He waited for Rihwin to say something like, “They could do it for themselves.” He was ready to pour scorn on that idea like boiling water splashing down from the top of a palisade onto the heads of attackers. Farmers didn’t have the tools they needed to be fighters: the horses, the chariots, the swords, the armor. Nor did they have the time they needed to learn to use those tools; the endless rhythms of fields and livestock devoured their days.
But Rihwin said, “My fellow Fox, sometimes you don’t know when you’re being twitted.”
Denied his chance to rend Rihwin with rhetoric, Gerin glared. He walked around to the front of the castle. Rihwin tagged along, chuckling. As they went inside, another horn sounded from a more distant village, and then another almost at the edge of hearing. Gerin said, “You see? If one village knocks off early, they all do it, for they hear the first horn and blow their own, figuring they don’t want to work any harder than the fellows down the trail.”
“Who does like to work?” Rihwin said.
“No one with sense,” Gerin admitted, “but no one with sense will avoid doing what he must to stay alive. The trouble is, not all men are sensible, even by that standard.”
“If you think I’ll argue with that, you’re the one who’s not sensible,” Rihwin said.
The great hall of the castle occupied most of the ground floor. A fire roared in the stone hearth at the far end, and another, smaller, one in front of the altar to Dyaus close by. Above the hearth, cooks basted chunks of beef as they turned them on spits. Fat-wrapped thighbones, the god’s portion, smoked on the altar. Gerin believed in feeding the god well; moreover, after his brush with Mavrix, he figured he could use all the divine protection he could get.
Two rows of benches ran from the doorway to the hearth. In winter, seats closest to the fire were the choice ones. Now, with the weather mild, Gerin sat about halfway down one row. A couple of dogs came trotting through the rushes on the rammed-earth floor and lay at his feet, looking up expectantly.
“Miserable beggars,” he said, and scratched their ears. “I don’t have any food myself yet, so how can I throw you bones and scraps?” The dogs thumped their tails on the ground. They knew they got fed sooner or later when people sat at those benches. If it had to be later, they would wait.
Van and Drago the Bear and the other gamblers came in, chattering about the game. Duren frisked among them. When he saw Gerin, he ran over to him, exclaiming, “I rolled the dice a lot, Papa! I rolled double six twice, and five-and-six three times, and—”
He would have gone down the whole list, but Van broke in, “Aye, and the little rascal rolled one-and-two for me, and sent me out of that round without a tunic to call my own.” He shook a heavy fist at Duren in mock anger. Duren, safe beside his father, stuck out his tongue.
“The dice go up, the dice go down,” Drago said, shrugging shoulders almost as wide as Van’s. From him, that passed for philosophy. He was a long way from the brightest of Gerin’s vassals, but a good many more clever men managed their estates worse. Since Drago never tried anything new, he discovered no newfangled ways to go wrong.
Gerin called to one of the cooks, “We have enough here to begin. Fetch ale for us, why don’t you?”
“Aye, lord prince,” the man answered, and hurried down into the cellar. He returned a moment later, staggering a little under the weight of a heavy jar of ale. The jar had a pointed bottom. The cook stabbed it into the dirt floor so the jar stood upright. He hurried off again, coming back with a pitcher and a double handful of tarred leather drinking jacks. He set one in front of everybody at the table (Duren got a small one), then dipped the pitcher into the amphora, pouring and refilling until every jack was full.
“Take some for yourself, too,” Gerin said; he was not a lord who stinted his servants. Grinning, the cook poured what looked like half a pitcher down his throat. Gerin slopped a little ale out of his mug onto the floor. “This for Baivers, god of barley,” he intoned as he drank.
“This for Baivers,” the others echoed as they poured their libations. Even Van imitated him: though Baivers was no god of the outlander’s, the deity, whose scalp sprouted ears of barley instead of hair, held sway in this land.
Rihwin made a sour face as he set down the mug. “I miss the sweet blood of the grape,” he said.
