Free The Bloody Cup by M. K. Hume Page B

my business, not yours.’
    Galahad refused to retaliate, but he skewered his father with one last observation that would trouble Gawayne for the rest of their journey.
    ‘If she could have persuaded me to break my vows, Father, the woman would have taken me. Have you considered why she wanted one of us in her bed, and why we are so summarily dismissed when she has achieved her goal? The lady has a purpose other than your charms.’
    Gawayne leapt carelessly on to his mount in an attempt to convey a nonchalance he did not feel. Something old and musty stirred below the splendour of Salinae Minor, and Galahad had recognized it in Miryll’s eyes.
    ‘You’re an infernal irritant, Galahad, far worse than any black-robed priest,’ Gawayne snapped. ‘In fact, you’re almost as infuriating as Morgan, your great-aunt.’ His gaze met his son’s amused, hazel eyes as their horses moved closer together. ‘But in this case, I’m afraid you could be right.’

CHAPTER IV
    KIN, LOVERS AND SUNDRY OTHER ENEMIES
    A southerner with dark braids and shifty eyes slid into the least reputable alehouse in Deva, the Blue Hag, and approached a simple slab of sawn logs that served as a makeshift bar against the far wall. His eyes darted nervously around the room and he wiped sweaty palms down his stained woollen shirt.
    Inside the shoddy room, which was thick with fire smoke, the smell of some kind of fish-head soup and men in various stages of drunkenness, the stranger stood out simply because he reeked of fear.
    ‘I’m looking for Octa, the owner of this shit heap,’ he demanded of a shepherd who was hunched over a wooden bowl of greasy soup. The man shook off the stranger’s hand.
    ‘Get your paws off me’, he snarled. ‘Octa’s over there by the pot.’ He pointed a grime-stained finger at a man ladling out bowls of soup and pottery jugs of beer to his customers.
    The stranger nodded, and then slithered his way through the press of men until he reached the innkeeper.
    ‘A man called Pebr comes here from time to time,’ the stranger began.
    The innkeeper allowed his gaze to slide away from his ladle and focus on the newcomer.
    ‘A one-eyed man,’ the stranger added.
    ‘Perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn’t. Who’s asking?’
    ‘It’s none of your business,’ the stranger rasped. ‘Just tell him that I’m in Deva and I have his cup. The message is that it’s begun. Have you got that? It’s begun. I’ll be here again in three days to see if there’s an answer from Pebr.’
    The innkeeper filled another bowl and slapped it on to the rough-sawn bench. Some of the oily grey sludge splashed on to the stranger’s hand.
    ‘Do you understand?’ the stranger repeated, sucking the greasy mess off his fingers.
    ‘Aye. You’ve got his sodding cup. As if I care! It’s sodding begun - whatever it is you’re talking about. It’s in three days, if you say so.’
    The stranger dropped a few worn coins into the smear of soup on the planks. ‘That’s for your trouble.’
    Then he disappeared into the press of men packed into the Blue Hag.
    ‘Sodding southerner!’ the innkeeper cursed, but he picked up the coins and reflectively licked them clean.
    Had the stranger chosen to check behind him, he would have seen a tall shadow leave a moment or two behind his retreating back. Had he been listening carefully, he would have heard deft feet slide into step behind him as the moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud.
    An iron-strong arm suddenly encircled him from behind and gripped his throat. A knife blade ended any sound he might have made, as it sliced through his larynx. Carefully avoiding the sudden jet of arterial blood, the one-eyed man let the stranger’s jerking body drop into the spreading puddle of his lifeblood.
    The last thing the stranger felt was Pebr’s boot as it caved in his ribs in silent contempt. As the stranger’s hearing and sight failed, the one-eyed man was already walking away.
    ‘Men who use my