I sighed and said, “I know; and I’ve done my share. But even so … sometimes I grow weary of it. Sometimes I wish it were otherwise.”
“But it’s not,” she said.
I thought her about to say more, but then Barus stood before us, a callused finger pointed at my chest. “Do you ply your trade, Storyman,” he said, “and entertain us with a tale.”
His breath was perfumed with the wine that thickened his tongue, and it was less request than demand. From the corner of my eye I saw Krystin stiffen, her features contoured with irritation. I had no great liking for his manner, but neither any wish to provoke an argument with refusal: I nodded curtly and climbed to my feet.
The others of the troop were of more genial manner than the surly jennym and welcomed me with enthusiasm as I settled by their fire. Krystin joined us, and I paused a moment, selecting the tale. I decided they should hear of Ramach and the battle of Cambar Wood: it fit my odd mood well that I should tell of a victorious aeldor leaving the hurst a monument to the fallen. My audience was dutifully silent as I spoke, and I ended with my own experience there.
When I was done, Barus snorted and said, “Foolishness! The God-cursed Sky Lords deserve no monuments. The flames are enough for them.”
I said, “The aeldor Ramach deemed them brave; worthy foes.”
“Then Ramach was a fool.” He reached for the wineskin, tilting it to his mouth. “The Sky Lords are a blight on our land, and I’d not honor them.”
Krystin said, “Barus,” her tone a warning. He turned away, refusing to meet her eyes, and she looked to me with a smile. “Do you give us another, Daviot?”
I said, “As you wish,” and told them of Fyrach and the Great Dragon.
I am not sure why I chose that particular story. Perhaps I felt it occupied ground sufficiently neutral that Barus should be mollified. Perhaps I looked to investigate their feelings in regard to the dragons. Whichever, the one worked, and the other told me no more than I knew already. All listened attentively, and all save Barus voiced approval when I was done. One even said, “What allies the dragons would make now, eh?”
That elicited laughter, in which I joined, though I then said, “Could we but find them again and persuade them to our cause.”
Krystin said, “Yes. Were they not dead.”
I said, “Can we be sure they are? Might some not live still?”
The commur-mage shrugged, offering no response.
I said, “Of course, to find them would mean crossing the country of the wild Changed.”
She gave me a look then that was oddly familiar. I recognized it in a memory: Rekyn had worn that same expression once. So, too, had Rwyan, when I had spoken of my fantasies, though then I had been more concerned with other matters, and not so much interested in plumbing her knowledge as the secrets of her body.
“Storyman’s fancies,” Barus grunted. “Dragons? The dragons are gone, and no Trueman dirties his feet in the soil of Ur-Dharbek.”
“The wild Changed live there,” I said, “and surely dirt is dirt, wherever it lies.”
The jennym spat and found a second wineskin. When he had swallowed-deep-he said, “Changed dirt is not for Truemen. Who’d consort with such beasts? The Changed are animals, no more. The God knows, they were created for dragon fodder, and they’re good for nothing else.”
It was too much: into my mind’s eye came an image of Urt, who was certainly no animal, whose company I much preferred to this uncouth fellow. I said, “In Durbrecht I named a Changed my friend.”
It was a challenge and recognized as such. Silence fell, and for a moment it seemed even Barus was lost for words. He tossed the wineskin aside and stared at me. His expression suggested he looked on an abomination. When he spoke, his voice was cold for all its wine-rough slurring.
“Are you then a Trueman? Or did your mother lie with beasts?”
In the timber an owl sounded. The crackling of the fire was suddenly very loud. It seemed the wind held back its breath. I heard a horse nicker softly. My staff lay at my feet; Barus’s long blade was sheathed and rested across his thighs.
Krystin said, “Barus! You go too far.”
He smiled, not looking at her but straight at me. I thought he seemed more bestial than any Changed. I met his stare and said, “No, my father was a Trueman. Aditus, he is called.” I was pleased my voice remained so calm. I paused deliberately and asked him, “Did you know your father’s name?”
It was a crude sally, but subtlety was wasted on such as he. Someone chuckled nervously. Barus’s face flushed dark, his lips thinned in a snarl of unalloyed rage. I saw his right hand close about his sword’s hilt. I saw the blade slide out a little way. I tensed.
