In sight of Samarkarantha’s tent now, they could see that it was lit from within. The glow through the cream and light red-brown canvas made it stand out against its neighbours, which were all darkening as the dusk was coming down. Overhead, the sky was still full of a deep luminous light. A few tattered clouds caught the evening glow and were changed into pinks and golds by it. But beneath the sky, the world was slipping into the shadows of mid-evening.
“Someone’s home,” mused Caewen.
As they neared, they heard the murmur and lulls of a quiet conversation. Caewen recognised the voices.
“Keri! Keru!” She rushed forward, but slowed when Dapplegrim was forced to half-stagger and half-trot to keep up. The unbalanced weight lashed to his back was making him ungainly.
The brother and sister looked over, perplexed looks on their faces. Keru still had a bit of an unwell cast to his face, and he stood slowly and stiffly. His sister was quicker to jump up. Her expression was much more relaxed than when last Caewen had seen them both. She was smiling broadly.
It seemed that they had both been sitting at the low table that Samarkarantha used each morning for breakfast. Keru had been half-heartedly toying with his short fighting spear while seated, or perhaps he had simply been keeping it handy as a makeshift walking staff. He was certainly leaning on it now.
“Caewen!” they both called back to her, their voices chiming together.
“We were worried,” said Keri. She rushed forward and gave Caewen an unexpected hug.
“Oh, I’m fine. We’re fine.” Caewen disintangled herself, and said, “But we have to unload this thing, and then get to the gifting feast as soon as possible.”
“Alright,” replied Keri, eyeing the heap of blanket and rope. “What is it?”
“Something for trade. Look, it’s complicated. We really don’t have a lot time.”
“Well,” muttered Dapple, “If you hadn’t wasted time with the Nibelungs.”
Caewen rolled her eyes. “I’ll explain it as quick as I can. First, let’s get this down and into the tent.”
Keru and Keri started to help get the bundle down off Dapple’s back.
“Oof,” said Keru. “Heavy.”
As they hauled the package down, Dapplegrim flicked his ears and twisted his head to watch. “You know, you probably want to put some brazier coals in it to warm it up. It’s a half-living thing. Hur. Hur. Hurm. If it is cold for too long, it’ll die and not be of any use to anyone.”
“Thanks,” said Caewen, puffing.
With a heave, the three of them carried the package inside the tent and eased it down.
“What is it?” asked Keru. He stretched his spine by arching backwards a little. “It’s as heavy as twelve lead bricks.”
Caewen was already unwrapping it. As she pulled the dusty smelling blanket off, a shocked gasp came from the darkness of the tent. Caewen looked up. A shadow that had been lying on cushions deeper in the tent got to her feet, wobbled, but then managed to walk forward. It was Pel. She had a heavy quilt wrapped around her shoulders, and her gold skin was still bloodless to the point of being the colour of dead lake reeds. “That is an Oracle of the Flames. A Bronze Head! How did you–? There are only a handful–? Did you steal it?”
Keru crossed her arms. “Look here, whatever this is, I’m sure Caewen hasn’t simply lifted it out of someone’s tent. That’s not at all a nice–
“Um, actually, we did,” confessed Caewen. “But, in fairness, the previous owner tried to murder me and Dapple first, and then he just wandered off and left us in the tent alone with the oracle. I mean… I don’t think he was worried about ownership at that point. Bigger things on his mind.”
“Who?” said the others, more or less in unison.
“Alright. This is where things will get strange. It’s Fafmuir. He’s at the root of all the murders and goings-on in the moot. He’s been looking into his brazen head, here. He saw visions of an army pouring out of the north, a hundred-thousand servants and soldiers of the Winter King. And he foresaw that the Winter King would be here, at the moot, in disguise… hidden. So, Fafmuir set a trap. He knows he can’t hunt out the Winter King, exactly. So instead, he’s planning to kill everyone at the moot. It’s a desperate bid to destroy the Winter King, by killing everyone.” She shrugged. “It’s madness, but there is a sort of righteousness too, I suppose. He thinks he can avert another great war.”
“Kill everyone?” said Keru.
Pel shook her head. “Thousands of magicians? Really? Really?“
“How?” said Keri, not sounding overly convinced.
Dapplegrim was clearly listening outside. His muffled voice piped up, “Death by dragon.”
