A Time Of Omens Part 3

"Oh, I do like that," she said, giving him another smile. "A man who's got his mind made up. Can I have a sip of that ale?"

Grinning, he handed her the tankard, which she took in both hands so she could gulp like a thirsty child.

"Hot in here tonight."

"Too hot." She handed him back the nearly empty tankard. "It might be cooler upstairs. Want to go see?"

For an answer he set the tankard down on the floor and got up, holding out his hand to catch hers and haul her to her feet. Moving carefully through the packed crowd they made their way to the back door and out, where a wooden staircase listed against the outside wall and led up to a doorway and a spill of light from lanterns hanging from the ceiling. At the top, just inside the open door, a toothless old woman, her hair dyed sunset-orange with henna and her gnarled fingers covered with cheap rings, sat on a high-backed chair and made a desultory pretense of spinning wool.

"Take him down to the end, Avra love. The one with the window's free," she said, yawning. "G.o.ds, things are busy tonight, eh?"

Soot-stained wickerwork part.i.tions cut the top story of the building up into a warren of tiny cubicles that reeked of spilled ale and sweat and other humidities, but somehow the squalor matched the wh.o.r.e's sweaty b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tousled hair, as if they were all ingredients in some strange but potent s.e.xual spell. When she pulled aside a dirty blanket to reveal a tiny cubicle with nothing but a straw mattress on the floor, he ducked in after her, caught her round the waist, and kissed her hard, his hands digging into her back.

"Oh, this could be nice," she murmured. "I like a man who's a little bit rough, if you take my meaning, like."

When he slapped her across the b.u.t.tocks, she giggled and reached up to kiss him in turn.

"Avra!" It was the crone's voice, as harsh as a crow. "Avra, you come out here right now, you little wench! There's Caer the blacksmith here, and he swears you stole a silver out of his pockets!"

"May a demon s.h.i.t in his eye!" Avra yelled. "Did naught of the sort, you old harpy!"

"He's threatening to bust up the place, he is! You get your ugly a.s.s out here now!"

"You'd best go." Branoic was wishing he could strangle the old hag and be done with her. "I'll wait. You look worth waiting for."

"My thanks, and I'll say the same for you. Open the shutters for a bit of air, will you, love?" This last as she was leaving: "I'm on my way, sow-t.i.ts!"

Shrieking at each other they moved off down the hall, where their voices were met by an angry masculine bellow. With some care for the rotting leather hinges, Branoic opened the shutters and stuck his head out to breathe the night's cool. Down below in the stableyard, in pockets of lantern light men were standing around, drinking, singing, or merely laughing together at some jest or another. When a woman giggled behind him he pulled his head in, hoping for Avra back again, but the sound was coming from the other side of the rickety part.i.tion to his right. Although he could hear a woman plain enough, the man with her was talking in a rumbling dark voice, and he couldn't understand a word.

"I learned it from a Bardek sailor," she went on, giggling. "And you've never felt anything like this before, I swear it. Oh, come along, five extra coppers can't be much to a man like you."

The rumble sounded skeptical.

"Because it's not so easy on a la.s.s's back, that's why! First you've got to..." Here her words were drowned by mutual giggling. "And then I squeeze a bit, like. They call it coring apples. What do you say?"

Judging from his sn.i.g.g.e.r of laughter, he was agreeing to the extra expense. Branoic paced over to the doorway and pulled back the blanket to look out, but there was no sign of Avra. As he was considering leaving to find her, the couple next door began giggling and grunting in turn, as if whatever exotic trick she was showing him took a great deal of coordinated effort to bring off properly. Branoic did make an effort to do the honorable thing and ignore them, but he was, after all, only human, with the stock of curiosity normal for that breed. He went back to the window, hesitated, then bent down to peer through the tiny holes in the part.i.tion, which proved to be clogged with old filth.

"Ooooh, ye G.o.ds," the wench next door snickered. "Well, let's try again, shall we?"

