by Greylady
“They say,” she looked at the faint crescent marks his teeth had left, “that Bayrd ar’Talvlyn has ideas far above his present station.”
“Who are They?”
Mevn shook her head, a gesture she combined charmingly with a shrug. “They. The usual gossips. But this time I think they might just be right.”
“Gossips. So?”
“And they say that he has plans to bring his station up and level with his ideas, one way or another.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed. Oh, very yes…”
Mevn ar’Dru sounded drowsy; perhaps because of the heat, for though the sun was sliding well down the sky towards evening, still the sand gave back all the warmth it had soaked up in the course of the day. And perhaps not.
Bayrd watched her curiously. The hazel eyes were heavy with sleep, or more than sleep, because her head didn’t roll loosely on her neck the way it usually did when she dozed off. Bayrd knew about that well enough; he had seen Mevn fall asleep before, after enough wine, enough food, or enough loving. That part was hard to remember, because he had been falling asleep himself, wrapped in the comfortable tangle of limbs that looks so complicated because nobody’s arm is trapped underneath.
“And you will,” she muttered. “I know you. You will. A man to watch… honourable… honourably made lord… by his own hand…”
Her head nodded forward, and she woke up with a jolt just as Bayrd was reaching out to catch her. If she had ever been asleep at all, and there was no trace of it in her eyes. They were as bright as ever. Bayrd found himself glancing at the arrow still driven into the sand, looking for sparks, flickers of fire, anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing of the sort.
Just the most practical woman he knew, sitting with her eyes closed in the warm sunshine and mumbling what might have been prophecy, if he believed in such superstitious rubbish. That was out of the ordinary enough for one afternoon. Prophecy or not, Bayrd was grateful that no-one else had been close enough to overhear. It was enough to lose him his newly acquired promotion, if it reached the ears of any of the high-clan lords; and maybe enough to lose him his head, if one of those lords was suspicious enough.
The worst part was that it was all so much nonsense. Clan ar’Talvlyn might not be a lordly kailin-eir family, but their honour – his honour – could match that of anyone better born. Or surpass it; fine gentlemen had nothing to prove, either to themselves or to anyone else, while he…
He shook his head. The thoughts were going around and around, and never reaching a conclusion. The fairly earned respect and friendship of his equals was enough, and anything else would come from the duty and obligation to a lord that any Alban kailin would be proud to owe. Bayrd sat in companionable silence with Mevn for a few minutes more, then stood up with some excuse about the unburned ships that sounded banal even to his own ears. As he gathered up his gear, Bayrd ar’Talvlyn was uneasily aware of the way she was gazing at him. He tried to convince himself that Mevn’s smile of cool amusement was no different to all the other times. She might have been surprised at what had to look like an over-hasty departure, or that he suddenly had nothing more to say on the subject of his intentions for the future, not even curiosity about who had been making such dangerous speculations about him.
Or she might not have been surprised at all.
Bayrd stared up at the star-thick sky as he lay dozing, not asleep enough to ignore what was going on around him and yet not fully awake enough to care about it either. He entertained himself in a dreamy way with what he would or would not have done had he been the Overlord Albanak. His sleeping-place was with the others of clan ar’Talvlyn, but he might as well have been alone. They ignored him, and by silent mutual agreement he ignored them. It was the safest way to guarantee peace.
Even though his cased bow and sheathed longsword were close to hand, Bayrd did not expect trouble. The sentries on the wooden walls were a necessary precaution in what might be hostile territory, but if Lord Gelert and his people were as they had been described, then they would not attack after nightfall. It wouldn’t be because of superstitious fears or any religious constraints, but simply because warriors who fought to perform glorious deeds in the sight of their liege lord would find little point in performing any deed, glorious or otherwise, when it was too dark for the lord to see them do so.
