Mercifully, she did not wait for me to say more. “You really should come out with us. You have few enough friends that I’ve seen; I could be one, if only to show you how it’s done.”
I gave her a weak smile. I couldn’t refuse the offer now; she had been kinder to me than I deserved. “I will be there, but I may come late. I have to see the Scriber Registrar here first. Obviously I cannot work out of Waymark any longer, and the Academy will want to know where to collect my dues.” That, at least, gave me an excuse not to spend the entire evening in some run-down tavern.
Just then, the great oaken doors of the Kingshome creaked open, and Deanyn whirled to look. Over her shoulder, I could see Bryndine’s tall form silhouetted in the massive doorway. The women turned towards their Captain as she approached, waiting for news, dreading what it might be.
But I did not have to wait for Bryndine to speak to know the King’s decision; I needed only to look at her. On her face—usually so carefully composed—she wore an expression of absolute despair.
Chapter Fourteen
They say that Bryndine Errynson recruited her company from all corners of the Kingsland, saving many of them from dungeons and stockades, and sometimes even the gallows. I can believe it, though not for the reasons that most do. The truth is, in most baronies, they’d probably clap a woman in irons just for daring to go against the conventions laid out in the Book of the Divide. And the women Bryndine leads do no small amount of that.
Sky and Earth, people can be so stupid.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
It was near sunset when I finally arrived at the Doused Tree; after leaving the Scriber Registrar, it took me more than an hour to find the place among the mess of roads in the Commoncourt. It looked much like any other dilapidated building in the Commoncourt, but I knew it by the sign outside: a flagon of ale upended over a flaming tree. There was no doubt it was the tavern Orya had named.
The tavern was lively that night. Even from the street, I could hear the sounds of drunken revelry within. No surprise, that—by its poor lighting and general state of disrepair, I assumed it to be the sort of low-price, low-standard place that would make great profit from the refugees coming into the city. Even the poorest and most wretched of those living in the tents beyond the walls would part with their coin for a stiff drink; it let them forget their dire situation, if only for a night. I was not overly eager to spend the evening in such a place, but I felt obliged to at least make a brief appearance.
At least I was arriving late. It would be easier to excuse myself given the hour.
Bryndine’s women had already claimed three tables and were well into their cups when I entered. The other patrons gave them a wide berth, watching them with sideways glances full of suspicion, but the women didn’t seem to care. The entire company was there as far as I could tell, and their attitudes were surprisingly buoyant, given that they had been officially discharged from the Army hours before. The drinking may have had something to do with that—the tables were littered with empty flagons.
Orya and Debra were engaged in a one-sided arm wrestling match at one table. At another, Tenille and Wynne were deep in discussion over Theryn’s Philosophy of Duty with a skinny dark-haired man I vaguely recognized. Nearby, Kaelyn flirted with several smitten young men, while Varrie entertained the others with coin tricks and prestidigitation. A surprising number of women had husbands or lovers with them: Hylda held hands with a short, balding man, and Rylene’s escort seemed not to mind the scars on her face at all. Even Sylla had come, though she did not look to be enjoying herself—she sat wedged into the corner of the common room, talking little and drinking heavily. Bryndine, however, was notably absent.
“Dennon!” Deanyn spotted me and waved me over to her table. “I kept a seat for you.”
I picked my way through the room towards her, unpleasantly conscious of the many eyes that fixed upon me at the revelation that I was with the Bloody Bride’s company. Trying to avoid any more attention, I kept my head down until I reached the table. Deanyn was seated with Genna, Wynne, Tenille, and the man I couldn’t quite name—he wore a Scriber’s pin, which was likely how I knew him. Tenille’s husband, I assumed. I took a seat between Deanyn and Genna, and the latter visibly flinched as my arm brushed hers. Clearly embarrassed by her reaction, she took a deep drink and did not look up at me.
“Scriber Dennon,” Wynne greeted me excitedly. “You’ve read Theryn, haven’t you?”
Deanyn laughed. “No introductions, then?”
“Oh!” Wynne looked abashed. “I’m sorry. I was just…” She trailed off, blushing, and gestured for Tenille to present the familiar-looking man.
