Banning overrode his protest with ruthless logic. If the farmer we borrowed this sorry nag from comes looking, he could make things difficult, even without the proof of a branding mark. I will not risk drawing attention in such a fashion! When we need another animal, we will buy it. And don't fret about money, I'll help you earn more cash than you've ever dreamed of owning. Just sell the damned beast and be quick about it!
Within half an hour, he'd sold the horse for a good price, which left Lailoken's purse delightfully heavy with gold. At Banning's insistence, he scrubbed himself off at a horse trough behind a stable. I can't bear the smell of your pits, Banning growled, and I'll not spend another moment with greasy hair and dirt three centimeters thick where you've not washed the filth off for a month, at least. And buy new clothing, the rags you're wearing now are fit for nothing but burning. Do you think we can win a place in the royal household, where the decisions will be made that affect our goals, stinking worse than a pigsty?
Deeply chastened by the rebuke and mortified to his toes to be found wanting by his supernatural visitor—he didn't even dare to ask what a "centimeter" was—Lailoken bought a cake of soap, a new pair of boots and fine new clothing, even a warm woolen cloak to replace his tattered and much-mended one. Having cleansed himself in ritual appeasement, Lailoken emerged from the alley behind the stable as a man transformed, clad in the thickest woolen trousers he had ever owned, a beautiful yellow linen tunic worn under a crimson one of embroidered wool.
Strong leather lacings bound warm boots to his calves. He fastened the new cloak with a silver penannular cloak pin which his fingers kept drifting up to caress possessively. A new rucksack held his belongings—harp, flute, their protective sealskin cases, more new clothing—and he wore a long, heavy-bladed scramasax and sheath, hung from a thick and sturdy new belt with a silver buckle, its chased designs matching the cloak pin. The scramasax hilt and sheath might have been heartlessly plain by most standards, but Lailoken had never owned anything so fine.
He even bought a felted wool hat, a well-made Phrygian-style cap that he could pull down over his ears to keep them warm. His old clothing he gave to a one-legged old beggar sitting outside the gates of the massive legionary fortress, whose walls dominated the town.
Lailoken followed his nose to the nearest public taverna to fill his empty belly and proceeded to polish off an entire roasted chicken, a heaping plateful of cooked parsnips and beans, half a loaf of bread, and a thick hunk of cheese, washed down with several mugs of mead. The taverna was crowded with off-duty soldiers from the fortress, whose voices roared like summer thunder and echoed off the ceiling beams. Laughter, ribald jokes, and stories of dubious veracity extolling the teller's great prowess in bed or in battle were shouted across the scarred wooden tables while cheap alcohol flowed like the tide.
A couple of women with brazen smiles and low-cut, tightly-cinched gowns, carried trenchers full of hot food and wooden pitchers full of mead, ale, and cheap wine, undulating their way between the tables, leaning over the customers' shoulders to fill plates and mugs, and laughing at the rough groping hands, lewd stares, and monetarily beneficial transactions proposed at least twice a minute. Lailoken had no desire to follow where doubtless several hundred men had plowed before, so he merely grunted at the suggestive postures and smiles, ordered more food, and watched narrowly as the occasional minstrel wandered in, broke into song, and was hooted, shouted, and drowned out by men who fancied themselves singers but could have claimed better kinship with a marshful of croaking frogs.
He found the tavern keeper and arranged to buy a room for the night, then sought out the other minstrels, pulling out his flute and joining in the lively jig that rollicked its way across the shouting, seething mass of drunken soldiers. Between songs, he asked after business and found, to both his and Banning's intense delight, that his newfound compatriots frequently provided music for Rheged's royal villa, playing not only for King Meirchion and Queen Thaney, but also for Artorius, the Dux Bellorum, and his favorite officers.
An hour's investment of flattery, of playing in a group with flute and harp, and of half a dozen or so rounds of mead paid for out of Lailoken's funds, won an invitation to play as a member of their troupe for as long as he planned to remain at Caerleul. He accepted graciously, paid for another round of drinks, and launched into a comical series of songs that had the nearest soldiers roaring and slapping the table in appreciation. Lailoken tossed his new hat onto the floor in front of him, brim up, and grinned as coins came pelting his way, along with roared requests for bawdy favorites.
It was nearly midnight before the last of the soldiers finally staggered out into the night, leaving the tavern keeper to lock his shutters and the minstrels to case their instruments and drift off to their rented beds. Lailoken poured a surprising number of coins from his hat, delighted at the jingle they made when he added them to the balance of his horse-sale money.
All he had to do now was set in motion Banning's plans.
I shall want a large and private workroom somewhere in the town, Banning mused, a place we can work undisturbed.
How am I to pay for such a room? Lailoken frowned. The gold from our stolen horse will not last forever, and prices always rise when there is talk of war. I cannot earn enough playing and singing to pay for more than a few nights' lodging or a few meals.
Banning chuckled. Leave that to me. Britons enjoy gambling, don't they?
We're Britons, are we not? Lailoken responded with stung pride. Throwing the dice is a most popular sport, has been ever since the legions brought the game from Rome. Lailoken's frown faded as he saw the possibilities. A pair of dice and a board on which to properly toss them shouldn't cost too much, unless you've set your heart on some fancy thing inlaid with silver and fashioned from imported ivory from Africa or jade from Constantinople.
A humble board will do, Banning mused, but we must secure a good set of dice. Ivory would be best, as it's easier to make alterations that are less readily detected than with sets made of stone or wood.
Alterations? Lailoken blinked. What do you mean, alterations? Do you plan to cheat?
Banning roared with laughter. Oh, that is priceless, and you a man who's stolen three horses in as many days! You didn't think I would walk into a game and play fairly? Not when we require a large stockpile of money, as quickly as we can lay hands on it? Bah, what do I care if some wealthy Briton nobleman loses a portion of his fortune to us? Or a soldier, for that matter, when his gold is destined to help you and me destroy enemies he will therefore never have to fight with sword and spear? Think of it as a tax they don't know they're paying, to levy troops they don't realize they're supporting. Believe me, when the blow is struck, all of Britain will be in awe of what you and I accomplish.
Lailoken couldn't imagine how cheating a few rich men at dice would enable him to destroy the Irish, but he had absolute faith in his personal god. Banning was a being of fire and awesome knowledge and knew so many secrets of power, the memories they shared left him dizzy and shaking with wondrous terror. If Banning said he needed ivory dice to destroy their enemies, then Lailoken would get them, whatever the cost.
Vengeance, after all, was worth no less.
Chapter Seven
Dragging himself into the saddle was harder than it had been the first time. They set out in total darkness, a clattering mass of heavy cavalry, and rode without stop through the night. It was well past sunup when a landmark Stirling would've known anywhere rose out of the smothering downpour: a long, cat's-claw glint of silvery-grey water and rising high above that, the immense volcanic plug known in his day as Dumbarton Rock. Mary Queen of Scots had taken refuge there as a child, before being smuggled to France at the age of five. He had no idea how many successive fortresses had been built atop that craggy high ground, but there was no question about where Artorius was headed: Caer-Brithon, home of the kings of Strathclyde, the latest of whom rode strapped to a pack horse, colder and stiffer than Stirling's aching body.