The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(20)

“I must have been mad.”

Doghail only grinned at him and walked away. Acair considered what he was holding in his hand and shook his head in disbelief. He was well-versed in all the different coinages of the world at large and he preferred Nerochian strike simply because those lads were congenitally incapable of deceit and could be counted on to always mix the full complement of whatever metal the coins boasted. He used other coins when discretion called for it, but he had to admit he had never imagined that the mint at Tosan could produce coins that had so little value. Hardly worth the trouble of pounding some random lord’s visage into them.

Well, if there were a decent pub in town, it would be the beneficiary of his largesse. Anything to get away from the swill he’d been imbibing for the previous several days.

His father would have been absolutely appalled by what he’d been reduced to, which was reason enough not to enlighten the old whoreson. He also would never divulge the same to any of his brothers. They would never recover from their laughter at his expense.

He heaved himself to his feet, groaned because he couldn’t stop himself from it, then stretched his abused back until he thought he might manage to walk with any success. He pulled his cloak from off the nail it had been using as a resting place, half surprised someone hadn’t filched that as well, and left his piece of passageway.

He supposed it was less thought than habit that had him pulling himself back into the shadows before he walked out in full view of those standing by the edge of the enormous arena, as Doghail had called it. He had called it many things as he’d finally been pressed into the service of walking over every foot of it, looking for horse droppings to scoop up.

“She doesn’t ruin the horses, but perhaps that is just dumb luck.”

Acair recognized Fuadain, that unimportant lord of whatever they called his derelict manor that found itself on the less-desirable side of Sàraichte. He didn’t recognize the guest, but the man obviously believed himself to be exceptionally important. Whether it was due to money or title, Acair couldn’t have said and he didn’t care to investigate. His interest only extended to wondering when they would shut up and move on.

“Fetch one of the mares,” Fuadain commanded. “One commensurate with Lord Cuirteil’s stature. But your stature in the world, not at table, eh, Cuirteil?”

Acair watched Fuadain elbow his guest in his ample belly, listened to the two of them guffaw as if they actually found themselves amusing, then considered the unusual position he found himself in. Normally, he would have been keeping his ears open for insults and preparing a proper retribution. It was, he had to admit, somewhat freeing to just not give a damn.

Was that how normal men lived?

It was an astonishing thought, actually. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable even entertaining it, so he let it continue on past him where it could trouble someone else.

Doghail brought out a fine-looking though feisty mare that Acair had already become acquainted with thanks to it almost taking a decent bit of flesh off his upper arm. Would that that one would take a bite out of Cuirteil’s ample backside.

The mare was handed off to that gel who had been so rude to him about his stall mucking however many days ago it had been. He wasn’t sure he had even heard her name, which saved him the trouble of remembering it. What he could plainly see, though, was that she knew what she was doing. There was no nipping, balking, or sneering coming from that mare, something Acair felt now qualified to judge. And once she directed the mare to run about her in a circle, albeit attached to a long length of rope, the mare did so without question.

“Corr,” a voice said breathlessly from beside him, “she’s powerful good at it, ain’t she?”

Acair looked to his left and found one of the new stable lads standing there, his mouth agape, his eyes bright with admiration.

“Corr,” Acair agreed, trying not to shudder at the absolutely revolting nature of the local vernacular, “she is, ain’t she?”

Good lord, his father would have cuffed him into the adjacent county if he’d heard such a thing come out of his mouth.

“I forget her name,” Acair said casually. “Too much drinking and wenching drove it right out of my head.”

The lad looked at him with wonder. “Truthful?”

“I never lie.” And that was, he could say truthfully, the absolute truth. His father had mocked him for it, but one lived with one’s failings as best one could. And he had spent a goodly amount of time thinking about drinking and wenching whilst he’d been about his most recent labors, which perhaps made it truthful enough for the present circumstances.

“Léirsinn,” the lad said. “Don’t suppose she’s a lady, even if she is Lord Fuadain’s niece.”

Acair could scarce believe his ears. “Errr,” he said, scrambling for the right words, “you ain’t in earnest—ah, tellin’ the truth. Rather.” He gave up. There was no hope for it, but perhaps his companion wouldn’t notice.

“She is,” the lad said, “and I hears he done treats her awful.”

Indeed he did. “Why does she endure it, do you suppose?”

“Her grandfather lives up at the big house,” the lad whispered. “’Tis said he can’t move or speak. She works for his keep, so they say.”

Ah, altruism. Acair would have pointed out to anyone who would listen that this was where that sort of thing led, but he supposed the present moment wasn’t the proper one for that sort of instruction.