Free The Fire Dragon by Katharine Kerr Page A

greetings. I was delivered of yet another wretched son, who now awaits your choosing of a name. I had my heart so set upon a daughter that I neglected to think of any suitable for a lad. At the moment my women are calling him Dumpling, which—while plebeian—will serve until the end of your campaigning.”
    At that point Maryn began reading to himself, a rare trick in those days and one he had learned from Nevyn. From his smile, Nevyn could guess that the message was unfit for public ears. At last Maryn looked up and turned to the messengers. “You must be hungry,” the prince said. “My apologies for forgetting you. Here, sentry! Get these men fed, and then spread the news of the new prince among the noble-born.”
    Soon enough, Maryn's vassals began appearing in twos and threes to congratulate him on the new prince's birth, but none of them lingered. The smell of cooking in the camp drew them quickly back to their own fires. When Gwerbret Daeryc arrived, though, Maryn bade him stay awhile. The servants brought out a wooden stool, and he sat down by the fire with the prince and Nevyn.
    “From the maps I have,” Maryn said, “we're nearly to Glasloc. Do you think that's correct?”
    “I do, my liege,” Daeryc said. “Once we reach the lake, and that'll be in about two more days, we'll have arrived at the edge of the Boar clan's holdings. If I remember rightly, Glasloc marks half the distance twixt the Holy City and Cantrae town.”
    “I see,” Maryn said with a nod. “I'll wager Braemys will meet us before we start trampling on his lands.” He glanced at Nevyn. “Do you know the lay of the land twixt here and Glasloc? Is it flat?”
    “Mostly, my liege.” Nevyn turned to Daeryc to explain. “When I was younger, Your Grace, I lived near Cantrae.”
    “Good, good,” the gwerbret said. “I haven't been there since I was but a little lad, and we'll need someone who knows the lie of things better than I do.” He rose with a bow Maryn's way. “If you'll forgive me, Your Highness, I'll be leaving you. I'm hungry enough to eat a wolf, pelt and all.”
    Provisions for the silver daggers travelled in their own cart, tended by a stout carter and his skinny son. That particular night, Maddyn was sitting with Owaen when the son, young Garro, brought the two captains a chunk of salt pork impaled on a stick. Green mold marbled the fat.
    “My da,” Garro announced, “says it been in the barrel too long. Weren't salted enough, either, Da says.”
    “Your da's no doubt right.” Maddyn took the stick from the boy. “Owaen, what do you think?”
    “We've had worse,” Owaen said. “Any maggots?”
    Maddyn twirled the stick this way and that to catch the sunset light. “None that I can see.”
    “Weren't none in the barrel, neither,” Garro said.
    “Then it should do. Let's see.” Maddyn drew his dagger. He cut off the green streaks and took a few bites of the rest. “It's not bad but it's not good, either. It wouldn't be worth fretting about, except I'll wager this is Oggyn's doing.”
    Owaen swore so furiously that Garro cringed.
    “I'm not angry with you,” Owaen snapped. “Go thank your da for us. Now. Give me that, Maddo. Let's go shove it up the bald bastard's arse.”
    Unfortunately for Owaen's plans, they found Oggyn attending upon the prince in front of the royal tent. Since not even Owaen could get away with violence there, the two silver daggers knelt not far from the prince's chair and waited. Oggyn was congratulating Maryn for the birth of the new son in all sorts of long words and fulsome metaphors—as if, Maddyn thought bitterly, Bellyra had naught to do with it. Exposed to the open air, the pork began to announce that truly, it was rotten. Once Oggyn paused for breath, the two silver daggers, or their complaint, caught Maryn's attention.
    “What's that stench?” Maryn glanced around. “Ye gods, Owaen! What have you brought me, a dead rat?”
    “I've not, my liege,” Owaen said. “The