The Ships of Merior. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘What’ve you heard? We’re bound that way into Etarra. Ship’s Port was thick with rumour that the Prince of the West is luring on swords to build a retinue.’

      Medlir companionably shrugged, his hands in idle play upon his strings. ‘Why should he? The city council keeps him in comfort. Last I heard, he hadn’t yet tired of the garrison commander’s pretty sister.’

      The mercenary captain hunched forward like a bear. Through the incisors clamped on toothpick and pipe stem, he said, ‘Well, the recruiter sent out by the head-hunters’ league claimed Prince Lysaer’s been deeded Avenor’s lands. The grant came from the Mayor Elect of Korias.’

      The silvery spill of notes changed character, became thinner, brighter, more brittle. If so, the charter’s hardly legal.’

      Nobody took umbrage,- the comment was scarcely out of turn, Athera’s Masterbard being a keeper of traditions often consulted to clarify rules of precedence. As Halliron’s probable successor, Medlir would be trained for the day the supreme title might fall to him.

      ‘Huh. Swords, and not paper, will settle that issue.’ The mercenary captain tossed away his toothpick and removed his pipe, which had stubbornly smouldered and gone out. ‘If there’s pay being offered for a winter position, we’d be fools not to go have a look. At worst, we’d weather till spring in Etarra, then sign with Pesquil’s headhunters when the new campaign season starts.’

      ‘Well, fortune to you,’ said Medlir, laughing softly. ‘Avenor’s a ruin. One of the old sites that folk won’t go near for the hauntings. There might be pay, if you fancy the chance to lay bricks.’

      ‘You’ve been there?’ The mercenary captain stared at the minstrel through the curling flame of his spill.

      ‘No.’ Medlir launched off a sprightly jig, foot tapping, and a gleam to his eyes at strange odds with his earlier humour. ‘Ath grant I never live to see the place.’

      The following morning dawned to grey, misty rain and a clammy east wind off the bay. In the tidewater region of the coast, winter’s hold settled lightly. The mild airs drawn north by ocean currents could brew the occasional warm day. Above Jaelot, the road lay softened to muck, through which cartwheels sucked and splattered to the fitful grate of flint-bearing gravel. Medlir strode at the buckskin’s head to steady the bridle as the pony skated and slid through league upon league of soupy footing. Swathed in faded quilts on the driver’s board, Halliron sat looking tired.

      ‘I’ve no wish at all to stop in Jaelot,’ he insisted, unusually quarrelsome. ‘The town’s a cesspit of bad taste. I won’t have you wasting your talents there.’

      ‘Well, at least that’s a first.’ Medlir steered the pony cart toward the verge to allow a packtrain bearing southern spices and silk bales to make its laboured way past. Over the yips of the drovers, he said, ‘Not long back, I recall your phrasing the matter quite the other way about, that my fingering was too clumsy to inflict on a tinker, never mind any public audience.’

      ‘Well, that was then.’ Halliron blotted his dripping nose and sniffed. ‘You still have a great deal to learn.’

      Through the jingle of gear and harness, and the whip-snaps as carters forced their ox teams from drifting to scent the horses as they passed, Medlir kept a weather eye on Dakar, perched like a woodchuck on a bony chestnut gelding won over dice with the mercenaries. More accustomed to pack straps hung with cooking pots than to bearing saddle and rider, the creature had wall-eyes and knock-knees and a tail stripped of hair like a rat’s. The buckskin pony shied well clear. More a shambling liability than a source of reliable transport, the chestnut changed nature like a weathercock, friendly and fiendish by turns.

      Dakar’s indifferent horsemanship was hampered further by short thighs that stretched like a wrestler’s to straddle his mount’s width of barrel. Watching the pair careen through the pack beasts and drays, reins flying loose and heels drumming to indignant slaps of the silly, naked tail, Medlir was hard pressed not to chuckle.

      Halliron looked in danger of swallowing his lips, until he resorted to muffling his whoops behind quilts.

      The last laden mule in the cavalcade passed, with the gelding spinning left, and then right, in some doubt of its proper orientation. Dakar thwacked its goose rump with his rein ends and hauled, to no good effect. The narrow, bony head on a great pole of ewe neck swivelled back to stare where the leather had stung, its expression determinedly flummoxed.

      Medlir shut brimming eyes.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ howled Dakar. He stabbed the gelding in its cavernous ribs with his heels and flapped elbows until it ambled in a sequence of steps by no means definable as a gait.

      After one prolonged gasp against the buckskin’s wet mane, Medlir tucked his chin in his mufflers and stared without focus straight forward. ‘Ah!’ He made a manful effort, clutched his ribs, and said, ‘No one’s laughing. Halliron has a terrible cough. I could be suffering the same.’

      Dakar’s reply unravelled into oaths as the gelding’s racketing shy sallied the width of the roadway. A stiff-featured Medlir applied himself to guiding the pony cart from its parking place amid the burdock, while Halliron wheezed and wiped rheumy eyes and murmured, ‘Ath, now my stomach is aching.’

      Their journey resumed under mists spun to gold under late-breaking sunlight. Flocking gulls rose and wheeled in the sea-breeze off the tide flats. To the right, at each turn in the road, steep-sided valleys of evergreens yawned into gorges, some threaded with falls that spilled like frayed floss, and others with deep, narrow lakes lying polished as moonstones.

      The country was beautiful, but wild, the foothills scarred by old rockfalls and too steeply pitched to grow fodder. Under sky like lucid aquamarine, the storms seemed remote, that could lash without warning off the bay and hurl salt spume against the mountains. The trees and the moss bore the scars in broken branches, and rock abutments burned clean of lichens. An equinox gale could wreck a steading in a night, with the buildings rebuilt again out of the splintered rubble, or ship’s planks, washed in by the tide. Hostels and posthouses were widely spaced and nowhere inside a day’s ride of a walled town.

      When the sun swung behind the peaks and purpled shadow hardened the road in the grip of early cold, Halliron began to shiver with chills. His nose was buffed red, and his eyes shone too bright, and his thickest quilts lent no comfort.

      Medlir said nothing, but watched his master in concern through the pause as they watered the horses.

      Embarrassed at last by his own misery, Halliron capitulated. ‘Oh, all right. We’ll shelter in Jaelot, to spare you the bother of tending an invalid in the open.’

      ‘What bother?’ Medlir redistributed the mud-flecked blankets over the Masterbard’s knees. ‘If these townsmen have execrable taste, I could always try those ballads we heard in the sailors’ dives at Werpoint.’

      Halliron returned a choked cough, whatever he had in mind undone by Dakar’s antics as he fell off the same stone twice trying to remount the brown gelding.

      ‘You’ll break your neck getting on that way!’ Medlir called, his fingers busy taking the pony’s surcingle up a hole.

      Puffing, beet-faced, in no mood for criticism from a man who understood nothing about the trials of being fat, Dakar clambered back up the rock. ‘Since when do you know so much about horses?’

      ‘Maybe СКАЧАТЬ