“Yes, well. Dapple is right. Fafmuir has set up a lure for Aslaug the great-dragon. The only thing that might, just might, stop this is if I can fetch hold of a small gold plate in the tent of gifts. It’s a stolen piece of Aslaug’s treasure heap. But if I can get it, and carry it away from the moot in time, then maybe Aslaug will follow me, and be happy to take his stolen treasure.” Caewen realised that she didn’t sound very convinced of herself, either. “Maybe he’s just go home.”
“Not likely,” said Pel. “If what you say is true, and I’m not saying I believe you–because, frankly, it’s all quite implausible–but if it were true, then, no. Dragons are vengeful. They are not exactly known for being forgiving creatures. At the very least, if the dragon finds you with this golden plate, then you will most certainly die. And probably everyone for a dozen miles around, too.”
“But,” now Keru was looking at the oracle, “I don’t understand. Then why did you steal the oracle?”
“To trade it with whoever has the plate. Or offer to trade it with someone, if the plate hasn’t been taken from the pile of treasures yet.”
“Oh, I see.” Keru mused on this. “Yeah. That kind of makes sense.”
“First,” said Pel, “No one is going to believe that you have an actual Bronze Head. Second, if they are convinced, then they will also be convinced that the gold plate must be worth much, much more than it seems on the surface. After all, if you are offering to trade a Oracle of the Fires for it, then it must be worth a truly inconceivable price. They’ll think this plate is more than it seems. They will refuse to part with it. Magicians are a suspicious lot, and doubly so at the moot.”
“I can only try.”
They all looked at the head in silence.
Eventually Keri said, “I’ll put some coals into the basin. Like Dapplegrim said, we don’t want it freezing and dying.”
“Thank you.” As Caewen turned to leave, she said, “Oh, and, I probably wouldn’t go looking into the flames once it is up and burning. It’s not pleasant.”
“How would you know?” asked Pel, pointedly.
Caewen gave her a look.
“Oh. Really? I mean, really? But, that would have taken a great and focused will. You should be a babbling wreck.”
A shrug. “And yet I am not. Go figure.” She left the tent. Behind her, the three of them were talking softly among themselves. Dapplegrim was waiting, restless, outside.
“Well?” he said.
“You’re tremendously good hearing. Surely you heard everything. I know you heard some of it, at least.”
“Well, yes, of course I heard it all. But it’s still polite to pretend not to have been eavesdropping on the whole chit-chat. Shall we go to the feast of the giving of gifts, then? Hurm.”
“Yes, let’s.”
The sky was darker now. A handful of the very brightest stars were peeking into view. The air felt eerily calm, and somehow warmer than it ought as well.
“Can you smell the dragon too?” asked Caewen, just casting around for conversation as they walked.
“Yes. Now that I know what it is to sniff for. It’s a dry, shed-skin, reptile sort of smell. The same as the smell on the gold saucer. Not unpleasant, I suppose. Hurm. Just, well, reptilian.”
“Is it getting closer?”
He snuffed at the air. “Yes.” After a moment, he said, “You know, Sgeirr will be hard to bargain with. Even if you hadn’t, hurm, got on the wrong side of her.”
“Got on the wrong side of her?” Caewen laughed softly. “That’s an under-statement.”
“You know what I mean. Even if she didn’t have good reasons to want you dead, she won’t barter away her gift easily. It would be better to find someone else to bargain with. Sgeirr’s position is delicate. It’ll make her overly worried about being made to look like a imbecile.”
“How so?”
“The Modsarie only allow a female claimant to the throne if there are absolutely no rightful male heirs. If her father has a son, her claim will be annulled. Hur. Even if a new male cousin arrives, she might lose the throne. She will be afraid that you are trying to make a fool of her in front of her retainers and thanes. She won’t trust you.”
“And I don’t trust her. We’re pretty much even on that count.”
“No. You don’t understand. The Modsarie get angry about being made fun of. I mean, much more angry about than most. They think everyone else sees them as backwards and superstitious and just plain strange. They’re right, of course. Hur. Everyone does think that, but it makes them edgy, all the same.”
“Surely no more than most.”
“Huuurm. Well, just don’t mention horse soup.”
“Why would I mention horse soup. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know why you would, hurm, hur, but you’ve a habit of finding the worst thing to say sometimes. So, just don’t.”
“Alright. Sure. No horse soup.”
They walked on quietly for a while.”
“What about pony soup?”
“Caewen.” His voice growled.
“Yes, yes. Just having fun.” She smiled. “Donkey soup?”