His own poor ship was well alight, a dance of flames and a crawl of embers, all shrouded in that stinking smoke. It was not as if Bayrd had any say in the matter – though if he had, the vessel would have been left alone. But despite his promotion, clan ar’Talvlyn didn’t even rank high enough to have a clan-lord, only a Head of House, and being accustomed to obedience they did as they were told. They were not alone. Most of the ships that flared along the shoreline had common sails, undyed canvas without clan Colours. For the most part the low-clan Albans had followed their Overlord’s command without question – just because it was customary to obey.
Others, higher placed, had done so because, like Albanak, they had thought the lack of any means of retreat would stiffen resolve, and make their people well-motivated to succeed in whatever enterprise now confronted them. And almost all the rest had fallen in line, for no other reason than because their superiors had subscribed to one or other of those theories.
Bayrd was scornful, if too sensible to say so. Ever since he was old enough to understand such things, the Alban clans had never needed the outside influence of any person or any situation once they had determined to succeed. Sometimes that success eluded them, as it did other, lesser peoples; but not for any want of trying.
Hoofs thudded in the sand and Mevn’s brother Marc ar’Dru came cantering by, riding his handsome black Andarran. Marc was armoured and the horse was armoured, all in full battle harness, all dramatic glinting black. His spear was in his fist and a fine blue crest-coat fluttered bravely in the speed of his passage. Bayrd grimaced – he should have expected nothing less from that one – then changed it to a grin and waved. It was the sort of quick dismissive wave that acknowledged presence without inviting conversation. Marc took the hint and didn’t slow down as he shouted back. Bayrd saw his mouth open inside the warmask, but all he heard for the most part was noise rather than words. The only scrap of a sentence that did make sense sounded like “…regret it…” but he might have been mistaken either at the sound of the words or at their meaning.
If it had to do with the ships – there were more of them blazing now – then it didn’t come as a surprise that Marc ar’Dru agreed with him, or that he was stupid enough to yell his views aloud where the whole world might have heard it. And if it was about Bayrd keeping company with his sister again, then it wasn’t so much a threat as a warning – if not an especially serious one. He knew them well enough for that. Marc and Mevn behaved like most clan-brothers and -sisters Bayrd had ever met, including his own, expressing any public fondness for each other as a misleadingly spiteful sniping, for fear that anything else should be construed as weakness unbefitting a kailin family.
Despite what Marc might have thought, Mevn’s presence meant little; she was just the first woman Bayrd had met today whom he knew well enough to decently ask for help with his hair, which after having his helmet on top of it had degenerated into an unruly rook’s-nest unfit for a gentleman leading a thousand soldiers – assuming there were still a thousand soldiers available to be led. It was an honourable request, and given their past relationship one which could not honourably be refused. That was all. One of his own line-family would have been less complicated, but they had been busy stripping everything remotely useful from their own ships before putting the torch to them, and in any event his relationship with them was not of the best right now.
Mevn ar’Dru had just been there.
She had been there on several occasions in the past, since he separated from Lorey and since Mahaut died. There was a little more than friendship in the relationship, but not much, even though it was a friendship that had brought them together in one bed or another three times now. But still just friendship. He had needed company and comforting, Mevn had said. And she had wanted to be the one to do the comforting. Nothing else: no offer or expected offer of marriage, or even the socially acceptable arrangement of official consortage. Just company, and comfort, and not being alone when the nights were black and cold and empty.
Marc of clan ar’Dru was another good friend; a drinking-companion, and someone with which to share opinions about the superior high-clan gentlemen who thought that birth and breeding were everything: above bravery, nobility, wisdom or even honour. That was usually worth a laugh – even though when it came to brains, their friendship, no matter how long it had lasted, did not mean that Bayrd had to deceive himself into thinking that Marc was any brighter than he had to be. He was a better soldier than a warrior, warriors having occasionally to reach their own decisions about matters. Marc ar’Dru was happiest when he had a superior officer to make those decisions for him, and then tell him what, when, where and why to do a thing. As for the rest of it, he was many things: trustworthy, courageous, honourable, amiable and amusing. But not really intelligent. Never that. Just a friend, whose faults were ignored for friendship’s sake, just as Bayrd hoped his own were ignored in turn.
Mevn ran her hands affectionately thorough his long hair preparatory to putting it up in the proper style for low-clan warriors, the full head of hair plaited into a single braid at the nape of the neck. Bayrd’s head jerked back and he yelped as her combing fingers found yet another tangle that was still not quite untied. And still it didn’t matter. The small concerns were more easily dwelt on than the larger ones, and this latest development was largest of all.
With the exception of perhaps a dozen, all the ships that had come to shore so far had been stripped to the keels and set alight. There was already conflict between those who had burned their ships willingly whether through duty or through agreement, those who had been forced – there were already too many of them – and those who had refused to burn their ships under any circumstance. That it had been mostly high-clan families who had refused, with low-clan vassal families permitted that right only by alliance to and support from their high-clan lords, added just one more unpleasant spice to the stew that the Albans were cooking for themselves.
