Dawnflight (33 page)

Angusel groaned. “More practice!” He spied Morghe approaching them and waved. “Morghe, we’re going to the market at Port Dhoo-Glass. Want to come?”

Regarding the pair with a neutral expression, Morghe shook her head. “Perhaps some other time, Angus.” She raised her empty basket. “I must gather herbs for the infirmary’s stores.”

Angusel turned to watch Morghe disappear into her mare’s stall. After a moment, he whispered to Gyan, “I’d sure like to know what’s wrong with her these days. She isn’t much fun anymore.”

As the recipient of Morghe’s frosty attitude many times, Gyan had a fair idea of what was bothering her. But in response to Angusel’s comment, she merely shrugged.

True to her word, she made him jump his mount over shrubs, rocks, fallen trees, and anything else she could find to stretch his skill. At times, their path wound back and forth across the rivers Neb and Dhoo. He whooped at each challenge he conquered. She noted his improved attitude and skill with a smile of approval. When the port finally came into sight, her pride was soaring with the gulls. For the first time since his equestrian training had begun, Angusel had not fallen once.

To cool their sweating horses, they dismounted outside the city gates and led them to the stables. Gyan left instructions with the stable hand to feed and water the animals, and she and Angusel set off for the market square.

Angusel clearly yearned to stop at every stall, but Gyan made a beeline for the armorers. To take care of her business first, she explained. Pacified with her promise of plenty of time to browse afterward, he tagged along.

An entire line of stalls and tents boasted the furnishings of war. As everywhere else in the market maze, the folk visiting this section were a mixture of clients and the curious, with one marked difference. Here the true customers were easy to identify. Without fail, they bore evidence of their work, if not by the overt presence of battle-gear, then by an abundance of scars or the swaggering manner that seemed the special province of the warrior caste.

Gyan was the only woman. This did not go unnoticed.

She paid no heed to the whispered remarks and sidelong glances that kept pace with her from stall to stall. Men too ill-mannered to shutter their rude thoughts weren’t worth the effort of a response.

Instead, she concentrated on the task at hand. And what a task it was! Every armorer offered belts by the score, segmented rectangles to encircle the waist and metal-studded baldrics that looped across the chest. Gold and silver and enamel and jewels decorated the ceremonial belts. Their working cousins displayed sterner faces of iron or bronze.

None came close to what Gyan sought. She wanted something to guard her middle as well.

The word at every stall was the same. If Adim Al-Iskandar of Constantinopolis did not sell it, such a thing simply did not exist. Bypassing the remaining armorers, she threaded her way to Al-Iskandar’s stall.

“Ah, my lady, I believe I can be of service to you,” crooned the fat, brown-skinned merchant in response to Gyan’s query. “I have been saving this piece for just the right owner.” Grinning broadly, he bowed and ducked into the tent behind his stall.

He reemerged a few moments later, carrying in both hands the finest piece of armor she had ever seen. More than a sword belt, it was a work of art. What caught her eye was the dragon cleverly worked in relief across the front, and not only for the excellence of its craftsmanship.

Al-Iskandar let her scrutinize the belt while he spoke Breatanaiche in a lilting accent about its origins and features.

“Bronze, for maximum durability.” He gave it a resounding thump with bejeweled knuckles. “Based on a design favored by the Ostrogoths, only better. The middle part rides higher, here, to protect more of your vitals. And you can see there is a place in front where you can attach a short-sword or dagger sheath.”

Sparing a glance for the crowd swelling around his stall, he asked, “Would my lady care to try it on?”

In reply, she unbuckled her belt. With deft fingers, the merchant fitted the bronze piece around her waist, over her leather tunic, and cinched the fastening thongs across the small of her back. He removed the scabbard from her old belt and attached it to the new one. The onlookers breathed a collective gasp of admiration.

Her hand dropped to her sword hilt as if to draw the weapon; in reality, she was judging the scabbard’s placement. It was perfectly comfortable. Everything about the piece was perfect. Yet to haggle the price down, she had to discover some flaw. It simply would not do to take it at asking price. Folk might wonder. Specifically, Urien.

“I would need someone to help me put it on,” she said. “Not very convenient in a surprise attack.”

“A small price to pay, my lady, for the vastly superior protection it offers you.” Al-Iskandar’s teeth, bared in a wide grin, glistened like pearls against the natural darkness of his skin. “I daresay a warrior of your eminence should have the way of it mastered in no time.”

In response to the shameless flattery, she suppressed her grin. Some merchants would go to any length to make a sale. Doubtless, this man could outdistance the best.

“Gyan, it’s fabulous!” Angusel exclaimed.

“Indeed,” said a new voice. The crowd parted to make way for Urien.

“Gyan—Chieftainess Gyanhumara? This lovely lady is your betrothed, my lord Urien?” She could have sworn the merchant’s surprise was an act.

Urien didn’t seem to notice. Nodding, he reached her side and pushed Angusel away, none too gently. Angusel stumbled back against a one-eyed herdsman. Laughing coarsely, the man planted a hairy paw between Angusel’s shoulders and shoved. Angusel whirled and drew his dagger against the offender.

“C’mon, laddie.” The herdsman beckoned, grinning. “Lessee what yer made of.”

The spectators cheerfully pulled back to give the combatants more room, and a chorus of encouragement began.

“Angusel, stop!” shouted Urien.

Angusel turned. The herdsman landed a clout to the back of his head. The startled warrior fell to hands and knees in the dust, dropping his dagger. The townsfolk roared in appreciation. Loudest among them was the herdsman.

