The Stone of Farewell (29 page)

Miriamele was basking in the bright sun, hood pushed back so that she could feel the warmth on her forehead. All around her echoed the cries of the hawkers and the outraged shrieks of swindled buyers. Cadrach and Dinivan stood nearby, the priest bargaining with a seller of boiled eggs while his sullen companion eyed a wine-merchant's booth next door. Miriamele realized with some surprise that she felt happy.

Just like that?
she chided herself, but the sun felt too nice for self-vilification. She had been fed, had ridden all morning free as the wind, and nobody around was paying the slightest attention to her. At the same time, she felt strangely protected.

She thought suddenly of the kitchen boy Simon and her contented mood expanded to touch the memory of him as well. He had a nice smile, Simon had—not practiced, like one of her father's courtiers. Father Dinivan had a good smile, too, but it never looked surprised at itself, as Simon's almost always did.

In a strange way, she realized, the days spent traveling to Naglimund with Simon and Binabik the troll had been some of the best of her life. She laughed at herself, at such a ridiculous notion, and stretched as luxuriously as a cat on a windowsill. They had faced terror and death, had been chased by the terrible hunter Ingen and his hounds, and had nearly been killed by a Hunë, a murderous, shaggy giant. But still she had felt very free. Pretending to be a servant, she had felt more herself than ever before. Simon and Binabik talked to
her
—not to her title, not to her father's power or their own hopes for reward or advancement.

She missed them both. She felt a sharp and sudden pang thinking of the little troll and poor, gawky, red-thatched Simon wandering in the snowy wilderness. In the frustration of her imprisonment in Perdruin she had almost forgotten them—where were they? Were they in danger? Were they even alive?

A shadow fell across her face. She flinched, startled.

“I don't think I can keep our friend out of the wine-stalls much longer,” Dinivan said. “Nor am I sure I have a right to. We should take to the road again. Were you sleeping?”

“No.” Miriamele pulled her hood forward and stood up. “Just thinking.”

Duke Isgrimnur sat wheezing before the fire, thinking seriously about breaking something or hitting someone. His feet hurt, his face had itched like sin ever since he had shaved off his beard—and what kind of be-damned madman was he to have agreed to that?!—and he was not one whit closer to finding Princess Miriamele than he had been when he left Naglimund. All that was bad enough, but now things had gotten even worse.

Isgrimnur had felt sure he was narrowing the gap. When he had followed Miriamele's trail to Perdruin, and confirmed with the old tosspot Gealsgiath that the captain had left her and the criminal monk Cadrach here in Ansis Pellipé, the duke had been certain it was only a matter of time. Even hobbled by his monk's disguise, Isgrimnur knew Ansis Pellipé well, and could find his way through most of its seedier neighborhoods. Soon, he had felt sure, he would have her in hand and could take her back to her uncle Josua at Naglimund, where she would be safe from her father Elias' doubtful charities.

Then the twin blows had fallen. The first had been slower in effect, the culmination of many fruitless hours and a small fortune in pointless bribes: it had gradually become clear to Isgrimnur that Miriamele and her escort had disappeared from Ansis Pelippé, as completely as if they had sprouted wings and flown away. Not a single smuggler, cutpurse, or tavern harlot had seen them since Midsummer's Eve. She and Cadrach were a hard pair to miss—two monks traveling together, one fat, one young and slender—but they had vanished. Not a single boatman had seen them carried away, or even heard of them inquiring after passage at the docks. Gone!

The second blow, falling on top of his personal failure, struck Isgrimnur like a great stone. He had not been on Perdruin a fortnight before the wharfside taverns were alive with stories of the fall of Naglimund. The sailors repeated the rumors cheerfully, talking of the slaughter Elias' mysterious second army had wreaked on the castle's inhabitants as if reveling in the twists and turns of an old fireside tale.

Oh, my Gutrun,
Isgrimnur had prayed, his innards knotted with fear and rage,
Usires protect you from harm. Let you come out safe again, wife, and I will build a cathedral to Him with my bare hands. And Isorn, my brave son, and Josua and all the rest
...

He had cried that first night, in a dark alley by himself, where no one would see the huge monk sobbing, where for at least a little while he need not falsify. He was frightened in a way he had never quite been before.

And how, even if his family had been saved by some miracle and he could find them again, how would he ever get back his lands that Skali Sharp-nose had stolen with the High King's help? With Josua broken, with Leobardis and Lluth dead, there was none who could stand in Elias' way.

Still, he must find Miriamele. He could at least discover her, rescue her from the traitor Cadrach and take her somewhere safe. That one piece of misery still remained which he could prevent Elias from accomplishing.