His own duty done, his own ship no more than dead embers and a half-sunken hull being battered slowly to pieces by the surf, Bayrd watched it all from this safe distance. The foreign crews who had not signed on for this loss of their livelihood were silenced with handfuls of Kalitzak gold from the belly of the treasure-barge, and by the presence of weapons in the belts of the lord’s-men who distributed that gold. They trailed sullenly to such of the undamaged ships as remained their property – very few now – and began the laborious task of working them back from this suddenly-unfriendly shore in the face of contrary winds and currents.
Three times Bayrd had seen those weapons poised for use, and only once against the Droselan sailors. The other two occasions had been Albans drawing on Albans. He sighed wearily, already resigned to seeing it at some stage or other, if never so soon as this.
Arguing was what his people did best, and they had been practicing the art for a thousand years. Usually at the most inappropriate times. Just like now. It didn’t matter that this was exactly what they did not need, to squabble with each other before they had even taken the measure of what hazards might await them in this new land. But in its own way it was typical, as much a prideful part of being Alban as the language, the skill with horses, the honour. Arguments, sometimes about nothing more important than precedence at table, had always played a part in the lives of the kailinin, sometimes a larger part than seemed reasonable. But usually they had been able to set their differences aside in the face of a common enemy.
That common enemy had not yet appeared. Perhaps he – or they – never would appear, and Albanak with his talk of dangers and his building of fortifications was being more cautious than need be. No matter about that: concern for his people was an Overlord’s duty, just as obedience was theirs. But perhaps, thought Bayrd ruefully, Lord Gelert and his men would arrive on the beach just in time to see the clans and families fall to wrangling among themselves as had happened too many times before.
Too many times indeed: that was why internal alliances, by mar
riage, by adoption, by blood-oath, were so important. It meant that no one family faced a potential opponent alone. They had allies both in their own family and out of it, and the more there were from other clans, the better. It increased the number of reasonable voices – or the number of swords. That way differences of opinion had a chance to calm down before any of those swords needed to leave the scabbard.
There had been feuds in the distant past, over petty things: horse-raiding, or cattle stealing, or the kidnap of potential marriage partners of either sex, sometimes with the connivance of the supposed victim. While it remained no more than a feud that could be amicably settled, everyone entered into the sport of it. But there had been times when those feuds had turned bloody, and at least two occasions recorded in the Books of Years of various clans when the feuds had dragged in more and more supporters from either side until the whole thing had become a vicious small war.
Now the whole chance of their success against the Pryteneks depended on the fact that they had progressed beyond making war for fun, while the Pryteneks apparently had not. Bayrd hoped that was true. They were outnumbered no matter what happened.
* * * *
Mevn tapped him on the shoulder. “I can almost hear you thinking,” she said. “What about? My idiot brother?”
“Hardly.” And not just the ships, either. There was enough to think about even apart from that. Bayrd leaned forward to where his gear was stacked and pulled an arrow from its quiver, turning it over and over in his fingers. It was an armour-piercer, the polished metal of the head long and narrow like a willow-leaf, and it twinkled as the cobweb marks of honing caught the sunlight. But that was all. No sparks, no flame, no heat. He jabbed it into the sand like a man reaching a carefully-considered decision. “No, not about Marc. Ow! And never mind the braid. I’ll just tie it back.”
“You were never one for fashion before.”
“What…?”
“The latest fashion. For kailinin. A loose queue instead of fully braided. Not tied, mind you. Held back by a clip with your personal crest on it. Like this.”
Mevn took a handful of hair and twisted it gently into a single lock by way of demonstration. The result was more or less what she had just unraveled, but a good deal neater. Bayrd shuffled around just enough to give her his full attention, which in this instance involved raised eyebrows and a certain quirk to the mouth that suggested she had to be joking.
“Fashion? Me?”
“Um.” She looked at him for a few seconds with her head on one side, then shook her head and let go of his hair again. “No. I suppose not. Still just the single braid, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It was a promotion in rank, not an elevation in status.”
“Albanak must have thought that making you kailin-eir was going to cost him money,” snorted Mevn. “Stupid. It would probably have saved him some, if I know you. All right. Sit still. And don’t argue, you know I’m right.”
Bayrd shut his teeth with a click of mild disapproval that he hoped was audible. If the unnecessary severity with which she began braiding was anything to go by, she heard it well enough. It felt as if his ears were being pulled until they met at the back of his head, and if he risked a smile his face would probably split. So much for domesticity.
“You think the Overlord’s order about the ships was just as stupid, yes?”
“Yes – ow!” And so much for conversation. “Was that clumsiness or criticism?”
“Neither. Just another tangle. What were you doing, to get your hair in this state?”
“Drowning. Or it seemed that way at the time.”
“But you’d still keep the ships intact? Even after the storm last night?”
“Yes.” Bayrd turned so that Mevn could see his smile before he said anything more. “I can still remember a ‘last night’ when I wasn’t sure I would ever feel safe with you behind me again. Armed or not.”
