The Dragon Lord by Peter Morwood Page A

spies.”
    Strange that she could not trust the explanation to Jouvaine, for all that they had spoken it comfortably up until now. Or maybe not so strange at all. In a strange country, inhabited by strange people, the strange becomes ordinary. Or at least acceptable. Without doubt he had found that to be true, in the Jevaiden at least.
    “Why,” she asked softly, as if the answer was obvious, “do you think that your bedroom door was locked?”
    Aldric blinked once. He had planned to spring just that very question on
her
and glean what he could from the expression it provoked. But not now; indeed, it required an effort of his own will and facial muscles to prevent the position from being reversed. “To keep me from running away?” he hazarded flippantly.
    The woman stared at him: Was that contempt he saw in her eyes, or was he just imagining it? “No.” the denial was flat and toneless, “It was to keep everyone else out. Otherwise… Oh, Father of Fires, I don’t know. Call it too much caution and let it go.”
    “Understood,” Aldric lied, very reluctant to let it go at all. “Now. To stretch my legs and check my horses. The harbor?”
    “Of course.” She turned to leave, then hesitated and swung back with one hand extended. There was something nestling on the proffered palm, a thing of looped steel and silver, partially wrapped in snow-white buckskin.
    The spellstone of Echainon.
    And Aldric’s heart came crawling crookedly back up his throat.
    “This is yours. I kept it safe—as I would with anything belonging to a
guest”
Aldric thought privately that she came down over-heavily on that last word, but passed no remark. “It’s a beautiful gem.”
    Gem?
    She had called it nothing more; the meaning of the Jouvaine word was plain enough. So the stone had somehow kept its own secret, concealed the eldritch blue glow which would have marked it as much, much more than just a gemstone. Even though he couldn’t fathom how or why. Aldric’s mind worked rapidly to make his position more secure, to explain away what she might have read from his eyes.
    “Not even a gem, lady. Just semiprecious quartz, without intrinsic value even if it is a pretty thing. Of course, it
is
very old and there are those who would set a price on that.”
    The glibness with which the lies came to his tongue unsettled him. Almost as if someone—maybe the stone itself, for all he knew—was prompting him and guiding his reasoning for its own protection.
    “But it’s an heirloom of my family, nobody else’s. I inherited it—”
    Or stole it? The conjecture in her eyes was plain enough.
    “And though nobody else might, yet I consider it to have some small worth.”
    His fingertips closed on the talisman, pincering it neatly off her hand and confirming repossession even as he bowed courteously to her. This time there was no suggestion of any insult; there was nothing insulting about a formal Alban Third Obeisance, even this abbreviated version. But the bow gave him opportunity to relax the muscles of his face, which felt as if they were cramping permanently into an expression of careful neutrality. Only the palms of his hands might have betrayed him with their light film of sweat, but the shaking of hands was Gemmel’s custom, not his. “I thank you, lady.”
    The meaning of his hesitation was obvious enough. “Call me Kathur, Alban. Everyone does.”
    “Apt enough,” said Aldric, allowing himself to smile. “Kourgath-eijo, of… south and west of here.” Now it was Kathur’s turn to smile at his small double witticism, both of them content with their exchange of lies. He had told her only that he was named for the lynx-cat on his heavy silver collar, and anyone with wit would realize that this was no more than a nickname; south and west took in a sizable slice of the Empire, as well as Vreijaur and the independent city states of Jouvann. An answer, in truth, that answered nothing.
    Her reply had been as vague, thought Aldric