“I heard it, yes … but I didn’t catch one word in ten, bascha. His uplander is all twisty, and I don’t speak it that well anyway.”
Del frowned a little. “Mountain dialect; yes, it might be difficult for you. But that doesn’t excuse your rudeness—”
“—in not taking his story literally?” I shook my head. “I’m not here to waste my time on a storyteller’s fancy, Del. They’re all a bunch of liars anyway, if you ask me—spinning tales for coin when they should be spending their time doing real work. I mean, how hard is it to make up stories? And then to be paid for it—”
“Tiger.” Del’s tone cut me short. “We are not discussing skjalds, who hold high honor in the North—and how would you know if being a skjald is difficult or easy? What does a man who kills other men know of telling stories?”
I slanted her a glance. “Last time I looked, you carried your own share of death-dealing, Delilah.”
It shut her up for a moment. And then she looked at Halvar, who waited patiently, and managed a weak smile. But there was nothing weak about her tone of voice. “This man and his village have offered to pay us high honor, Sandtiger. You will listen to the song, and you will wait quietly for its conclusion, and then you will thank Halvar and everyone of Ysaa-den for their kindness and graciousness. Do you hear?”
“Of course,” I said, affronted. “What do you think I am, anyway? Some fool who fell off the goat wagon this morning?”
“No,” Del said coolly. “Some fool who fell off one thirty-eight or thirty-nine years ago and landed on his head.”
“Thirty-six!” I retorted, stung. And swore as she smiled sweetly and informed Halvar we would be very honored by the song.
At least, I think that’s what she said. You never can be too sure with uplander. It’s hilly as the North itself. But whatever it was she said pleased Halvar mightily; he called out something unintelligible—to me—and people scattered to lodges, returning moments later with skin drums, pipes, tambors, finger-bells, wooden sticks, and other things I didn’t recognize.
Musicians, obviously. The rest, who had only their voices, gathered children into laps or lovers into arms and prepared to make us a song.
The sun was gone, swallowed by the mountains. The dragon smoked sullenly in the dusk, emitting a faint red glow from deep in its “throat.” I scowled up at it, noting that darkness did not entirely alter its shape into a more sanguine beast, as expected—if anything, it looked more dragonlike than ever—and realized the odd smell remained. Much of it was covered by other aromas—roast pork, sour ale, unwashed bodies, babies who needed clean wrappings, animals too closely confined—but it remained underneath it all, drifting down from the dragon-shaped mountain to shroud Ysaa-den in a musty, malodorous pall.
Not woodsmoke. Woodsmoke has a clean, sweet scent, depending on the wood. And not dung smoke, either, goat, cow or otherwise—I have reason to know, having gathered dung in my days as a slave—which has a pungency all its own. This was different.
“Hounds,” I said sharply.
Halvar broke off his introduction to the song. Del looked at me crossly.
“Hounds,” I repeated, before she could say anything, or call me names again. “That’s what it smells like. Or, better yet, that’s what they smell like.” I lifted my chin in the mountain’s direction. “The smoke.”
Del frowned. “Eggs gone bad?” she suggested.
I considered it. “A little,” I agreed. Then, upon further reflection, “but more like rotting bodies.”
I said it quietly, so only Del could hear. It made her curt with me anyway. And then she turned from me to Halvar again. Pointedly, and told him to begin the long-delayed song.
He was more than ready. Trouble was, he needed one more thing from each of us. And asked it.
Del’s face changed. I saw the color go out of it, very slowly; how her eyes, equally slowly, dilated. She shook it off quickly enough, but the damage had been done. When she spoke to the headman it was in her clipped, sword-dancer’s tone of voice, all business, with little personality in it. I have heard her use it before. I had not expected her to use it with Halvar, whom she seemed to like.
I stirred within the folds of my cloak. “What?”
Del waved a hand at me, as if it would be enough.
“What?” I repeated, with a bit more emphasis. “There are two of us here, bascha—what did he ask?”
She shot me a deadly glance. “Names,” she answered curtly. “The names of living kin, so that should we fail tomorrow, and die, our kinfolk can be told. So funeral songs may be sung.”