“You say the sweetest things,” said Mevn after a moment’s consideration. Then she pulled at the length of braided hair resting on the palm of her hand, not the savage wrench to chastise his impudence that he had been expecting, but a steady force that drew Bayrd back and back until his balance went and he sprawled. His legs were in a tangle, caught underneath him and still halfway crossed so that there seemed to be nothing below the waist but locked joints. And his head was in her lap. It fitted so comfortably that it might have belonged there. There had been other days when they had both thought the same thing.
Bayrd had to squint as he stared up, because the sun was behind her head and a glowing halo of brilliance caught in her own loose fair hair and turned it golden. Whatever expression was on her face was hidden by the shadow beyond the glare, but he could feel the light pressure of one fingernail against the soft skin under his chin, drawn taut by the angle at which he lay. “I can be other places than behind you, and you still wouldn’t be safe,” said Mevn ar’Dru gently, stroking the nail across his throat from one jaw-hinge to the other. “If I wanted it that way.”
“You would make an…interesting wife.”
“You would make an interesting husband. But not for each other. And I don’t think that was an offer to marry, do you? Just an observation. Anyway, I like you better as a friend.”
Sorting out his legs enough that he had only the one pair of knees again, Bayrd sat up, swivelled, went cross-legged again as neatly as a cat folding itself into a meatloaf on a cushion, and gave her the ghost of a bow. “A pity,” he said.
“About being your friend? Why don’t you lie back down again, ar’Talvlyn – but give me your knife first.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Of course not.” Mevn brushed an imaginary grain of sand from the elaborate patterns of her travelling-skirt, straightened its folds, re-straightened them and only then looked him in the eye. Her own eyes were hazel, the browny-green of new acorns, and right now their green shade had the advantage. “Then you really did mean…?”
“Only if you agree to it.” He wasn’t sure what answer he wanted, and certainly there was nothing to be gained by the match, but a man could have a worse wife.
“I don’t. I won’t. Friendship, yes – but anything else and before too long we really would have knives at our throats. Like those fools down on the beach. If they can think of fighting each other, then they haven’t enough to do.”
“You sound like an officer’s wife already.”
“I said no. And anyway, now you’re just making the appropriate noises. I’ll take them as said, because no, no and no. You’re a deal too ambitious for ar’Dru to keep up with, except maybe by alliance.”
“Ambitious? Me…?”
“Yes. You. Protestations about fashion I’ll believe, Bayrd ar’Talvlyn. You’re too practical. But advancement – as I said before, no, no and again, no. You have ideas for clan ar’Talvlyn. Or are they just for Bayrd?”
He thought about that in a way he hadn’t done before. The clans and lesser families had always been the chiefmost focus of loyalty, taking precedence even over the Lord Albanak, although this present Overlord was clearly trying to change matters in his favour. But that loyalty was supposed to be a two-way transaction, and Bayrd still remembered the cooling that followed his marriage to Mahaut ar’Doren. That ponderous catch-all word ‘disapproval’ had been trundled out again, and after Mahaut’s father, to have the same response from his own folk was almost more than even ar’Talvlyn patience could bear. But he was stubborn, another and less appealing characteristic and one which the line-family had inherited four generations past from ar’Ayelbann’r Kozh, the Albans of the Old Time, on his great-grandfather’s side. That, combined with a certainty he was in the right, made for trouble. Because the rest of ar’Talvlyn knew just as certainly that they were right, and the honour of both parties required that each side of the argument be maintained without question. When such stubborn minds clashed, nothing so dramatic as sparks flew; but the Hot Hells could grow cold waiting for one or the other party t
o back down.
“All right, I’ll agree on the matter of advancement. But ambition has an ugly sound to it, one I—”
“—Wouldn’t want any of the high-clan lords to hear. I could believe that.”
“If you keep putting words into my mouth, one fine day you’re going to hear me say entirely the wrong thing.”
“You, utter a word out of place?” Mevn chuckled at the very idea. “Hardly. Or should I say, not unless you meant to. Even when we first…met, you were looking at everything five ways before you spoke, just in case you let something slip that was nobody’s business but your own. And two years has made no difference that I can hear. You know what they say about you?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me. That I think too much?” For once he was able to say the hated phrase without a bitter twist of self-mockery. Mevn evidently heard the difference, because she gave him a considering slantendicular stare from the corner of one eye, and smiled lazily.
“That’s one, and common knowledge. True, too. Think too much, and don’t talk enough about it. Downright closemouthed.” She reached out to ruffle his newly braided hair, then trailed her fingers across his face until they traced the outlines of his thin lips. “Though not all the time, I’m happy to say. But no. I was thinking of something else entirely.”
“Evidently.” Bayrd caught her hand before she could pull it away, turned it over, and nipped lightly at her inner wrist, just where the veins ran smoke-blue shadows under the delicate pale skin. Mevn shivered, and made no great effort to get free until Bayrd released her himself.
“They say,” she looked at the faint crescent marks his teeth had left, “that Bayrd ar’Talvlyn has ideas far above his present station.”
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