Looking to Urien for help in gaining control of the situation, Gyan found him to be enjoying the scene as much as everyone else, if not more so. The fires of anger roared to life. This was not the time to play the simpering female! Not with a companion’s honor at stake.

The sight of an arm’s length of naked steel commanded silence, even from Urien. But the herdsman, doubled over with his good eye closed, kept chortling.

“You, man! Get out of here. Now,” Gyan growled. “And if I catch you making trouble again, I’ll be seeing what you’re made of.” As she stalked toward the man, the others seemed more than happy to scramble out of her way. “From the inside out!”

The herdsman opened his eye to find the point of her sword half a handspan away. His glee disappeared. Bobbing his head in a parody of a bow, he stepped back into the crowd.

Her sword screeched as she slammed it into its sheath. She offered a hand to Angusel, and he hauled himself up, rubbing his head. After retrieving his dagger, he scowled at Urien, whose mouth was still bent in amusement.

“Peace, Angus,” she hissed, in Caledonaiche. No longer in a mood to barter, she began tugging at the sword belt’s fastenings.

Scurrying up to her, Al-Iskandar touched fingertips to chest and forehead in a dramatic bow.

“Please, my lady Gyanhumara, I am grievously sorry for what has happened. I would be deeply honored if you would accept the belt as a gift. A token of my sincerest good wishes. All I ask”—with clasped hands, he displayed an expression that reminded her of a begging dog—“is that you do not forget your humble servant Adim Al-Iskandar when you have need of arms or armor in the future.”

“Thank you, Adim Al-Iskandar.” She smiled despite her irritation. “I certainly shall not forget your kindness.”

AL-ISKANDAR SMUGLY watched Gyanhumara and Urien pass through the crowd, trailed by the glowering young warrior. The arms merchant knew that he, Adim Al-Iskandar, would not forget this day, either. He had known from the start with whom he had been dealing, of course. In all the lands touching the seven seas, Al-Iskandar had never seen the aura of power melded to such an exquisite female form. And he made it his business to learn as much about his clients and potential clients as possible.

When word of his generosity and the subsequent pledged patronage of the Picti chieftainess became common knowledge, he expected his business on this island would increase threefold at least. Already, several men were crowding forward to examine his wares. He had no doubt his investment in goodwill would be well worth the price.

“Hai, Adim,” came a harsh whisper from behind him.

He craned his head around and cursed. To attend the customers, he rousted his apprentice from the tent and motioned impatiently to the one-eyed herdsman. The man followed Al-Iskandar into the empty tent.

“Idiot! The embarrassment you caused me—” Al-Iskandar never shrank from the judicious use of guilt to achieve the desired effect. “Not to mention the loss of an important sale!”

“This’ll take care o’yer whinin’, to be sure.” The herdsman drew a smelly scrap of cowhide from the neck of his tunic. Al-Iskandar snatched it out of his hand. “Y’know where this goes, Adim. Collect when y’get there, as usual.” With his uncovered eye, he winked. “Now then, what do y’know ’bout that woman?”

“Oho, that will cost you, my friend.” Al-Iskandar’s lips pulled back in a grin. “Up front.” Casually leaning one hand on the work table, he extended the other, palm up.

The herdsman reached into his boot. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the silver-hilted knife lodged in the wood at Al-Iskandar’s fingertips. Al-Iskandar jerked back his hand with a gasp of alarm.

“There, thief. Take this an’ be done.” He glared at Al-Iskandar. “But if I don’t like what I be hearin’, ye’ll find me other knife in yer gut.”

Chapter 19

F
INGERING HIS SWORD’S pommel, Urien rounded on Angusel. “I would like to speak to Gyanhumara. Alone.”

“You could apologize first, Urien.” She suspected he would ignore her suggestion, but it was worth a try. “That fight was your fault.”

“How could I know the man was going to react that way?”

“Ha! You think a commoner is going to play by the rules?” She left the disdain in her tone undisguised. “They know none.” She spun and strode away, with Angusel close behind her.

“Gyanhumara, wait.” Urien pitched his voice over the throng. “Please!”

The Caledonach warriors stopped.

After catching up, Urien thrust out a hand. “I apologize, Angusel.”

Angusel clasped the proffered arm.

Neither warrior saw Gyan’s eyebrows twitch.

“Thank you, Urien,” she said. “Now, you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, my dear.” Urien turned his attention upon Angusel. “Can I trust you to stay out of trouble for a while?”

Angusel’s scowl slowly relaxed. As Arthur’s ranking officer on the island, Urien had the authority to curtail his freedom. Gyan was glad to see that Angusel had the sense to remember this and abandon any further attempts to jeopardize his position.

“Aye, sir,” he replied, eyes lowered.

In Caledonaiche, she said, “Don’t worry about him, Angus. He barks more than he bites.” Looking up, Angusel smiled briefly. She gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. For Urien’s benefit, she switched to Breatanaiche. “Go ahead and explore the rest of the market. I’ll meet you later this afternoon.”

“Gyanhumara, surely you’re not thinking of riding back to Tanroc so soon? We haven’t seen each other in a week,” Urien said.

And what a blissfully uneventful sennight it had been. Ever since their arrival on the island, Urien seemed to be slipping back into his old arrogant ways; today’s incident with Angusel was just the latest of many. She had hoped to escape back to Tanroc without Urien being any wiser, but his appearance in the market had destroyed that plan. There was no sense in fabricating an excuse to leave. Best to fuel the fiction, especially since he had chosen to act in a halfway civil manner.