Rhodry Maelwaedd, Gwerbret Aberwyn, was an honest, fair-minded man, somewhat more civilized than most of his kind. Londalo was pleased to notice that the courtyards were reasonably clean, the servants wore decent clothing, and the corpses of hanged criminals were nowhere in sight. At the door of the tallest tower, the broch proper, the aged chamberlain was waiting to greet them. In a hurried whisper Londalo reminded Harmon that a gwerbret’s servitors were all noble-born.
‘So mind your manners. No giving orders, and always say thank you when they do something for you.’
The chamberlain ushered them into a vast round room, carpeted with braided rushes and set about with long wooden tables, where at least a hundred men, all of them armed with knife and sword both, were drinking ale and nibbling on chunks of bread, while servant girls wandered around, gossiping or trading smart remarks with the men more than working. Near a carved sandstone hearth to one side, one finer table stood alone, made of ebony and polished to a shine, the gwerbret’s place of honour. Londalo was well pleased when the chamberlain seated them there and had a boy bring their ale in actual glass stoups. Londalo was also pleased to see that the tapestry he’d sent ahead as a gift was hanging on the wall near the enormous fireplace. As he absently fingered the hilt of the silver dagger, he realized that his strange anxiety had left him. Harmon, however, was nervous, glancing continually at the mob of armed men across the hall.
‘Now, now,’ Londalo whispered. ‘The rulers here do keep their men in hand, and besides, everyone honours a guest. No one’s going to kill you on the spot.’
Harmon forced out a smile, had a sip of ale, and nearly choked on the bitter, stinking stuff. Like the true merchant he was, however, he covered over his distaste with a cough and forced himself to try again. In a few minutes, two young men strode into the hall. Since their baggy trousers were woven from one of the garish plaids that marked a Deverry noble, and since the entire warband rose to bow to them, Londalo assumed that they were a pair of the gwerbret’s sons. They looked much alike, with wavy raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes. By barbarian standards they were both handsome men, Londalo supposed, but he was worried about more than their appearance.
‘By the Great Wave-father himself! I was told that there was only one son visiting here! We’ll have to do something about getting a gift for the other, no matter what the cost.’
The chamberlain bustled over, motioning for them to rise, so they’d be ready to kneel at the proper moment. Having to kneel to the so-called noble-born vexed Londalo, who was used to voting his rulers into office and voting them out again, too, if they didn’t measure up to his standards. As one of the young men strolled over, the chamberlain cleared his throat.
‘Rhodry, Gwerbret Aberwyn, the Maelwaedd, and his son.’
In his confusion, Londalo almost forgot to kneel. Why, this lord could be no more than twenty-five at most! Mentally he cursed the merchant guild for giving him such faulty information for this important mission.
‘We are honoured to be in your presence, great lord, but you must forgive our intrusion in what must be a time of mourning.’
‘Mourning?’ The gwerbret frowned, puzzled.
‘Well, when we set sail for your most esteemed country, Your Grace, your father was still alive, or so I was told, the elder Rhodry of Aberwyn.’
The gwerbret burst out laughing, waving for them to rise and take their seats again.
‘I take it you’ve never seen me before, good merchant. I’ve ruled here for thirty years, and I’m four and fifty years old. I’m not having a jest on you, either.’ Absently, he looked away, and suddenly his eyes turned dark with a peculiar sadness. ‘Oh, no jest at all.’
Londalo forgot his protocol enough to stare. Not a trace of grey in the gwerbret’s hair, not one true line in his face – how could he be a man of fifty-four, old back home, ancient indeed for a barbarian warrior? Then the gwerbret turned back to him with a sunny smile.
‘But that’s of no consequence. What brings you to me, good sir?’
Londalo cleared his throat to prepare for the important matter of trading Eldidd grain for Bardekian luxuries. Just as he was about to speak, Rhodry leaned forward to stare.
‘By the gods, is that a silver dagger you’re carrying? It looks like the usual knobbed pommel.’
‘Well, it is, Your Grace.’ Mentally Londalo cursed himself all over again for bringing the wretched thing along. ‘I bought it in the islands many years ago, you see, and I keep it with me because … well, it’s rather a long story …’
‘In the islands? May I see it, good merchant, if it’s not too much trouble?’
‘Why, no trouble at all, Your Grace.’
Rhodry took it, stared for a long moment at the falcon device engraved on the blade, and burst out laughing.
‘Do you realize that this used to be mine? Years and years ago? It was stolen from me when I was in the islands.’
‘What? Really? Why, then, Your Grace absolutely must have it back! I insist, truly, I do.’
Later that afternoon, once the treaty was signed and merchant on his way, the great hall of Aberwyn fell quiet as the warband went off to exercise their horses. Although normally Rhodry would have gone with them, he lingered at the table of honour and considered the odd twist of luck, the strange coincidence, as he thought of it, that had brought his silver dagger home to him. A few serving lasses wandered around, wiping down tables with rags; a few stablehands sat near the open door and diced for coppers; a few dogs lay in the straw on the floor and snored. In a while, his eldest son came down to join him. It was hard to believe that the lad was fully grown, with two sons of his own now and the Dun Gwerbyn demesne in his hands. Rhodry could remember how happy he’d been when his first heir was born, how much he’d loved the little lad, and how much Cullyn had loved him. It hurt, now, thinking that his first-born was beginning to hate him, and all because his father refused to age and die. Not that Cullyn ever said a word, mind; it was just that a coolness was growing between them, and every now and then, Rhodry would catch him staring at the various symbols of the gwerbretal rank, the dragon banner, the ceremonial sword of justice, with a wondering sort of greed. Finally, Rhodry could stand the silence no longer.
‘Things are quiet in the tierynrhyn, then?’
‘They are, father. That’s why I thought I’d ride your way for a visit.’
Rhodry smiled and wondered if he’d come in hopes of finding him ill. He was an ambitious man, Cullyn was, because Rhodry had raised him to be so, had trained him from the time he could talk to rule the vast gwerbretrhyn of Aberwyn and to use well the riches that the growing trade with Bardek brought it. He himself had inherited the rhan half by accident, and he could remember all too well his panicked feeling of drowning in details during the first year of his rule to allow his son to go uneducated.
‘That’s an odd thing, Da, that dagger coming home.’
‘It was, truly.’ Rhodry picked it up off the table and handed it to him. ‘See the falcon on the blade? That’s the device of the man you were named for.’
‘That’s right – he told me the story. Of how he was a silver dagger once, I mean. Ye gods, I still miss Cullyn of Cerrmor, and here he’s been dead many a long year now.’
‘I miss him too, truly. You know, I think I’ll carry this