The Albans had been like that once, a long time ago when they could afford the satisfaction of profitless posturing for personal reputation and little else in the way of reward. They had become a good deal more pragmatic since then. If a night assault would give them a tactical advantage over their opponents, then they would attack by night; or in a rainstorm, or in a blizzard, or under cover of a fog so thick that they could not see their own spears extended in front of them. They had done all those things while in mercenary service, and some of the younger and more aggressive kailinin might have considered doing so again, if any of the clan-lords had known the country well enough to tell them who and where to attack. As it was, they stayed where they had landed, the conquerors and proud possessors of a mile of sand and shingle.
The night passed peacefully; at least, there was peace outside the ditch and palisade of the fort, and any spies who might have been sent by the mysterious Lord Gelert moved quietly enough not to disturb the guards who paced the packed-sand ramparts. Inside was a different matter. As Bayrd had expected, thirsty people had broached the wine-butts long before Overlord Albanak had finally agreed to send out a watering-troop, and though their venture had been successful, by the time they came back with full water-butts the wine had already done its work.
Threats and accusations flew as members of one clan took those of others to task for doing, or failing to do, one thing or another. The charges grew wild; indeed, they grew historical as well as hysterical, questing back in time for new and better allegations. When the ships were burned; before they were burned; after they had reached this Heaven-forsaken coastline; before they landed; before they left Kalitzim… Any reason for a quarrel was good enough.
Bayrd finally heard a voice in the darkness declare that if the Alban people were back in the wide grasslands and anyone had suggested leaving them, then he, the anonymous speaker, would have stuffed such a suggestion back into the proposer’s mouth with the butt-end of his lance. That was too much even for the legendary patience of clan ar’Talvlyn.
Bayrd pushed back his blanket and propped himself on one elbow, waiting for the sounds of approval to die down. They more likely meant that the speaker was someone of rank rather than that many people really agreed with what he said, but that didn’t matter any more.
“So long as your lance is the only thing you want to ram down his throat,” he jeered into the silence, “he can count himself lucky!”
There was a satisfactory number of chuckles, some stifled and others deliberately loud, suggesting that Bayrd had merely given voice to what many others had been thinking, but there was also a ripple of gasps – and an explosive oath that could only have some from the original speaker. He could hear an outbreak of scuffling, the sound of someone made clumsy with rage fighting their way free of a tangle of blankets, and a pair of makeshift torches were lit at the nearest fire. The presence of those torches, and someone to carry them, meant that whoever he had insulted was of sufficient rank to have at least one retainer in attendance on him and maybe two – but it was the harsh scrape of a taiken coming out of its scabbard that warned him he might have gone a little too far this time.
As the hot red eyes of the torches began to make their way towards him, Bayrd briefly considered pretending to sleep. But that wouldn’t work; either he would be caught unarmed by whoever was approaching, or someone else would get the blame. And by the sound of the muttered curses heading his way, excuses were not going to be accepted. With the other drowsy figures around him diving frantically out of the way, he rolled sideways up onto one knee and grabbed for his own longsword. Shaking its scabbard free, as an extra pr
ecaution he drew his taipan shortsword and braced the two blades across each other.
It was just as well.
There was a quick beat of footsteps and a bulky shape surged out of the shadows, swinging a long starlit shimmer of steel at his head. As he jerked his crossed swords upwards, that shimmer caught in the angle where they met and screeched sparks from their edges. Ordinary sparks this time, yellow instead of blue, though Bayrd still flinched as their heat stung his face. The force of the blow jolted him, but he was braced enough against it that he kept his balance until the torch-bearers came running up. There were two indeed, both in crumpled crest-coats, and Bayrd felt a momentary qualm as he recognized the Colours of red and white and the black bear device embroidered on them. They were of clan ar’Diskan, and the man who had tried to take his head was Lord Serej.
Bayrd was shocked, not by the assault itself so much as by its manner. There was no honour in it. No respect. And that it had been provoked was an excuse, not a reason. To attack like this, without warning out of the dark, with formal challenge neither given nor received, was not the action he would have expected from a high-clan lord. And yet…
If any man was to have attacked him like this, then of all the armed kailinin on this beach, Bayrd would have guessed at Serej ar’Diskan. It went beyond coincidence into the inevitable working of fate. After their encounter the previous day, he felt certain that even if one of them had been here and the other back in Kalitzim, he would have been forced to fight Serej sooner or later. It seemed the time was going to be sooner after all.
