The Gold Falcon. Katharine Kerr

he dead?’ Salamander said.

      The gnome nodded yes, then disappeared.

      ‘Ye gods!’ Neb could hear how feeble his own voice sounded. ‘I always thought of them like little pet birds or puppies. Sweet little creatures, that is.’

      ‘Never ever make that mistake again! They’re not called the Wildfolk for naught.’

      ‘I won’t, I can promise you that!’ Neb paused, struck by his sudden thought. ‘They saved our lives. If that Horsekin had got up to the top of the cliff …’ His voice deserted him.

      ‘He would have found you, truly. They have noses as keen as dogs’.’

      ‘Well, that’s one up for Clae, then. He told me that. But sir, the Wildfolk – what are they?’

      ‘Sir, am I?’ Salamander grinned at him. ‘No need for courtesies, lad. You have the same odd gift that I do, after all. As to what they are, do you know what an elemental spirit is?’

      ‘I don’t. I mean, everyone knows what spirits are, but I’ve not heard the word elemental before.’

      ‘Well, it’s a long thing to explain, but –’ Salamander stopped abruptly.

      With a whimper Clae woke and sat up, stretching his arms over his head. Conversation about the Wildfolk would have to wait. Salamander flipped the griddle cake over with the handle of the spoon before he spoke again.

      ‘May the Horsekins’ hairy balls freeze off when they sink to the lowest hell,’ Salamander said. ‘But I don’t want to wait that long for justice. Allow me to offer you lads my protection, such as it is. I’ll escort you east, where we shall find both safety and revenge.’

      ‘My thanks! I’m truly grateful.’

      Salamander smiled, and at that moment he looked young again, barely a twenty’s worth of years.

      ‘But sir?’ Clae said with a yawn. ‘Who are you? What are you really?’

      ‘Really?’ Salamander raised one pale eyebrow. ‘Well, lad, when it comes to me, there’s no such thing as really, because I’m a mountebank, a travelling minstrel, a storyteller, who deals in nothing but lies, jests, and the most blatant illusions. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, who wanders around parting honest folk from their coin in return for a few brief hours in the land of never-was, never-will-be. I can also juggle, make scarves appear out of thin air, and once, in my greatest moment, I plucked a sparrow out of the hat of a fat merchant.’

      Clae giggled and sat up a bit straighter.

      ‘Later,’ Salamander went on, ‘after I’ve eaten, I shall tell you a story that will drive all thoughts of those cursed raiders out of your head, so that you may go to sleep when your most esteemed brother tells you to. I’m very good at driving away evil thoughts.’

      ‘My thanks,’ Neb said. ‘Truly, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all of this.’

      ‘No payment needed.’ Salamander made a little bob of a bow. ‘Why should I ask for payment, when I never do an honest day’s work?’

      Just as twilight was darkening into night, Salamander built up the fire and settled in to tell the promised story, which fascinated Neb as much as it did young Clae. Salamander swept them away to a far-off land where great sorcerers fought with greedy dragons over treasure, then told them of a prince who was questing for a gem that had magic, or dweomer, as Salamander called it. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for the beautiful princess, snarling for the evil sorcerer, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then, he sang a song as part of the tale, his beautiful voice harmonizing with the wind in the trees. By the time the stone was found, and the prince and princess safely married, Clae was smiling.

      ‘Oh, I want there to be real dweomer gems,’ Clae said. ‘And real dweomermasters, too.’

      ‘Do you now?’ Salamander gave him a grin. ‘Well, you never know, lad. You think about it when you’re falling asleep.’

      Neb found a soft spot in the grass for his brother’s bed. He wrapped Clae up in one of the gerthddyn’s blankets and stayed with him until he was safely asleep, then rejoined Salamander at the fire.

      ‘A thousand thanks for amusing my brother,’ Neb said. ‘I’d gladly shower you with gold if I had any.’

      ‘I only wish it were so easy to soothe your heart,’ Salamander said.

      ‘Well, good sir, that will take some doing, truly. First we lost our hearth kin, and now our uncle. It was all so horrible at first, it had me thinking we’d escaped the raiders only to live like beggars in the streets.’

      ‘Now here, the folk in this part of the world aren’t so hard-hearted that they’ll let you starve. One way or another, we’ll find some provision for you and the lad.’

      ‘If I can get back to Trev Hael, I can make my own provision. After all, I can read and write. If naught else I can become a town letter-writer and earn our keep that way.’

      ‘Well, there you go! It’s a valuable skill to have.’ Salamander hesitated on the edge of a smile. ‘Provided that’s the craft you want to follow.’

      ‘Well, I don’t know aught else but writing and suchlike. I’m not strong enough to join a warband, and I wouldn’t want to weave or suchlike, so I don’t know what other craft there’d be for me.’

      ‘You don’t, eh? Well, scribing is an honourable sort of work, and there’s not many who can do it out here in Arcodd.’

      Neb considered Salamander for a moment. In the dancing firelight it was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn that the gerthddyn was struggling to keep from laughing.

      ‘Or what about herbcraft?’ Salamander went on. ‘Have you ever thought of trying your hand at that?’

      ‘I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humours and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?’

      ‘It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.’

      ‘She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you –’

      ‘Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.’

      Salamander was hiding something – Neb was sure of it – but probing for it might insult their benefactor. ‘Govylla, her name was,’ Neb went on. ‘She lived through the plague. Huh – I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were travelling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.’

      ‘And some might well be travelling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been travelling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honourable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire indeed.’

      As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man, cold, ruthless and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and began singing about lasses and spring flowers.

      Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would