With a wide, friendly smile, Caewen plonked herself down on the seat right next to Sgeirr. “Hello!” she said cheerily.
Sgeirr looked as if she had just seen a dog get up on its hind legs and perform a jig while reciting a line of poetry. She blinked a few times, apparently lost for words, then an angry cloud shadowed her face. Her teeth flashed white as she hissed, “Are you actually trying to get killed?” Her shocked expression did not pass. “Are you this impatient to die? I was planning to wait for you after the moot and slit your throat then, but I guess if you really want to die sooner, then so be it.”
“I am delighted to see you too, Sgeirr, Princess of the Modsarie.”
Sgeirr was immediately suspicious. “You are being polite.”
“Lady Sgeirr… is that the right term? Is it Lady Sgeirr, or Princess Sgeirr? Or something else?”
Sgeirr narrowed her eyes and looked down her nose, sniffing through her nostrils a little. She was quite clearly inclined to think that Caewen was making fun of her in some obscure way. “Lady Sgeirr will do.”
“Fine. Good. Look, I know we did not get off on the right foot–“
“The right foot? The right foot? You have a talent for understatement. I wasn’t joking when I said I was planning to find you, and kill you after the moot. I’m sure you had something to do with my retainers disappearing in the maze. I don’t know how you did it, but…” she drew her thumb over her throat.
“Yes, yes, as you say.”
Sgeirr really looked as if she thought Caewen had gone mad. “Now you’re being remarkably calm about my threat to end you. Have you been eating mushrooms, or smoking strange leaves? I do not know if you realise I am serious. I really am planning to kill you.”
“The way things have been running for me lately, you could form a guild.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, Sgeirr, can we talk?”
“We are talking. Despite my not wanting to. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call over the officiators of the moot and have you dragged away. These benches are for the lords and ladies of the night-people. You do not belong here. You are contravening the rules simply by being here.”
“Before you throw me out, hear me out. How many of the gift-takers of the night-folk are there left before you?”
“Two. Why?”
Looking around, Caewen wondered if there might yet be another option. “How many after?”
Sgeirr shifted and looked uncomfortable. “Just one.”
“Your people are not highly respected then, are you? The Dearg Modsarie are not much thought of by the other night-folk.” She said this as a statement rather than a question.
“I won’t just kill you in plain sight of the goddess, if that is your plan. I will not bring curses down on my head or my house.” After a momentary quizzical look, she said, “Is that your plan? Are you trying to goad me into killing you, and thus breaking the peace? For… for some reason.” Sgeirr shook her head. “You make little sense.”
Caewen could see few options. She needed Sgeirr, and somehow she needed to win this person over to her plan. “Alright. You’re not going to believe me, but let me finish before you call over some thugs to have me dragged away. You know about the murders at the moot?”
“Yes, but everyone knows that–“
Caewen frowned at her. “Stop. Sgeirr, just listen.” She sighed. “It’s Fafmuir. As I said, the long story is very complicated, but the short of it is that he’s gone mad and he has a plan to kill every last wizard, witch, sorcerer, apprentice and beer-seller at the moot.”
“But how could he–“
“Just. Listen. Are you listening?” Caewen felt herself getting a little cross now. “The long and the short of it are complicated, but the crux is that there is a little gold plate inside an ivory box, in there–” She pointed at the tent. “This plate and ivory box, are, hmm, you might say cursed–after a fashion.”
“Utter nonsense. All gifts are passed through the hands of witch-finders and hex-lifters. No accursed gift has ever made it to the table. People have tried, but secret curses are always found out.”
It’s not that sort of curse. It really is complicated. I can explain later, if you want me to, but the key thing is that we must get hold of the little gold plate, and the box, and get both as far from the moot as possible, as soon as possible.”
Sgeirr looked unimpressed. “So you want me to take the little gold plate and ivory box–as my kingdom’s only treasure won from this awful ceremony, and just give it to you?”
“No. I’ll trade. I’ll give you something much, much more powerful and valuable in return.”
“Really?”
Caewen nodded. “An actual, genuine Brazen Head. One of the last left in existence, or so I’m told. It’s worth a fortune and could make any petty kingdom into the seat of a grand crown to be reckoned with. All I want is the small gold plate and ivory box in return. Do that, and the Brazen Head is yours.”
Sgeirr blinked and shook her head. “First, I do not believe you. Second, if I did believe you, then surely this little gold plate must be worth more than a Brazen Head…. which means the little gold plate is something truly wondrous. Third, I’m still going to kill you the moment the moot is over.”
“Alright.” Caewen furrowed her brow and thought. “How can I convince you? Wait. I don’t know if I can convince you of the truth of the rest of it, but I can at least prove that there is something deeply amiss with Fafmuir, and he knows that I know that he knows… Oh, look. Just watch–” She got up, smiling, and as soon as there was a pause in the formal ceremony, she waved at Fafmuir, and called out across the crowd. “Hello, Fafmuir! How are you? Enjoying the night I hope! Wotcha!” And she sat down again with a thump, smiling.
Fafmuir’s eyes bulged to see her. His pallid face turned livid. It was as if a stain of sickly sugary red wine had spilled over cut chalk. He began to shake even more than he already was, and tried to stand, but couldn’t. He started to tremble all over, then collapsed back into his chair. He seemed to be trying to say something to those around him, but his words must have been so mangled and rasped that no one could understand him. A servant brought water, and the man next to him seemed genuinely worried, asking questions, but all Fafmuir could do was stare at Caewen and look enraged.
“All that proves,” said Sgeirr, “is that he despises you too. It’s not at all uncommon, I suspect.”
What else? How else? “Wait a moment!” She dug around in her satchel until her fingers closed on the threaded-together set of cold, smooth river-stones. “Here.” She held it up and looked through the central hole at Fafmuir. His flesh was slowly turning into living worms. The curse of the goddess was devouring him alive. She winced and looked away. But then she looked through the stone charm at the tent. She dimly heard Sgeirr say, “That’s a Truthful Stone. Where did you get a Truthful Stone from?”
“Cag-Mag gave it to me,” muttered Caewen.
“For what possible price? It is worth a fortune.” She sounded shocked.
Caewen looked at her. “Would it be worth more than a gold plate and ivory box?”
But Sgeirr shut her mouth to a thin line, then said, flatly, “No.”
Caewen peered through the stone at the tent again. Even on this side of the fabric, the presence within the tent was palpable. The dragon Aslaug was clearly both mentally and spiritually bonded to the small piece of his treasure within. Although it was only an echo of a semblance of a distant mind, the feeling of the presence was terrifying. A huge, fiery, shadowy thing that hated everything but itself and craved flesh and blood and gold in immeasurable quantities. It was the echo of a dragon’s mind curled up inside the tent, jealously coiled around its stolen treasure. And the sense of the actual dragon was getting stronger with every moment that Caewen looked through the stone.
Aslaug was so close now. It might only be minutes before he descended out of the black sky.
“Here,” she said, handing the stone charm to Sgierr. “If this doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.”