“Point the first: the grape doesn’t grow in the northlands and we’ve lost our trade south of the High Kirs,” Gerin said. “Point the second: when you drink too much wine, dreadful things happen. We’ve seen that again and again. Point the third: wine lies in Mavrix’s province, and have you not had your share and more of commerce with Mavrix?”
“True, all true,” Rihwin said sadly. “I miss the grape regardless.”
The cooks came round with bowls of bean-and-parsnip porridge, with tiny bits of salt pork floating in it to give it flavor. Like everyone else, Gerin lifted his bowl to his lips, wiped his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. South of the High Kirs, they had separate squares of cloth for cleaning your face and fingers, but such refinements did not exist north of the mountains.
Off the spit came the pieces of beef. While one cook carved them into man-sized portions, another went back to the kitchen and came out with round, flat, chewy loaves of bread, which he set in front of each man at the table. They’d soak up the juices from the meat and get eaten in their turn.
Gerin patted the empty place between Van and him. “Put one here, too, Anseis. Fand is sure to be down before long.”
“Aye, lord prince,” the cook said, and did as he was asked.
Duren started tearing pieces from his round of bread and stuffing them into his mouth. Gerin said, “If you fill yourself up with that, boy, where will you find room for your meat?”
“I’ll put it someplace.” Duren patted his stomach to show the intended destination.
Just as the cook who was carving the beef started loading steaming gobbets onto an earthenware tray, Fand did come down from Castle Fox’s living quarters into the great hall. Gerin and Van glanced over at each other, smiled for a moment, and then both waved her to that place between them.
“Och, you’re still not after fighting over me,” she said in mock disappointment as she came up. Beneath the mock disappointment, Gerin judged, lay real disappointment. She might have resigned herself to their peacefully sharing her, but she didn’t like it.
Hoping to get her off that bloodthirsty turn of thought, Gerin called for a servant to pour her a jack of ale. He handed it to her himself. “Here you are.”
“I thank you, sure and I do.” Her Elabonian held a strong Trokmê lilt. She was a big, fair woman, not too much shorter than the Fox, with pale skin dusted with freckles wherever the sun caught it, gray-blue eyes, and wavy, copper-colored hair that tumbled past her shoulders. To Gerin, men of that coloring were enemies on sight; he still sometimes found it odd to be sharing a bed with a woman from north of the Niffet.
Not odd enough to keep me from doing it, though, he thought. Aloud, he said to Fand, “Should I have put you on a boat across the river after all?”
“’Twould have been your own loss if you had,” she retorted, tossing her head so the torchlight glinted in her hair. One thing she had was unshakeable self-confidence—and why not, when two men such as they danced to her tune?
Gerin said, “My guess is still that you stuck a knife into the fellow who brought you south over the Niffet.”
“I’ve told you before, Gerin dear: I brought my own self over, thinking life might be more lively here. Och, and so it has been, not that I reckoned on yoking myself to a southron—” she paused to half turn and make eyes at Van “—let alone two.”
“I’m no Elabonian,” Van boomed indignantly, “and I’ll thank you not to call me one. One fine day I hitch a team to a chariot or just go off afoot—”
“How many years have you been saying that?” Gerin asked.
“As many as I’ve been here, no doubt, less maybe one turn of the fastest moon.” Van shook
his head, forever bemused he could stay in one place so long. “A tree, now, has need of growing roots, but a man—?”
“A man?” Fand said, still trying to stir up trouble. “You’ll quarrel over whether you’re a southron or no, but not over me? What sort of man is that after making you?”
“You should remember well enough from last night what sort of man I am.” Van looked like a cat that had fallen into the cream pitcher.
Fand squeaked indignantly and turned back to Gerin. “Will you be letting him speak to me so?”
“Aye, most likely I will,” he said. If she got fed up and left them both, he’d be sorry for a while, but he knew he’d also be relieved. He didn’t feel like a screaming fight now, though, so he said, “Here comes the meat.”
That distracted her. It distracted him, too. He drew his dagger from his belt and started carving strips off the bone in front of him and popping them into his mouth.
