and when Rekyn suggested we investigate the environs of the keep, I agreed eagerly.

It felt odd to me to venture abroad so late in the day, and I thought fleetingly that my father would be long asea, with Tonium in my place. A moment’s nostalgia then, rapidly replaced with wonder as we crossed the court to where Andyrt and others of the warband exercised. Sarun was with them, greeting me with a brief wave before returning to his sword-work. Andyrt hailed me, but no more than that, and with Rekyn I stood watching the flash of light on darting blades, listening to the clangor of steel on steel.

They wore helms and thick-padded jerkins, sewn with plates and nets of metal, but even so I thought surely men
must be sore hurt at this practicing. I was right and before long saw a man miss his defensive stroke and take a blow that sent him reeling, his face gone abruptly pale. Andyrt caught the mistake and halted his own combat to roughly curse the luckless fellow for his carelessness before sending him off to a thin, bald man in a green tunic who stood behind a table spread with sundry pots and bandages and bottles.

Rekyn said, “That’s Garat, our herbalist and chirurgeon. You’ve him to thank your head’s not hurting.”

We went to watch, seeing Garat remove the soldier’s jerkin and examine his shoulder—which was dislocated—with fingers as gentle as his curses were ferocious. I had never heard a man so foul-mouthed, nor seen one so tender in his ministrations. His mouth was thin and seemed angry until he smiled and asked me how my head felt. I told him it was entirely cured and offered my thanks, at which he shrugged angular shoulders and cursed me for a fool that I drank with more excess than experience. Laughing, Rekyn declared that she had best remove me from his company ere I become as corrupted of language as he, and we wandered randomly about the yard. It was, in effect, a small village, self-contained and easily defended. Save, I thought, from aerial attack: I ventured to make the point.