“Enough! I tell you both-enough!”
Krystin had not moved or touched her own sword. She had no need-there was such authority in her voice we both froze. I felt immediately embarrassed that I had allowed my irritation a hold, that I had sunk to the jennym’s level. Barus rammed his sword home in the scabbard. His eyes were narrowed, as if he fixed my face in his memory, and there was the promise of murder there.
“Barus, I’ll not Warn you a second time. You insult a guest of Tryrsbry Keep, and do you continue you’ll answer to Yrdan. After me.” It seemed her eyes shone as she glared at him. I thought of the two, it should likely be her punishment was the worse. Then she turned that blue gaze on me. “And you, Daviot-is this fitting for a Storyman? To trade insults like some common tavern brawler?”
I shook my head and said, “No. My apologies, lady.”
“I’m no lady,” she returned me, echoing Rekyn, “and what apology you offer is best directed at Barus, not me.”
I caught my refusal before it was voiced and said, “My apologies, jennym.”
Barus said nothing. Krystin said, “Barus …”
He scowled, less like a warrior in that moment than a willful child caught in some mischief.
“Barus …”
He said, “My apologies, Storyman,” and promptly rose to his feet, kicking the wineskin aside as he strode into the shadows.
Krystin rose and went after him. I wondered what transpired between them. I could not believe they were lovers, nor could I hear what was said. I felt a hand nudge me and turned to find the wineskin proffered. I murmured thanks and swallowed long. The soldier who had passed it me said, “Barus makes a bad enemy, Storyman. Best watch your back do you linger in the keep.”
I nodded and asked him, “Why does he take such objection to me?”
The soldier glanced away, ascertaining Barus was gone out of earshot before he said, “He’d bed our commur-mage, would she but have him.” He chuckled and winked lewdly. “But she’ll not, and that puts him in foul temper. The worse that he sees the way Krystin favors you.”
Late the next day we arrived in Tryrsbry. It was a sizable place, a good many leagues inland, the town spreading across the mouth of a fertile valley, the keep perched above, a little way up the north wall. A river descended the slope there, its course shifted to moat the hold, and we clattered across a wooden bridge into the yard. It was not so grand a keep as Thyrsk’s tower in Arbryn but more akin to Cambar, plain for all I could see this was a wealthy bailiwick.
We left our mounts to be stabled, Krystin taking me with her to meet Yrdan. Barus prowled like some foul-tempered black dog alongside. Since that night we had not spoken, and whilst he had offered no further insult, he did not conceal his dislike. I was minded of the friendly soldier’s advice-to watch my back.
The aeldor’s welcome went some way to compensate for his jennym’s animosity. We found him in private chambers, engaged in a game of catch-dice with his wife and two daughters, who-fortunately for them-favored their mother. Yrdan was an ugly man. He wore the typical dark locks and swarthy skin of a westcoaster, but his nose was huge and hooked, and his jaw excessively broad, displaying twin rows of overlarge and entirely separate teeth as he smiled. He was short and his legs were bowed, so that he must tilt back his head to find my eyes. In stark contrast to his looks, his temperament was sunny, and he greeted us with a cheerful roar, embracing Krystin as if she were kin, shaking my hand, and shouting for a daughter to pour us ale before he took report of our encounter with the Sky Lords.
Krystin’s account was succinct, and when she was done, Yrdan said to me, “I bid you welcome, Daviot Storyman. You’ve bed and board in Tryrsbry as long as you choose. Now, do you tell the tale?”
I agreed readily and told him all I had witnessed. After, he nodded and said, “That was well done,” then laughed as he slapped his malformed thighs. “I’d not have managed such a race. And nor shall you again. Do you take that horse as my thanks-gift?”
I said, “You are kind, my lord.”
He returned me, “Yrdan, Daviot.” Then he winked: “And, am I honest with you, there’s few with much liking for that mare, and she with none for anyone.”
“She has something of temper,” I agreed solemnly.
Yrdan bellowed laughter and beckoned his wife and daughters forward. “I am remiss,” he said. “I forget my courtly manners in this rough place. So …”