The dagger, like the rest of his personal gear, was severely plain, with a hilt of nothing more splendid than leather-wrapped bone. But it had good balance, and he kept the edge sharp; sometimes he used plainness to conceal effectiveness.
Van, by contrast, had the hilt to his knife wrapped in gold wire, with a big topaz set into the pommel. For him, flamboyance served the same purpose self-effacement did for Gerin: it disguised the true warrior beneath. Being dangerous without seeming so, Gerin had found, made the danger double.
Thinking thus, he glanced over at Fand, who was slicing with her own slim bronze blade. Was she disguising something? He snorted and took a long pull at his ale. No, concealment wasn’t in her nature. But he’d thought as much about Elise, and where had that got him?
Duren said, “Papa, will you help me cut more meat?” He had a knife, too, but a small one, and not very sharp. That helped keep him from getting cut, but it also kept him from eating very fast.
Gerin leaned over and sliced off several strips for him. “Splash water on your face when you’re done,” he said. He remembered how surprised and delighted he’d been to discover the elaborate hot and cold baths the City of Elabon boasted. North of the High Kirs, as best he knew, there was only one tub, and it wasn’t at his holding. Not without a pang, he’d gone back to being mostly dirty most of the time.
Fand made eyes first at Van, then at him. “Och, a woman gets lonely, that she does.”
“If you’re lonely with the two of us to keep you warm at night, would you try a bandit troop next?” Van said.
She cursed him in the Trokmê language, Elabonian not being satisfying enough for her. Van swore back in the same tongue; he’d traversed the gloomy forests of the Trokmoi before he swam the Niffet (towing his precious armor behind him on a makeshift raft) and splashed up inside Gerin’s holding.
“Will you be letting him speak to me so?” Fand demanded of the Fox once more.
“Probably,” he answered. She picked up her drinking jack and threw it at him. She had more fury than finesse. It splashed down behind him and sprayed ale onto a couple of the hounds quarreling over bones. They separated with a yelp. Fand sprang to her feet and stomped upstairs.
“Not often dull around here,” Van observed to no one in particular.
“It’s not, is it?” Gerin said. “Sometimes I think I’d find a bit of dullness restful.” He hadn’t known much, not since he came back over the Kirs to take over his father’s holdings and especially not since the Trokmoi and their wizard Balamung invaded the northlands. Balamung was dead now, without even a grave to hold him, but too many Trokmoi still raided and settled on this side of the Niffet, adding one more volatile element to already touchy politics.
Gerin emptied his own jack in a fashion more conventional than Fand’s, went over to the amphora, and poured it full again. Some of his vassals were already swilling themselves into insensibility. If I want dull, he thought, all I need do is listen to the talk around this table. Dice, horses and chariots, crops, women … no new ideas anywhere, just old saws trotted out as if they were fresh-minted from pure gold. He longed for the days when he’d sat in students’ taverns, arguing sorcerous techniques and the shape of the historical process.
Rihwin the Fox knew the pleasures of intellectual conversation, but Rihwin also knew the pleasures of the wine jar or, that failing, the ale pot. He might complain about having to pour down ale, but that didn’t stop him from doing quite a lot of it. And, at the moment, he had a serving girl on his lap. He would have done a better job of fumbling at her clothes had his hands been steadier.
Van knew his letters; he’d made a point of learning them when he discovered Elabonian could be written. He even spoke well of its alphabet; Gerin gathered he’d run across other, more cumbersome ways of noting down thoughts in his travels. But learning his letters did not make him interested in quoting poetry, except for informational content, let alone analyzing it.
As for Gerin’s own vassal barons, most of them thought reading a vaguely effeminate accomplishment (he wondered why; even fewer women than men were literate). They’d learned better than to say so to him, and had learned he was a good fighting man in spite of having a room that stored several dozen scrolls and codices. But that didn’t mean they grew interested in thinking, too.
Gerin sighed and drank more ale himself. Sometimes he thought slipping back into near barbarism easier than trying to maintain the standards of civilization he’d learned south of the High Kirs. Which is the way civilization falls apart, said the part of him that had studied history.