So, defeated, he had come at last to
The Hat and Plover,
an inn of the lowest sort, which was just what his aching spirit craved. His sixth jug of sour beer sat at his side, as yet untouched. Isgrimnur brooded.

He might have dozed, for he had been walking the long waterfront all day and was very tired. The man who stood before him might have been there for some time. Isgrimnur did not like his look.

“What are you staring at?” he growled.

The stranger's eyebrows came together over his eyes. His lantern jaw was set in a contemptuous smirk. He was tall and dressed in black, but the Duke of Elvritshalla did not find him nearly as impressive as the stranger obviously felt himself to be.

“Are you the monk who has been asking questions all over the city?” the stranger demanded.

“Go away,” Isgrimnur replied. He reached to take a draught of beer. It made him feel a little more alert, so he took another swallow.

“Are you the one who has been asking about the other monks?” the stranger began again. “About the tall and short ones?”

“I might be. Who are you, and what business do you have with me?” Isgrimnur grunted, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His head hurt.

“My name is Lenti,” the stranger said. “My master wishes to speak with you.”

“And who is your master?”

“Never mind. Come. We will go now.”

Isgrimnur belched. “I do not wish to go meet any nameless masters. He can come to me if he wishes. Now go away.”

Lenti bent forward, his eyes keenly fixed on Isgrimnur's. There were pimples on his chin.

“You will come now, fat old man, if you don't want to be hurt,” he whispered fiercely.
“I have a knife.
”

Isgrimnur's hamhock fist struck him right where his eyebrows met. Lenti pitched backward and dropped bonelessly, as though he had been struck with a slaughtering-hammer. A few of the other tavern-goers laughed before turning back to their various unpleasant conversations.

After a while the duke leaned forward, pouring a stream of beer onto his black-clad victim's face. “Get up, man, get up. I have decided I will go with you and meet your master.” Isgrimnur grinned wickedly as Lenti spluttered foam. “I was feeling poorly before, but by Aedon's Holy Hand, I suddenly feel a great deal better!”

Teligure disappeared behind the three riders. They continued west on the Coast Road, following its winding course through a handful of compact towns. The work of bringing in the hay was going forward at full speed on the hillsides and in the valley below, haycocks rising all over the fields like the heads of wakened sleepers. Miriamele listened to the chanting voices of the field-masters and the joking cries of the women as they waded out into the tawny pastures with bottles and wallets containing the workers' mid-afternoon meals. It seemed a happy, simple life, and she said as much to Dinivan.

“If you think working each day from before sunup to dark, breaking your back in the fields is happy and simple work, then you are right,” he answered, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “But there is little rest, and when the year is bad, little food. And,” he said, smiling wickedly, “most of your crop goes out as tithes to the baron. But that seems to be what God intended. Certainly, honest labor is better than a life of beggary or theft—in the eyes of Mother Church, anyway, if not in the eyes of some beggars and most thieves.”

“Father Dinivan!” exclaimed Miriamele, a little shocked. “That sounds ... I don't know ... heretical, I suppose.”

The priest laughed. “God the Highest gifted me with a heretical nature, my lady, so if He regrets his gift, he will soon gather me back to His bosom again and make all right. But my old teachers would agree with you. I was frequently told that my questions were the devil's tongue speaking in my head. Lector Ranessin, when he offered me the position of his secretary, told my teachers: Better the devil's tongue to argue and question than a silent tongue and an empty head.' Some of the Church's more proper priests find Ranessin a difficult master.” Here Dinivan frowned. “But they know nothing. He is the best man on earth.”

During the long afternoon Cadrach allowed the distance between himself and his companions to diminish gradually, until at last they were riding nearly side-by-side once more. This concession did not loosen his lips, however; although he seemed to be listening to Miriamele's questions and Dinivan's stories of the land through which they passed, he did not in any way join the conversation.

 

The cloud-strewn sky had turned orange and the sun was streaming into their eyes as they approached the walled town of Granis Sacrana, the spot Dinivan had chosen for them to spend the night. The town sat on a bluff overlooking the Coast Road. The hills all around, sunset brushed, were tangled with grape vines.

To the travelers' surprise, a squad of guardsmen sat mounted at the broad gate questioning those who sought entrance. They were not local-levied troops, but armored men wearing the gold kingfisher of the royal Benidrivine House. When Dinivan gave their names—choosing Cadrach's by default and offering “Malachias” on the princess' behalf—they were told that they must ride on and harbor elsewhere that night.

“And why should such a thing be?” Dinivan demanded.

The sheepish guardsman could only stubbornly repeat his order.

“Then let me speak to your sergeant.”

The sergeant, when produced, echoed his subordinate's words.