Her piece of work agreed with a long bellow of laughter. Cursing his own curiosity, Branoic looked around and discovered that the wickerwork stopped somewhat short of the ceiling about two feet above his head, and that the windowsill stood about three feet off the floor. After one last attempt to ignore this perfect confluence of circ.u.mstance, he gave in and hauled himself up to totter on the sill and look over the top of the part.i.tion. Unfortunately he'd forgotten that he'd been drinking ale for hours on a hot night, and the effort made his head lurch and swim. Without thinking he grabbed at the flimsy wickerwork to steady himself. It buckled, he grabbed harder, the couple beyond yelped and swore, and his foot slipped on the mucky sill. With a yell of his own that was half a warning Branoic pitched forward, all fifteen stone of him, and crashed into the part.i.tion. In a tangle of broken wicker he swooped down and landed on the half-naked pair.

Shrieking and screaming, the woman writhed around and got free just as the next part.i.tion over went down from the impact, and knocked the one beyond it, too, into the one beyond-and so on all along the round room. Stammering out a stream of apologies of some sort-he never could remember exactly what he said-Branoic rolled over and staggered to his feet just as the fellow jumped up, pulling up his brigga and struggling to belt them, a big burly man and too furious to swear. The blazons on his shirt showed him to be a member of the Black Sword troop.

"Who are you-a cursed silver dagger! I'll have your ugly head for this, you young cub!"

"I didn't mean-my apologies-" Branoic was gulping for air out of shame, not fear.

Although the fellow started to draw his sword, his brigga slid down to his knees and forced a brief moment of peace as he swore and fumbled round for his belt Just to be on the safe side, Branoic reached for his own hilt and was rewarded with another bellow of rage. The la.s.s started screaming just as Aethan came plowing into what was left of the doorway.

"Put that sword away, Branoic you a.s.shole, and come with me!"

The fellow was so stunned that he merely stood there, hiking his brigga, as Aethan shoved Branoic bodily ahead of him, down the collapsed corridor. Judging by the shrieking and writhing under the pile of broken wickerwork the brothel had indeed been busy that night. They shoved their way out the doorway and clattered down the stairs fast to the stableyard, where a curious crowd was beginning to form.

"I was just going downstairs again with the red-haired s.l.u.t when I saw your stupid ugly mug poking up over the wall." Aethan's voice was so choked that Branoic thought him still furious until all at once the older man broke out into a howl of laughter. "Oh, ye G.o.ds, the look on everyone's face! Wait till we tell Maddo about this!"

"Ah s.h.i.t! Do we have to?"

"I do," Aethan gasped out. "Don't know about you. I-oh, ye G.o.ds! Where's Maryn?"

In a wave of ice-cold shame Branoic spun around and headed, all unthinking, back toward the stairway with Aethan right behind. By then, though, men and women both were rushing down, clutching pieces of clothing or struggling to get clothing on, cursing and snarling and swearing they'd find the Tout of a silver dagger who was responsible and slice his heart out. Aethan grabbed Branoic by the arm and pulled him back into a patch of shadow.

"Go get the horses and take them round to the street," he hissed. "I'll find the lad and try to warn the rest of our men, too."

Keeping to the dark places Branoic scuttled to the stable and found their three mounts. His heart was pounding in terror-what if something had happened to the one true king of all Deverry and it was all his fault? All at once he realized that their little prank was a dangerous one all round, taking Maryn into the heart of a strange town with only a couple of guards-who had then let him go off with a wh.o.r.e on his own. What if the la.s.s had been in someone's pay? He gathered the horses' reins in one hand, threw open the stable door with the other, and started out only to run straight into Maddyn and Nevyn.

"Where's the prince?" Maddyn snarled.

"I don't know. Aethan's looking for him."

With a foul oath Maddyn slugged him backhanded across the face.

"I shouldn't be surprised you'd do such a stupid thing, but I expected better from Aethan. And why by the name of every G.o.d is this wretched crowd milling round out here?"

Branoic tried to speak, but his voice clogged and tears filled his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to choke them back. Nevyn grabbed his arm and shook it.

"Think, lad! Save the cursed shame for later."

"I-I-I ..."

The horses began to stamp and toss their heads. By then Branoic's hands were so sweaty that he could barely hang on to the reins.

"Nevyn!" The whisper came from directly above them. "Is th-th-that you?"

"It is!" The old man sounded as if he'd weep, too, but from relief. "Maryn, where are you?"

"In the hayloft. We o-c-came up here to be private, like."

"Then come down! Give the la.s.s some coins-I imagine she's more than earned them-and get down here right now!"

