Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

“You’d think so,” Adonyc said. “You’re like one of Mother’s stinking ferrets, always snapping and skulking around.”

  “If you’re so worried about vermin, then you need ferrets. If you took more of an interest in the laws, you’d see this as a—”

  “Oh, you think you know everything! They never should have sent you to that cursed collegium!”

  “Donno, hold your tongue.” Ladoic sounded weary rather than angry. “We’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

  “My apologies, Father. But ye gods, here’s Gwarl dead and his body dishonored, and all we can do is wait for the cursed regent to give his opinion? It gripes my heart!”

  “Indeed?” Ladoic reached for his tankard. “And what would you do instead?”

  Dovina waited to see if Adonyc would dig himself his usual pit.

  “Well, to begin with,” Adonyc said, “I’d find a few of these rabble-rousers and hang them. That would silence the rest, eh?”

  “It would be the worst thing you could do,” Ladoic said. “Stir everything up all over again.”

  “Faugh, they’re all cowards, not a fighting man in the lot! I’m surprised that Crayloc or Cronoc or whatever his name was didn’t give up his suit long before he starved.”

  “So was I.” Ladoic’s voice was dangerously level. “Most surprised indeed.”

  “So you were hoping—” Dovina started to speak, but Adonyc raised his voice and drowned her out.

  “Put the fear of death into them,” Adonyc said. “You’ve already got rid of that one. Time to put the rest in their place. Somewhere else than here.”

  Dovina stepped forward, but her father got in first.

  “Do you truly think I should somehow or other rid the rhan of bards?” Ladoic sounded incredulous.

  “Of course not! Just the troublesome ones.”

  Dovina raised her voice in turn. “The bards are the voice of the people.”

  “Well, tell them to hold their tongues, too.” Adonyc laughed as if he’d made a joke. “What do they need a voice for?”

  “And what would you do without the guilds to lend you coin?” Dovina said. “As, for instance, in times of war?”

  “I’m not talking about them.”

  “Oh, but you are! How would the clothsellers of Dun Gwerbyn take it if you told them they had no voice in your affairs? I can’t think of anything that would tighten a guild’s purse strings faster than that.”

  Adonyc turned to the gwerbret in mute appeal. Ladoic had a long swallow of ale before he spoke.

  “She’s right,” was all he said.

  Adonyc got up and stalked off and down the little steps from the dais. Without looking back he crossed the great hall to one of the tables where his honor guard of twenty men were seated. The captain rose from the chair at the head of it to bow. Adonyc sat down with his back firmly toward the dais. The captain took a seat elsewhere.

  Ladoic muttered something that might have been a laugh and turned to Dovina. “How does your mother fare?”

  “A little better, Father.”

  “Good. We truly do need to leave for Cerrmor soon. Tomorrow, I was thinking.”

  “Is Donno coming with us?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Good.”

  “He’s only saying what I heard from a lot of the other lords. The Council of Electors, the other gwerbretion. Think on that, will you?”

  “Was that why you let Cradoc starve?”

  Ladoic looked at her for a long moment with an utterly neutral expression on his face, then returned to contemplating the row of heraldic shields. She realized that he’d answered her question in the only way he could.

  CHAPTER 5

  HAEN MARN LAY IN no one’s territory but its own, on the shores of the southernmost of the Peddrolocion, the Four Lakes that sit between Deverrian and Westfolk territory, though in truth, its lake formed a fifth. The Westfolk swore that there’d been only four lakes in the past, and that Haen Marn had arrived out of nowhere one day. Just plopped itself down and its lake with it, the Westfolk sages said. No one in Deverry believed them, as far as Cavan knew. Whether the sacred rhan lay just west of Fox territory or just beyond that of the Bears had also been a matter of some dispute for several hundred years, but only the heralds and the great lords cared. It existed, it was open to anyone needing healing, and that was all that mattered to most people. All around the lake lay farms that paid taxes in kind, and grateful patients often gave gifts of coin or merchant goods. Freed from a great lord’s rule, Haen Marn prospered.