The clan-lord gestured a torch closer, close enough indeed that Bayrd had to sway back from its flame, and leaned in to stare at the man who had insulted him. Then he straightened up, stroking at his heavy moustache, and there was a dour smile hiding behind the spread of black whiskers. An idle thought passed through Bayrd’s mind, that the man and his crest were well matched.
“Bayrd ar’Talvlyn…” His voice matched too, for it was a rumbling growl from deep in the clan-lord’s cask of a chest. “Yes… I should have guessed. Who are you, to insult a man with such words? Married twice, and how many children have you to show for it? Were the women not to your taste? Are any?”
Bayrd ignored the gibes, remaining in the ready posture of middle guard centre, longsword high and shortsword low, both poised to counter another attack. “I have memories, my lord,” he said calmly. “Good memories. Better, I think, than yours.”
“Do you think so, indeed?”
Bayrd shook his head. “Since you ask, then no, my lord. I look at your face, and I know so. And what if I – or any man or woman in this camp – should have been inclined to make love in a way that you find wrong? At least that involves another person. It’s a better thing than loving only yourself.”
“You are no gentleman, ar’Talvlyn—”
“Gentleman enough for the Lord Albanak to give me kailin-eir status and command of One Thousand. Gentleman enough, and honourable enough, not to attack out of the darkness like a common brigand. As you have done, my lord. Before witnesses.”
“No gentleman, whatever your rank might be. So you think you have the Overlord’s ear, do you? Well, tomorrow I’ll take him yours.”
“Is that a formal challenge, my lord?”
“Formal enough for the likes of you. Enjoy the rest of your promotion, kailin whelp. And the rest of your life.”
“I have. And I will. More than you have ever done, my lord. Until the morning, my lord.”
He gave Serej ar’Diskan a formal salute with both swords and held it even though the clan-lord snorted and rudely turned his back without acknowledgement, but he didn’t relax his guard, much less put the weapons away, until ar’Diskan had lumbered back to his own encampment. As he studied the edges of his blades, looked nervously for any trace of flame apart from that reflected in their polished surfaces, Bayrd could hear the whispered discussion beginning among the others of clan ar’Talvlyn, and wondered whether he was meant to hear the words or not. Too many of them seemed complimentary. It was a strange thing, that he would have to be openly disrespectful to a high-clan lord, and put his life at risk in the process, in order to regain the respect of his own family. But then – he punched at the rolled overrobe that was doing duty as a pillow in an attempt to make it a little less than actively uncomfortable – they were Alban, just as he was. Just not as sober…
Gossip flew at its customary speed, and as if what had passed between Lord Serej and himself had been a catalyst for bottled-up angers, before silence and the sleep of exhaustion fell at last over the camp, another half dozen duels of honour had been arranged between kailinin who had taken exception to something someone had said. In at least two cases, they were as a direct result of his own stand. Bayrd ar’Talvlyn stared up at the sky and knew that he, at least, would not sleep. Only the coming of dawn proved him wrong.
Certainly he had slept better. Though the camp had been built well above the high-tide mark, there had been a creeping dampness in the sand which compacted it overnight – and under pressure such as shoulders, heads or hip-bones – into something as unyielding as a brick. Bayrd lay for several minutes in the same huddled position in which he had awakened, with such an ache in all his joints that if he moved, he felt certain that one of them would snap. At least his own groans of discomfort were no louder than those of anyone else, because the entire Alban people seemed to have been tied into one huge knot.
And he would have killed for a bathtub brimming with hot water. Hot fresh water, Bayrd corrected himself. The perfunctory scrub in the icy sea last night might have made him smell somewhat better, but it had left him coated this morning with an abrasive film of dried salt.