After one more jack of ale, he didn’t feel like arguing with that part any more. Rihwin and the girl had wandered off. Drago the Bear snored thunderously on the floor, and took no notice when one of the dogs walked over him. Duren was asleep, too; the little boy had curled up, catlike, on his bench.
Van, on the other hand, was wide awake and looked more sober than Gerin felt. The Fox raised an eyebrow at him. “What would you?” he asked. “Shall we roll the dice after all?”
“For the lass, you mean?” Van shook his massive head. “You go to her tonight, if you’ve a mind to. She’d sweeten up for me in a bit, I expect, but I haven’t the patience to get through the shouting that’d come first. I’ll drink a bit more and then maybe sleep myself.”
“All right.” Gerin lifted Duren off the bench. His son wriggled a little, but did not wake. As he carried Duren upstairs, the Fox was grateful for the banister he’d added to the stairway when he came back from the south. With it, he was much less likely to trip and break not only his neck but the boy’s.
He set Duren on the bed in his own chamber, hoping his son would wake up if he had to piddle in the night. Otherwise, the mattress would need some fresh straw.
With Duren in his arms, the Fox hadn’t been able to carry a lamp or a taper up to the bedchamber with him. That left it black as a bandit’s heart inside. He stumbled over some wood toy or other that he’d carved for Duren and almost fell on his face. Flailing his arms, he managed to keep himself upright and, with a muttered curse, went out into the hallway.
A couple of failing torches cast a dim red light there, enough, at least, to let him see where he put his feet. The walk to the next chamber was a matter of just a few steps. He rapped on the door, wondering if Fand had fallen asleep. If she didn’t answer, he’d go back to his own bed.
But she did: “Which of you is it, now?”
Maybe it was the ale, but Gerin felt mischievous. He deliberately deepened his voice and put on a slight guttural accent: “Which d’you think?”
He heard her take three rapid strides toward the door. She threw it open and blazed, “Van of the Strong Arm, if you’re after thinking y’can—” Then, by the torchlight and the brighter flame of the candle beside her bed, she realized it wasn’t Van standing there. She scowled at Gerin. “You’re a right devil to befool me so, and I ought to be slamming the door on the beaky nose of you.”
He looked down that member at her. “Well?” he said when she didn’t do as she’d threatened.
“Well, indeed,” she said, and sighed. “Must be I’m the fool, for taking up with a southron man—worse, for taking up with a southron man and his great galoon of a friend, the both of them at once. Often enough I’ve said it, but—” Her face softened. “Since I am the fool, you may as well come in.”
She stood aside to let him pass, closed the door behind him. She kept the room scrupulously neat; it was, by all odds, the cleanest part of the castle. Gerin knew the tunics and skirts and drawers in the cedar chest against the wall would all be folded just the same way. Beside that chest, her sandals and shoes stood in precise pairs. He lavished that much care only on his weapons, where it could be a matter of life or death.
Fand must have been mending a tunic when he knocked: it lay on the wool coverlet to her bed. Candlelight glistened from the polished bone needle she’d used. She picked up the tunic, set it on the chest. She nodded toward the candle. “Shall I blow it out?”
“Please yourself,” he answered. “You know I like to look at you, though.”
That won him a smile. “You southrons are sweeter in the tongue than men of my own folk, I’ll say so much for you. Maybe there’s the why of my staying here. A Trokmê chief, now, he’d just tell me to be after spreading my legs and waste no time about it.”
Gerin’s skeptical eyebrow rose. “My guess is that any man who told you such a thing would be likelier to get a knife in the brisket than anything else.”
“Sure and that’s the very thing he got, the black-hearted omadhaun,” she said. “Why d’you think a puir lone woman would come to your keep at sunset, seeking shelter from the ghosts? Had his kin caught me, they’d have burned me in a wicker cage, that they would.”
He knew she was right—that or some other equally appalling fate. South of the High Kirs, they erucified their miscreants. He reckoned himself merciful: if a man needed killing, he attended to it as quickly and cleanly as he could. But he’d killed his share and more, these past few years.
Prince of the North Page 2