"I will, sir. S-s-straightaway."

There was a c.h.i.n.k of silver, a giggle, and a rustle of hay; then Maryn clambered down the rope ladder and dropped lightly to the floor nearby. Nevyn threw both arms around him and hugged him.

"My apologies," Maryn stammered out. "But I-"

"I don't want to hear a word more about it, but if you ever do such a stupid thing again..." All at once Nevyn broke off with a warning glance up at the hayloft, where the la.s.s was lingering, prudently out of the way. "Well, no harm done, I suppose." He turned to Branoic. "Here, lad, you don't need to grovel and look like cold death. The prank ended well enough."

Branoic only shrugged for an answer. He could never explain that what was eating his heart was Maddyn's scorn. The bard himself had run over to the stable doors and was peering out the crack between them; with an oath he came trotting back.

"Nevyn, take two of these horses and get Maryn out of here. When we rode in I saw a back gate over near those trees. Branoic, you come with me. We've got to Und Aethan. I don't like the look of that crowd."

Much later it occurred to Branoic that he should have told Maddyn the truth right there and then, but at the time he was quite simply so miserable, wallowing in shame and the bard's disgust, that he was sure that Maddyn would think him a coward if he didn't go back. Outside, they found about thirty people of both s.e.xes milling around and talking at the top of their lungs. Quite a few people were laughing, actually-one could guess that they'd all been elsewhere when the walls started going down-and promising to spread this magnificent jest around town, much to the rage of those caught in Branoic's unintentional trap.

"I think that's Aethan over by the tavern-room door," Maddyn whispered. "You're taller-can you see?"

Branoic raised himself up on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and shaded his eyes against the lantern light with one hand.

"It is." He started waving. "Good, he's seen me."

Unfortunately so had the burly fellow from the next cubicle. Fully dressed now and howling like a banshee he came shoving his way through the crowd.

"You! You're the little p.r.i.c.k that started this whole cursed thing!"

His mouth half-open in surprise, Maddyn turned around to stare at Branoic, who felt as inarticulate as the ensorcelled prince.

"My apologies, I didn't mean-"

"You were trying to watch, you b.l.o.o.d.y little debaucher! I'll grind your head on the cobbles for this! I'll-"

Just at that moment Aethan and another two men from the Black Sword troop reached them. Behind them Branoic could see a gaggle of silver daggers and a bunch of black swords rushing forward, too, while all the other men round started taking sides. The experienced and politic women drew back to give them plenty of room as Branoic's victim threw a punch right at his head. Profoundly relieved that the matter wasn't going to swordplay, Branoic punched right back and connected with the fellow's jaw. Women screamed; the fellow went down, out cold; somewhere the old crone was shrieking for the town wardens. He could hear Maddyn shouting and Aethan howling as the rain-washed and slippery tavern yard exploded into a brawl.

In that kind of press it was hard to see who was enemy and who friend, especially as men kept slipping and falling into the mud and clambering back up to fight some more. Branoic squared off with a squint-eyed brown-haired fellow, slammed him once in the stomach and once on the jaw, nearly fell over him as he fell, dodged free and dodged a thrown tankard, paused to catch his breath on the edge of things only to have someone rush straight at him. He grabbed the fellow by one arm, swung him around, and flung him back into the heaving shouting mob, which reminded him at that moment of a bowl of yeast working and bubbling over. Just as he started back in, someone grabbed him from behind. He swung around only to pull his punch barely in time: Aethan.

"Come on, lad-they don't even remember why they're fighting. Hurry!"

"I was just starting to enjoy myself!"

"Come along and now! You won't be enjoying yourself if the captain decides to take the skin off your back, will you?"

Without another word Branoic followed him into the shadows by the open back gate, where Maddyn was riding one horse and holding the reins of two others. Out on the riverbank he could see the rest of the silver daggers, mounted and ready to ride.

"No one can beat a silver dagger when it comes to ducking the law," Aethan said, grinning. "Mount up, Branno. The town wardens are pounding on the front gate."

After he mounted, Branoic turned to the bard.

"Maddyn, I'm cursed sorry."

"Oh, hold your tongue! We'll sort it all out later, but I tell you, lad, I don't want to see your ugly face till I'm a good bit calmer, like."