  The two silver daggers and their scholar hire rode west through a pass between two hills. (The canal traveled in a tunnel dug by dwarven engineers and forbidden to riders.) Cavan kept turning in the saddle to look behind them, but the distance stayed free of the dust cloud that would mean pursuit. At the crest of the pass they paused to look down to the long narrow valley, where sacred lakes gleamed in the afternoon sun. At the foot of the pass, the canal emerged and joined a river that left the valley—somewhere to the west.

  Cavan could make no sense of the silvery stripes of water, neither river nor canal. That is, the canal seemed obvious enough. It came out of the tunnel and joined a river, but one he’d not seen before. Try as he might, he could not see where this west-flowing river left the valley, and yet it had to leave it somewhere. Finally he gave it up as a bad job. He could clearly see that a town spread out beside this river, and beyond the town, a road led through meadows to the walled complex on the shore of the nearest lake. Out in the water lay the sacred island of Haen Marn, green and white from blooming apple trees. Beyond the lakes hills rose, dark with pine forests.

  Late in the day, when mist was rising from the placid waters of the lake, they reached the place where the road widened, the canal ended, and the town began. Dun Sebanna existed solely to serve the patients and their escorts with its clusters of inns and temples to all the various gods that anyone had ever heard of, whether Deverrian or Westfolk. Even Alshandra, the central goddess of the far northern folk known as Gel da’Thae, had a sacred shrine there. While the laws would have dealt harshly with any madman who violated the sacred nature of the settlement, high stone walls surrounded it—just in case a madman came their way.

  As the city gates closed for the night behind them, Benoic asked a town watchman if any other silver daggers had arrived that day.

  “From the east, it would be.”

  “None,” the fellow said. “Friends of yours on their way?”

  “Not friends, but troublemakers. Some merchants in the last place we stayed were convinced these lads had been taking the wrong kind of look at their merchandise. Three men, and one of them has red hair and a mustache to match.”

  “My thanks for the tip, lad. I’m surprised you’d speak against members of your own band.”

  “Who knows if they’re truly silver daggers?” Benoic shrugged and laid a hand on the hilt of his own. “These have been stolen from battlefields before.”

  Although this slur against their guild bothered Cavan, he held his tongue and nodded as if he agreed. Benoic had spoken the truth about one of their assailants, that third fellow who’d hung back from a possible fight. Neither Cavan nor Benoic had recognized him. In the poor light neither had been able to see if he carried the silver dagger, although they’d seen the glimmer of a sword blade clearly enough.

  Since they had no need to seek the sanctuary of a temple for that one night, they found shelter in a decent inn catering to guildspeople. Much to Cavan’s surprise, the innkeep made no objection to silver daggers.

  “All be welcome at Haen Marn,” he remarked. “We have a gentleman’s common room with good beds, lads.” He turned to Alyssa. “And privacy for the ladies as well.”

  “Splendid,” she said. “I don’t know how long we’ll be staying.”

  “From the look of them bandages on that lad�
��s head, it’ll be a few days at least, eh?” He glanced at the sky and the lowering sun. “Dinner soon.”

  Late in the evening, once Alyssa had gone to the women’s common chamber, Benoic bought the innkeep a tankard of his own ale. Over this friendly gesture, Cavan told the tale that he and Benoic had invented between them. It held enough truth to satisfy him.

  “Now, the lass who’s hired us?” Cavan said. “She’s here to fetch a very valuable thing for her guild. We’re sworn not to tell you what it may be, but you can doubtless guess that she’s carrying a fair bit of coin.”

  “Makes sense, truly.”

  “There’s already been one thief who paid high for trying to steal it.” Cavan touched the fake bandages around his head. “We’d just as soon not have any trouble with another. I’m sure you feel the same.”

  “Indeed! Not in my inn!”

  “So,” Benoic took up the tale, “we’ll be taking turns prowling around during the night. One of us should stay near the door to that women’s chamber. But we don’t want you to think we’re up to no good.”

  “It’s a good thing you warned me,” the innkeep said, “or I would have been calling the town watch.”

  “There shouldn’t be any trouble if we’re on guard,” Benoic said. “Thieves are not the most courageous lot in the kingdom.”

