The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

bone whistle. Ye gods, what an odd pair of things!’ Yet she’d seen them both before, she realized, and eventually she retrieved the memory. One of Alshandra’s followers had tried to work evil with a dragonbone whistle during the siege of Cengarn, and Yraen’s silver dagger had ended up in the hands of the Horsekin after his death. ‘It was never truly finished, that war,’ Dalla whispered. ‘May the Star Goddesses help us all!’

      Neb was quite proud of the letter he wrote for Tieryn Cadryc. Since it was addressed to a gwerbret, he trimmed up the best piece of parchment and chose the Half-inch Royal hand for the script. For good measure he put a line of interlace at the top and a little sketch of a red wolf, the tieryn’s blazon, below the place where Cadryc would make his mark.

      Neb had an odd knack when it came to drawing things: he would picture his intended images in his mind, get them clear, and then push the image out through his eyes – or so he thought of the process – onto the parchment or whatever surface he was using. All he had to do then was trace around the image, which he could see as clearly as if it were already drawn. The trick came so naturally to him that he’d never given it much thought, but as he worked, he remembered Lady Galla telling him about Branna’s needlework skills. She can do this too, he thought. We’re alike in this. The words pleased him deeply: we’re alike.

      When the ink had dried, Neb took it up to the table of honour, where the noble-born were finishing their breakfast. Cadryc took it from him and glanced at it, then took Neb’s pen and put an X over the Red Wolf.

      ‘Looks splendid.’ Cadryc handed the sheet back. ‘If it’s dry enough, roll it up.’ He handed Neb a silver message tube, somewhat scratched and dented, but usable. ‘I don’t have a proper seal, so a drop of wax will have to do. If we have any sealing wax, that is.’

      ‘We don’t, your grace,’ Neb said.

      ‘Ah. I was afraid of that. Well, the next time I go to Cengarn, you’ll come with me, and I’ll give you some coin to buy what we need. We’ve received the king’s yearly bounty. The messengers rode in not long before you turned up.’ Cadryc stood up and yelled across the hall to Gerran, who was eating with the warband. ‘Gerro, I need a couple of men to take a letter to Cengarn.’

      Over the next few days, life in the dun centred around two things: waiting for the gwerbret’s answer and storing the taxes. Grain had to be milled into flour or parched for winter porridge and the brewing of ale; hogs, rabbits, and chickens needed to be sorted out and housed until their eventual slaughtering. Cheeses and butter to be kept cool, fruit dried, beef smoked or pickled – the early taxes provided the dun’s food supply for more than half a year. Lady Galla and Lady Branna put on old shabby dresses and worked alongside the cook and servants. Raised in a town, and a large one at that, Neb had never quite realized that outside of the rich provinces in the heart of Deverry, the noble-born were in their own way farm folk, much closer to the life of the land than craftsmen were.

      During the day Neb saw Branna often as she went about her work and he his. At times they had the chance to say a few words together, but at meals and in the evening, they sat at opposite sides of the hall, she with the noble-born, he with the servants. He would nurse a scant tankard of ale and watch her, sitting demurely beside her aunt at the honour table while Salamander earned his keep. So that the entire great hall could see and hear him, the gerthddyn stood on a table, telling tales punctuated with songs and juggling, performing little tricks such as pulling scarves out of thin air or plucking eggs from the hair of a passing servant. At times, when her aunt was engrossed in Salamander’s performance, Neb would catch Branna looking across the great hall to watch him, not the gerthddyn. Yet when the tales ended, the two ladies and their maidservants would retire to the women’s hall upstairs, closed to all men but the tieryn and the aged chamberlain.

      One evening, as Neb was going upstairs, he met Branna face to face at a turning of the spiral staircase. She was carrying a candle lantern, and at the sight of him she stopped, smiling. Neb suddenly found that he couldn’t remember her name – worse yet, he wanted to call her by some other name, but he couldn’t remember that one, either. Fortunately he could address her by her title alone.

      ‘Good evening, my lady,’ he said.

      ‘Good evening, Goodman Neb.’ She paused, as if waiting for him to speak, then continued. ‘I’m going out to the cook house. We’re dyeing some thread, and we need a bit of salt for a mordant.’

      ‘Where’s your maidservant?’

      ‘Off somewhere. By the time I find her, I can fetch it myself.’ She hesitated, then smiled and stepped down past him. ‘I’d best be on my way.’

      Neb smiled and bowed, then stood and watched her go, until it dawned on him that he might have asked her if he could escort her. Running after her now would only make him look a fool. He hurried up to his chamber and threw open the shutter at the window. By leaning out at a dangerous angle he could just see the cook house and Branna, walking across the ward with her lantern held high. The candle’s dim glow wrapped her round like a cloak of gold, or so he saw it. In a few moments she came back out with the lantern in one hand and a bowl in the other. Neb waited till she’d gone inside and he could see her no longer before he left the window.

      That night he had another dream about the young woman called the most beautiful lass in all Deverry. Once again she was sitting in the rough, smoky great hall, and once again he heard a male voice speaking though he could see no one but the lass. This time the voice said, ‘You should have recognized her. You should have seen her for what she was.’

      Neb woke to find himself cold-sick and shaking. He lay in bed and listened to his heart pounding while he wondered if he had caught some fever, maybe the same one that had killed his mother. He felt cold, but the palms of his hands were sweaty, and he was gasping for breath. It took him some time to realize that rather than being ill, he was terrified. The dream and the voice lingered in his mind like an evil omen.

      Beside him, Clae slept in motionless peace. Neb slipped out of bed and walked to the window. Beyond it the Snowy Road of stars hung close and bright in the cloudless sky. The most beautiful lass in all Deverry. Who was she? Why do I think I know her? At last the strangest thought of all came to him: why am I so sure she’s dead? He could answer none of these questions, and soon he was tired enough to go back to bed and fall straight asleep.

      In the morning, as he was going down the staircase for breakfast, he saw Branna walking across the great hall. The words sounded in his mind again: you should have recognized her. The fear returned, one quick stab of it, like an icicle to the heart, then passed, leaving him bewildered.

      Gerran finished his breakfast porridge quickly, his mind full of his duties for the day. As he was heading out the door of the great hall, he met Lady Branna coming in. Technically, thanks to his fostering, she was his cousin. She’d been a frequent visitor to Cadryc’s old dun and demesne back to the east of this new rhan, but then she’d only been a shabby little child in the care of a servant. He’d hardly noticed her. The sight of her now, a young woman, bright and attractive, surprised him every time he saw her. When he started to bow, she laughed at him.

      ‘What?’ she said, grinning. ‘Am I such a fine lady now? Honestly, Gerro, after all these years!’

      ‘A very fine lady indeed,’ he said. ‘And a lovely one.’

      Branna blushed profoundly and hurried past him, heading for the staircase. Gerran glanced back to see Lady Galla standing halfway up the stairs and watching with a small smile. Rather than blush himself, he went outside to the safety of his men’s company. But as he jogged out to the stables, he was thinking of the truth of his remark. Little Branna had grown into a lovely lass indeed.

      ‘Well, you know, dear,’ Lady Galla said, ‘for a lass in your position, Gerran wouldn’t be a bad match. He’s our foster-son, after all, and your Uncle Cadryc favours him highly.’

      ‘So I’ve noticed, my lady.’

      ‘What do you think of him?’

      Branna ran her needle into the cloth and looked