As they rode back to the inn, at a nice stately trot to avoid suspicion, Branoic was thinking seriously of starving himself to death out of shame.

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With all the trouble brewing out in the tavern yard, Nevyn and Maryn easily slipped out the back gate and rode off with barely a soul noticing. As soon as they were back at their own inn, Nevyn turned the horses over to another silver dagger and dragged the prince up to his private chamber. Although he tried to feign embarra.s.sment, Maryn couldn't quite keep from grinning.

"Listen, lad," Nevyn said, and he felt defeated before he truly began his little lecture. "It's your safety I'm worried about. Slipping off into town with only those two b.u.mbling idiots for guards was a very bad idea."

"Well, t-t-true enough, and I'm sorry."

"You don't look sorry in the least. After this, if you simply can't live without a la.s.s, have your friends bring you one. For enough silver that sort of la.s.s is always willing to take a little walk."

"No doubt my learned c-c-councillor would know."

Nevyn restrained the impulse to give the one true king of all Deverry a good slap across the chops. Very dimly he could remember being both that young and that smug about his first la.s.s-some two hundred years earlier or about that, anyway. Such anniversaries had rather lost their importance for him. All at once Maryn let his grin fade and sat down in the one rickety chair to stare at the floor.

"Somewhat wrong?"

"Not tr-tr-truly. I was just thinking. Both you and Father were telling me that I'd have to marry Glyn's daughter."

"So we were, and so you do."

"How old is she?"

"Thirteen."

"Well, at least she's old enough." He looked up with a worried frown. "Is she pr-pr-pretty?"

"I have no idea."

"I suppose I'll have to m-m-marry her even if she's got twenty wens and a besom squint."

"Exactly right, Your Highness. She represents the sovereignty of the kingdom."

Maryn groaned and went back to studying the floor.

"Well, I hope she is pr-pr-pretty," the prince said at last. "Now that I know what..." And then he did blush, looking at that moment some ten years old. "I'd best get to b-b-bed."

"So you had. If I were you, I'd pretend to be asleep and snoring when Maddyn comes storming in. Our bard didn't seem to find the evening's sport amusing."

In the morning, over breakfast, Maddyn a.s.sembled the silver daggers who'd been at the Tupping Ram to piece out what had happened. He knew that it would be a good bit better for the miscreants if he settled this matter before Caradoc or Owaen took it in hand. As this less-than-pleasant meal progressed, he noticed that Branoic sat at the end of the table as far from him as possible, ate nothing, and spoke only when the others tormented him into doing so. Although Maddyn started out furious, by the time Branoic, stammering as much as the prince and twice as red, repeated the wh.o.r.e's remark about coring apples, he was laughing as hard as all the other men there.

"Oh, well and good, then," Maddyn said at last. "No one was killed, and so that's an end to it. Cheer up, Branno. I can't lie and say that I'd never have done such if I'd been you."

Everyone smirked and nodded agreement. Looking a bit less miserable, Branoic grabbed a slab of bread and busied himself in b.u.t.tering it. Although everyone went on eating, Maddyn could tell that something was still bothering a couple of the men.

"Out with it, Stevyc."

"Well, by the h.e.l.ls, Maddo, I was just wondering." He glanced at Branoic. "Did you ever find out what they meant? About coring apples I mean?"

"I didn't. Everything happened too fast."

When Stevyc swore in honest regret, everyone howled and hooted. There was the true end to the matter, Maddyn a.s.sumed, and he pitched into his breakfast. Yet, as he was leaving the tavern room afterward, his little blue sprite appeared, and with her were two gray gnomes, dancing up and down with their normally slack mouths twisted into frowns. Her mindless blue eyes peered up at him in something like worry.

"What's all this?" Maddyn whispered. "You're not even supposed to be here. You'd best run away before Nevyn sees you. Whist!"

Yet they stayed with him, the sprite riding on his shoulder, the gnomes clinging to his brigga leg like frightened children. He considered for a moment, then went upstairs to Nevyn's chamber with the Wildfolk hurrying after. He found the old man sitting on the windowsill of his chamber and staring idly out across the spring countryside. Although Maddyn hesitated, wondering if he were interrupting some meditation, Nevyn turned to him and started to smile-until he saw the Wildfolk.

"What? You shouldn't be here!"