"No." He shook his head emphatically. "I have a duty to my Clan, and to what the Tayledras are supposed to be. I guess-" he thought for a moment, "I suppose I'm just waiting for the moment that they all bury themselves, and I can find out where k'vala or k'treyva are now, and I can go get some help."
"May that be ssssoon," Hydona sighed.
"Too true." He eyed the sun and stood up. then hesitated a moment.
"You know my personal reasons for giving up magic-and-well, I wouldn't admit it to anyone but you, but-I'm beginning to think that may have been, well, a little short-sighted." Treyvan tilted his head. "I will not ssay that I told you the ssame.
"I know you did. But now," he frowned, "if the Heartstone is attracting uncanny things. it is probably a good idea not to rescind that vow. Look what happened to the one mage who tried casting spells outside the Vale." A good point," Treyvan acknowledged. "But you ssstill show Adept-potential, do you not? Would that not attract creaturesss asss well ass sspellcasssting?" He tilted his head the other way. "A dissstinct liability to a ssscout, I would sssay." He flushed. "Treyvan, I'm not stupid. I thought of that. I swore I wouldn't spellcast. I never swore I wouldn't keep my shields." Treyvan laughed aloud. "Good. You are asss canny as I could wish, flightlesss ssson.
He had to laugh, himself. "Well, Nera has things well in hand for now, you have youngsters to get back to, and I-I guess I'd better finish out my patrol, tell Dawnfire the good news if she doesn't know already, and figure out how best to phrase Nyara's request to the Elders." Treyvan chuckled. "Ssshe won't be moving far or fasst for a few dayss, if I'm any judge of human ssshapesss. You'll have ssome time to think." Darkwind sighed. "I hope so," he replied. "It isn't going to be easy.
Starblade is not going to like this."
*Chapter Eleven ELSPETH
Skif peered through the foggy gloom of near-dawn, wishing he had eyes like a cat. He watched for possible trouble, as Elspeth stood-literally on her saddle, trying to read the signpost in the middle of the crossroads.
Gwena stood like a stone statue; a distinct improvement over a horse in a similar situation.
Before they had left Bolthaven, Elspeth had taken Quenten's advice quite literally-and very much to heart. For one thing, she'd consulted with him about disguises, in lieu of being able to ask Kerowyn. Now they wore something more in the line of what a pair of prosperous mercenaries would wear. "Mercs would be best," Quenten had decided, after a long discussion, and taking into consideration the fact that no amount of dye would stain the Companion's coats. "Tell people who ask you've been bodyguards for a rich merchant's daughter, and that's where you got the matched horses. If you say you're mercs, no one will bother you, and you can wear your armor and weapons openly. just put a coat of paint on those shields, or get a cover for them." They'd given him carte blanche, and a heavy pouch of coin. He'd grinned when Skif lifted an eyebrow over the selection of silks and fine leathers Quenten's agent brought back from the Bolthaven market, clothing that was loose and comfortable, and so did not need to be tailored to them to look elegant.
"We want you two to look prosperous," he'd said. "First of all, only a prosperous merc would be able to afford horses like yours, even if you did get them in the line of duty. And secondly, a prosperous merc is a good fighter. No bandit is ever going to want to bother a mercenary who looks as well-off as you will. The last place a merc puts his money is in his wardrobe. If you can afford this, you're not worrying about needing cash for other things." ' ' But the jewelry," Skif had protested. "You've turned most of our ready cash into jewelry!"
" A free-lance merc wears his fortune," Quenten told him. "If you need to buy something, and you don't want to spend any of those outland gold coins because it might draw attention to you, break off a couple of links of those necklaces, take a plate from the belt, hand over a ring or a bracelet. That's the way a merc operates, and no one is going to turn a hair. Very few mercs bother with keeping money with a money-changing house, because it won't be readily accessible. In fact, only about half of even bonded mercs have a running account with the Mercenary's Guild, for the same reason. Where you're going, every merchant and most good inns have scales to weigh the gold and silver, and they'll give you a fair exchange for it." Skif thought about what he said, then sent Quenten's agent back to the bazaar to exchange the rest of their Valdemaran and Rethwellan gold and silver for jewelry. He had to admit that the ornaments he got in exchange, a mixture of brand new and worn with use, were a great deal less traceable than the Valdemaren coin. He felt like a walking target-his old thief instincts acting up again-but he knew very well that when he was a thief, he'd never, ever have tackled two wealthy fighters, especially when they walked with their hands on their hilts and never drank more than one flagon of wine at a sitting. Quenten had been right; a wealthy, cautious fighter was someone that tended not to attract trouble.
Still, he'd complained to Elspeth their first night on the road that he felt like a cheap tavern dancer, with his necklaces making more noise than his chain-mail.
Elspeth had giggled, saying she felt like a North-Province bride, with all her dowry around her neck, but she had no objections to following Quenten's advice.
He still resented that, a little. He'd made a similar suggestion-though he had suggested they dress as a pair of landed hill-folk rather than mercs-and she had dismissed the notion out of hand. But when Quenten told them to disguise themselves, she had agreed immediately.
Maybe it was simply that he'd suggested plain, unglamorous hill-folk, and Quenten had suggested the opposite. Skif had the feeling she was beginning to enjoy this; she was picking up the kind of swaggering walk the other well-off mercs they met had adopted, and she had taken to binding up her hair with bright bands of silk, and some of the strands of garnet and amethyst beads Quenten had bought. There were eyecatching silk scarves trailing from the hilt of Need, and binding the helm at her saddlebow. She looked like a barbarian. And he got the distinct impression she liked looking that way. Her eyes sparkled the moment they crossed into a town and found a tavern, and she began grinning when other mercs sought them out to exchange stories and news. One night she'd even taken up with another prosperous female free-lance, Selina Ironthroat, and had made the rounds of every tavern in town. the gods only know what they did. I don't even want to think about it.
At least she came back sober, even if she was giggling like a maniac. If half the stories those other mercs told me about Selina are true, her mother would never forgive me.
Not only that, she took the inevitable attempts at assignations with a cheerful good humor that amazed him.
He'd expected her to explode with anger the first time it happened.
She had been the center of a gossiping clutch of Guild mercs, but as the evening wore on, one by one, they'd drifted off, leaving her alone for a moment. That was when a merc with almost as much gold around his neck as she wore had tried to get her to go off with him-and presumably into his bed.
He readied himself for a brawl. Then she'd shocked the blazes out of him.
She'd laughed, but not in a way that would make the man feel she was laughing at him, and said, in a good approximation of Rethwellan hill-country dialect,
"oh, now that is a truly tempting offer, 'tis in very deed, but I misdoubt ye want to make me partner there feel I've left 'im alone." She'd nodded at Skif, who simply gave the merc The Look. Don't mess with my partner. And turned back to his beer, with one cautious eye on the proceedings.