The muddiness of sleep cleared slowly from his mind, but as it did a shiver ran through him as though a drop of that chilly seawater had just run the length of his spine and Bayrd remembered that, unless he had been dreaming very vividly indeed, someone was going to try to kill him for a reason much less real than any tub of water.
“Did I really say that to a high-clan lord?” he muttered aloud, sitting up painfully and cradling his head in both hands.
The question hadn’t been addressed to anyone in particular, and he didn’t expect an answer; but several of the relatives who hadn’t exchanged more than twenty words with him in this past year were more than willing to give him all the answers he could possibly need. Lord Serej wasn’t over-popular among the lower clans and the common families, and as he listened, Bayrd wondered just how much the clan-lord knew about it. Let only half of what he was hearing be directed at him, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without his personal guards – and a mail reinforcement under his tunic.
Though this was his first ever duel, he wasn’t frightened. It surprised him at first, until he realized that deep inside, he knew he was in no danger from Serej ar’Diskan. The man would be trying to kill him, there was no doubt about that. Just as he had tried last night, without challenge or formal defiance, in a common assassin’s attack out of the dark. But like last night, he wouldn’t be able to. Bayrd ar’Talvlyn was too good with a taiken for that. But he hoped he was even better, because his chief problem was going to be how to put the murderous clan-lord out of action without permanent damage. Doing too much would be as bad as doing too little, since wrong interpretations would be put on it at once.
He would be the low-clan upstart, recently promoted beyond his ability by a generous Overlord, trying to push himself still further by engineering a duel with that same Overlord’s most trusted advisor. It wouldn’t matter in the slightest whether ar’Diskan was ‘most trusted’ or not trusted at all. The fixed epithet was as common in politics as in any story told in House or hall, and if he happened to kill the clan-lord, whether by accident or by design, then Serej would be remembered only as having been in the right all along.
And then there was what Mevn ar’Dru had said, only yesterday: that he was gossiped abroad as being ambitious. With such a reputation hanging over his head
, even though he knew it to be false, Bayrd absolutely had to leave ar’Diskan alive and mostly unhurt – if the clan-lord’s notorious temper would allow him to do it.
Fighting to first blood was an honourable concept, but it needed the agreement of both sides, and Bayrd doubted he would get anything of the sort from Lord Serej. More, if worst came to worst and he had to kill the older man to save his own life – and he was in no doubt whose life was more important to him – then clan ar’Talvlyn could easily end up with a blood-feud on its hands, which from the sound of them was not a matter considered by the cheery voices surrounding him.
Heaving himself to his feet, teeth closed on the grunt of pain as his cramped limbs straightened out again, Bayrd stalked down to the cleansing sea to bathe.
Dressing afterwards, he gazed at the sails that were all that remained of the ships which had escaped the great burning. The tiny specks of colour out on the horizon were crewed by Kalitzak sailors on their way home, and grateful to have vessels in which to do so. The others, thirty or so anchored far enough out in the bay to be beyond reach of the Lord Albanak, belonged to the clans who had rejected his command to destroy their only hope of leaving this shore again.
They, it had been let known, would now prefer to be called the Ship-Clans, and they would maintain their vessels for use in trade when the hot-heads on shore decided that trade instead of war was what they wanted with the rest of this new country. Those ships were apparently now their homes as well, since the message had been delivered tied around the shaft of a hard-shot arrow from a ship that was immediately rowed back out to deep water.
Their request was ignored, since already people were starting to call them not by their clan names, but by the simpler title of an-tlakhnin, ‘The Undeclared’. It was not a pleasant term of reference, since it derived from an old, old insult that implied spineless equivocation in the face of any and all voluntary decisions from getting out of bed in the morning onward. It was all of a piece with the bickering that had started last night, and if anyone had troubled Bayrd ar’Talvlyn for his opinion – they did not – he would have suggested that the appearance of a hostile Prytenek force under Lord Gelert would do everyone a power of good. Either that, or a hearty dose of some physician’s opening mixture. Either would serve to give them something else to do.
