CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“C’MON, it will do us good,” Tristan urged. “It will do me good, anyway. I’ve been on my best behavior through four days of talks. The strain is starting to tell.”

The two women looked skeptical. Gabrielle had been shaken to hear of the events that had brought Rosalie to Gaudette, but glad of her company over the last few days. By the time the talks had started a few days after their arrival, Gabrielle had been well enough to leave the little clinic (against the Maronnais bonemender’s finger-wagging advice) and share Rosalie’s room in Castle Drolet. Though so different in personality, they had quickly become fast friends. Now they smirked at each other.

“What?” demanded Tristan, mock-wounded. “What’re those faces for?”

“Oh, Tristan, honey,” said Rosalie demurely, “it’s just, you know, forgive me, but I’m having trouble actually picturing you on good behavior.”

“It’s true, though,” said Féolan. “His conduct was exemplary and contributed greatly to a successful outcome.”

“There—you see!” crowed Tristan. “A commendation from the director!” As a distinguished participant who was not directly negotiating, Féolan had been accepted by all as director of the meetings, and Danaïs had been persuaded to stay on and take his place as translator for the Elvish Council. Gabrielle gathered the directorship had been taxing work; Féolan had stopped in on the first evening and collapsed into her chair, proclaiming, “It would be easier to beat them all into silence with the flat of my sword than persuade them to wait their turn!”

“So—how about it? The musicians are said to be the best in the northland. And who knows when we will all be together again?” Tristan looked around the dinner table. There was a hesitant pause.

“Tristan, I’m not sure Gabrielle is up to it,” said Féolan.

“Is that what everyone is hemming and hawing about?” said Gabrielle. “I’m fine. I’m almost entirely better and so well rested I’m half-crazy from it. I vote to go!”

“Where’s Derkh?” asked Tristan. “He must come too.”

“Roaming the city again.” Gabrielle had been glad to see Derkh take to the streets of Gaudette—another sign of his growing confidence. “He’s been out walking every afternoon. He said he’d be back for dinner, though.”

Sure enough, Derkh hurried over and took his place minutes later. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. His normally pale cheeks were pink with exertion, his expression eager. “You’ll never guess what I just heard.”

They all waited while Derkh loaded up his plate with mounds of roast mutton and potatoes.

“Ahh, you make me feel old, Derkh,” said Tristan. “I remember when I could eat like that. Now,” he said, waving at his only slightly more modest dinner, “I’m past my prime.”

Derkh grinned and forked an entire potato into his mouth. Gabrielle was quietly delighted by his bad manners. He had changed. Not long ago such a jest would have made him duck his head in silent embarrassment. Terrible though his experience in the mountains had been, it had somehow done him good.

“So? What did you hear?” prompted Rosalie.

Derkh swallowed painfully, then grabbed for his glass and washed down the huge mouthful with a gulp of wine. “I was down past the market area—there are streets there where the different tradesmen have their workshops and such. And I heard these men talking with an accent—my accent! They were Greffaires, I’m sure of it! Right in the streets of Gaudette!”

He sounded positively indignant, Gabrielle thought. Certainly he was baffled at the calm way his news was received.

“Well? Shouldn’t we report it or something?” he persisted.

“Um, Derkh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” observed Tristan, “but you are a Greffaire, and you were in the streets of Gaudette as well. Should we report you?”

“Yeah, but I...” He stopped, wrinkling his forehead in the effort to explain. “You know what I’m doing here. So does King Drolet. But what are they doing here?”

“Quite a number of Greffaires have settled in the north of La Maronne, as I understand,” remarked Féolan. “We have heard of some near Stonewater, in Loutre and in the sheep country south of Otter Lake. I am not surprised some have come to Gaudette.”

Derkh’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me these are the soldiers who deserted at the invasion? They’ve settled here, just like that?”

“Not ‘just like that,’ exactly,” corrected Tristan. “I got talking with one of the Maronnais councilors about it over lunch one day. Apparently there was some trouble at first; the Greffaire men hid in the bush and stole from nearby farms to feed themselves. When sheep started to go missing, things nearly got ugly—there was talk of rounding them up.”

“Why didn’t they?” asked Derkh. Gabrielle understood there was more than curiosity behind the question. His dinner momentarily forgotten, Derkh bristled with intent. His alert posture reminded Gabrielle of a hound straining after a stray scent.

“La Maronne is the most sparsely populated country in the Krylian Basin,” explained Tristan, “and spring is a very busy season. A shepherd went after a ewe that had strayed and found her in the hands of a Greffaire ‘outlaw.’ She was lambing early, and he was attending to her with some skill. The shepherd persuaded the man to come home with him, fed him and put him to work with the shearing and lambing.

“It didn’t take long for word to get out that the Greffaires were willing workers, and on the other side that Maronnais farmers had little interest in the politics of war.”

“They may have to go farther afield to find work come winter, when things slow down,” added Féolan. “But for now, they seem to be faring well enough.”

“And now,” said Tristan, putting down his own glass with a flourish, “we have news for you.”

“You mean more news. I had no idea about those men.” Derkh’s expression became vague as he contemplated what he had learned. His eyes, gleaming black in the candlelight, snapped back into focus at Tristan’s impatient harrumph. “Sorry, what is it?”

“We’re going out tonight.”

“Out where?” asked Derkh, still not following.

“Out carousing, my lad. Out on the town. Out drinking, to be precise.”