  With two silver daggers to ensure it did so, the night passed quietly. Some while after sunrise, Cavan was sitting on the floor across the corridor from the door of the women’s chamber when Alyssa came out, carrying her sack of clothing.

  “You’re up early,” she said with a laugh.

  “I’ve been up for a while, truly.” Cavan got up and stretched his back. “Let’s get some breakfast. I’ll fetch Benno. We’d best find a safer place to stay. Those lads might catch up to us by evening.”

  “Just so. I’m thinking that the temple of Wmm might help a wandering scholar and her guards. I’ve got the letters from Rhys to show them. The temple of the Goddess would shelter me, no doubt, but it’s you those men are after.”

  “They wouldn’t mind doing you a bad turn, too, I’ll wager.”

  “True enough.” Alyssa paused for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  After they’d eaten, and Benoic had tended their horses, they fetched their gear and left the inn. In the narrow streets they led the horses past temple after temple, inn after inn. Everywhere they saw people who were visibly ill or injured, hobbling along or being carried in litters, surrounded by family or sitting begging alone. Street vendors cried their goods. Tavern keepers stood in their doorways and hectored the passersby. When they followed a lane down to the river, they found it brown and stinking with garbage, like all rivers that ran through towns. They retreated back to the main road.

  “It’s cursed different than I’d been thinking,” Cavan remarked. “All this noise and confusion.”

  “The town’s not much,” Alyssa said. “Haen Marn itself is different. You’ll see.”

  If we can reach it, Cavan thought. Since he was painfully aware that he was the cause of their danger, he was considering simply turning himself over for the bounty in return for the hunters’ sworn vow to leave Alyssa alone. Benoic could then take Alyssa on to Cerrmor in safety. He’d not been able to force himself to make the suggestion aloud, though he knew he’d go through with it if he had to.

  Finally Benoic asked a shopkeeper where they might find the temple of Wmm. They’d passed it, of course, and had to go back the way they’d come. Well away from the main road Wmm and his advocates occupied a compound behind curved walls, smooth and pale with Bardekian plaster and whitewash. At intervals along the tops of the walls stood statues of pelicans, Wmm’s sacred bird. The young neophyte at the gates read the letter from Rhys, smiled and bowed, and told Alyssa she was welcome.

  “I’m afraid your men-at-arms will have to wait out here,” he said.

  Cavan wasn’t in the least surprised. While she went inside, he held the reins of the horses to allow Benoic, who’d taken the longest watch of the night, to sit on the ground against the wall and sleep. Cavan kept watch on the crowd strolling by, but he saw no sign of the three bounty hunters. They might still be in the town, he reminded himself, going from inn to inn with some story, asking after a pair of silver daggers with a lass.

  Alyssa returned remarkably quickly, grinning in triumph and holding a thick packet of folded pabrus. The horses raised their heads with a jingle of bridles as she hurried over. Benoic woke, scrambled to his feet, and yawned.

  “Luck?” Cavan said.

  “Better than luck. Letters of introduction to the Lady of Haen Marn herself, and to Perra of Cannobaen.”

  “Is she the chief healer?” Cavan said.

  “Perra? She used to take care of patients, but not anymore. She’s the one who oversees everything else, the food, the servants, that sort of thing. I had the honor of meeting her once. But that isn’t all.” Alyssa waved the pabrus at him. “We might be allowed to stay in the guest house, even. It would be a great honor.”

  “Ye gods!” Benoic said. “Honored indeed!”

  “Just so. And I’ve been told we don’t need to worry about our safety. His Holiness was quite firm on that point. Trust in Haen Marn, he said. And he winked at me.”

  Benoic looked as if he were about to speak, then kept silent. Dwimmer, Cavan thought. What else would it be? And I’ll wager that Benoic’s thinking the same cursed thing.

  “A question, if you don’t mind,” Benoic said. “Why would Wmm’s men be so willing to help us?”

  “They approve of our cause,” Alyssa said. “They’d like to see the laws of the land written down in books, something permanent, like, that the priests of Bel couldn’t change at whim if it suited them and the lord whose court they spoke in.”

