A Plague of Giants (Seven Kennings #1) - Kevin Hearne Page 0,12

curses, I’m told. Hygienists never age the way tidal mariners do, for example, but they become absolutely paranoid about contaminants and infections and scrub themselves constantly since they perceive impurities in almost everything.

But sacrifices like Tallynd’s should be recognized and rewarded. And just as I was thinking I should create the most glorious gift basket of all time for her, Pelenaut Röllend appeared and joined Tallynd and Fintan on the precarious stack of crates. He had the most glorious gift basket for her in his hands, which satisfied every Brynt’s dire need to give her one right then. Fintan projected both of their voices, and that was when I learned what that insignia on her uniform meant—it was indeed a new rank, and she wasn’t a Gerstad anymore.

“Second Könstad Tallynd du Böll, almost everyone within hearing right now owes their life to you, and they know it. If I don’t give you this gift basket right now, your house will be buried with them tomorrow.” Cathartic laughter and cheering. “Please accept this from a grateful pelenaut and a grateful people.”

She sort of laugh-cried, a chuckle followed by a sniff, and took it from him. “Thank you. Thank you all. This is the best gift basket I’ve ever received, and I will cherish it. It will have a place of honor in my home.”

There was more applause for her because she deserved all we could give, but eventually she and the pelenaut waved and departed, leaving Fintan alone on the stage.

“There will be more tomorrow,” he assured us as the sun was setting. “But these will be stories from the far west! Until then, may the gods of all the kennings keep your loves!”

Cheers followed the bard as he stepped down off the crates and took a long draught from the flagon of Mistmaiden Ale; the woman from the Siren’s Call had never left. He thanked her and asked her to lead the way to Master Yöndyr’s establishment, then he turned to me.

“Coming, Master Dervan?”

“Absolutely.”

Before we go forward, we should probably go back. My association with Fintan had begun the previous day, when he arrived at Pelemyn in the company of a Raelech courier and ruined what was shaping up to be a pleasant day of boring logistic details. Couriers didn’t normally cause a stir, but this one had become annoyed when she wasn’t ushered immediately into the pelenaut’s presence.

That was the explanation of the breathless mariner who burst into the Wellspring, helmet askew, to seek guidance on how to proceed. The pelenaut flicked a finger at his Lung, Föstyr, and the old man stepped forward, arched an eyebrow, and pointed out to the mariner that he had left out why the courier had been detained. Normally couriers were brought immediately to the throne.

“She’s with a bard, sir, and insists that he be allowed to accompany her.”

Silence for a few seconds, and then the pelenaut asked Föstyr, “Presumably there is some problem with the bard?”

The Lung nodded once, the wattles under his chin rippling at the sudden movement. “An old law, sir. Raelech bards aren’t to be trusted.”

The pelenaut frowned. “How old is this law? Rael is our ally, and this bard is escorted by a courier of the Triune Council, is he not?”

“It’s a very old law, sir.”

“Then let’s move on and flush it down the shit sluice. Bring in some extra mariners if you think it prudent but allow the courier and bard to approach.”

Föstyr rattled off some orders and there was a general scramble to obey, and the pelenaut looked back at me and smirked briefly, sharing a moment of amusement that the same muscle-bound bullies who used to slap him around as a child now thought of nothing but his safety.

Pelenaut Röllend and I had been childhood friends and used to get beat up by the same bands of fish heads in our youth, before he got his kenning and became politically powerful. After he closed the university out of necessity—my office and classroom were lodging for refugees now—he brought me to court to be a historian of sorts during a historically significant time, since his usual court scribe had been drafted to help administer the families staying in Survivor Field and record the many deaths they reported. My fingers were ink-stained and cramped from sitting at a desk behind and to the right of the coral throne and scribbling down everything I could, but I was grateful for the work and the cot to crash on