  “I see.” Benoic said nothing for a few moments. “Huh! A fight between priests, is it? Gladdens my heart that I’m not in the middle of it.”

  “Oh, but you are.” Alyssa grinned at him. “The cat guarding the cheese had better protect his tail against mice while he’s at it.”

  “Are you daft?” Cavan broke in. “Or outright mad? It’s a war between two of the most powerful priesthoods in Deverry, and you can smile like that?”

  “’Tis better than weeping, innit?” She laid a friendly hand on his arm. “Cavvo, forgive me. I didn’t truly realize at first how complicated the situation is. Nor did Dovina. But it’s a fair bit late to back out now.”

  Cavan groaned and shot Benoic a glance. Benoic merely sighed and shrugged. Truly, Cavan thought, too late now!

  They led their horses to the town gates, then mounted and rode out. The river road led through long meadows, green with the spring grass and dotted with daisies and buttercups, bright in the warm sun. Birds sang in the willows on the riverbank. Here and there Cavan saw fat white cows with rusty-red ears. A couple of lads with black and white dogs watched over them. Everything seemed oddly still, despite the birds and the smooth murmur of the river, quiet and yet expectant, as if the very grass knew some great thing was about to happen. He’d felt this sort of stillness before, when the Iron Brotherhood met for a ritual, the lesser officers all in place, the ordinary members standing in their half-circle, waiting for that night’s Wielder of the Mace to come from the robing tent and start the proceedings. The crackling of the ritual fire in their midst would seem to be sounding in some other world, just as the birds’ chatter did here on the road to Haen Marn.

  Benoic began singing an old air about spring and happier times, and Alyssa joined in on the descant. Cavan nearly yelped aloud in surprise. They hadn’t felt the stillness, then, if they could break it so easily.

  Benoic and Alyssa had just finished their song when they reached the gates of the healing complex at the shore of the lake. A decorative stone wall, not much higher than a mounted rider’s head, surro
unded it on three sides, while the lake itself formed the fourth wall. Wooden gates stood wide open to reveal a view of a grassy meadow and a scatter of low wooden buildings, newly whitewashed and thatched. Beyond those, off to Cavan’s right and close to the lakeshore, stood a tall, long wooden building with glass in its lower windows—the guesthouse, he assumed.

  Out on the long lawn, various people sat on benches or lay on wheeled pallets to take the sun. Some of the patients seemed deathly ill; others were chatting with friends or attendants. Right near the gates a group of boys dressed in white clothes with pale blue and gray tabards sat in a circle and played some sort of dice game. Benoic called out a halloo and dismounted. As Cavan and Alyssa followed his lead, one of the pages got up and came running.

  “Are you here for healing?” the lad said. “Come in if you come in peace.”

  “Most assuredly in peace,” Alyssa said. She reached inside her tunic and pulled out the folded sheets of pabrus. “Can you read, lad? I have a letter of introduction to Perra of Cannobaen.”

  “I can, good maid, and if you’ll come with me, I’ll take you straight to her. She receives visitors in the guesthouse.” He bowed to Alyssa, then turned to call to the circle of pages. “Fallo, come here! These silver daggers need to stable their horses.”

  Another boy scrambled up and came trotting over with a nod in their direction. Silver daggers might have been welcome in Haen Marn, but no one was going to bow to them.

  “Stables are this way.” Fallo jerked a thumb in the vague direction of his left. “Follow me.”

  Fallo led the way through the cluster of cottages. Most had open windows—for the fresh air, Cavan assumed. As they passed by, he could smell herbal potions and perfumes that couldn’t quite cover the scent of human waste and that indefinable stale sourness of the long-term sickroom. Once he heard a woman moaning and a man murmuring to her in a desperate attempt to help her rest. He saw attendants carrying food to several cottages and others taking away chamber pots.

  The stables turned out to be clean and well-tended. Each horse had a decent stall, and Fallo brought out a sack of Haen Marn’s oats for their nosebags. He showed them the tack room and pointed out a chest where they could stow their horse gear, then left the men to their own devices.