“Dennon, this is my husband Vance.” Tenille leaned warmly against the man, who wrapped an arm around her as he extended his free hand for me to shake.
“A pleasure.” I returned the handshake. “I think we might have met before…?”
“We’ve seen each other around the Academy. I was pinned in Medicine, but I studied History as well.” Vance looked slightly uncomfortable, but I decided not to take it personally. He must have known who I was, being married to Tenille, and few Scribers who knew me would go so far as to shake my hand at all.
“So…” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying and failing to think of some interesting subject of conversation. “Is Bryndine going to be joining us?”
“She is with her father, but she said that she would be along later,” Tenille answered.
“I may miss her then. I can’t stay long.” Unable to think of a proper excuse, I kept my reasons vague. “I have… things to do in the morning.”
Arching an eyebrow, Deanyn gave me a knowing smile. “We wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. But at least have one drink—I’ll even pay for it.”
“That seems fair,” I acquiesced. “Red wine…” I looked around the dingy room with some scepticism. “If they have anything besides ale.”
They did, though it was no fine Raenish red, or even a decent Bridgefort vintage—it tasted like the grapes had been stomped on a stable floor. Still, after a few sips, I found myself relaxing somewhat.
“Scriber Dennon, I was going to ask you about your views on Theryn.” There was an eager glint in Wynne’s eyes as she brought the conversation back around to the philosopher.
“By the Mother and the Father, more of this?” Rolling her eyes, Deanyn stood, grinning to take the edge out of her next words: “I’m going to join the interesting people.” She moved over to the next table, where Orya and Leste were in the middle of a dangerous-looking drinking game involving knives.
Philosophy seemed a harmless enough topic to pass the time while I finished my single glass. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table as I spoke. “The thing to understand about Theryn is that he was writing shortly after the Forgetting ended, so much of his talk about complete obedience to the King can be read as satirical…”
* * *
An hour and innumerable drinks later, I had explained my views on various philosophers to anyone who would listen; joined Nalla in a rousing rendition of Adello’s The Burning King; and lost arm wrestling matches to Orya, Leste, and finally even Genna, who had drunk enough to actually make eye contact with me during the contest. It felt good to dull my senses, to let the wine wash away the constant fear of disembodied voices. To drown the euphoria of discovery I had only just reawakened and the unexpected grief at having to let that feeling go once more.
But as the night wore on, the mood among the women grew increasingly morose, and my own disposition fared no better. Spirited drinking games gave way to dejected discussion about their unjust punishment. Bryndine had not yet arrived, and I felt badly for the women waiting for her—I suspected that the Captain they loved so dearly was not coming at all.
Eventually, I found myself in the sort of solemn, confessional conversation that only comes when one mixes depression with heavy drinking. Once again I sat with Tenille, Vance, and
Genna; Deanyn had returned as well. Wynne had left to join some of the others in making insulting toasts to the King and the High Commander, and Orya had taken her seat. It seemed backwards, the well-read young woman throwing out curse-riddled salutations while the usually foul-mouthed Orya discussed her hopes and disappointments, but alcohol and unpleasant news make people act strangely—my still being there at all was proof enough of that.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I suggested to Tenille, forcing my tongue to enunciate the words through the slurring effect of the wine. “You have children.”
Tenille frowned. “Most soldiers do, but no one cares when they’re men. I want to protect my children.” She spoke quite clearly—she and Vance had imbibed sparingly, at least by comparison.
“Better her than me.” Vance gave his wife an affectionate squeeze. “I wouldn’t last a day. We’re proud of Tenille. It should be people as well trained as her out there, man or woman.”
“Only thin’ ‘at matters is, we don’ got cocks.” Orya’s normally rough speech was even harder to understand when she was drunk, and she was further gone than anyone at the table. She took a deep pull from her mug, then slammed it down. “Ne’r mind us bein’ better’n any Dragon-damned man in th’Army!” Her voice carried loudly through the common room and garnered foul looks from the other patrons, but many of the women around her showed their agreement with shouts and raised glasses.
“Why do it then?” I asked. “I’d have quit long—” I paused to belch, covering it with my hand. “—ago. Gets you nothing but scorn.”
“Well, we don’t do it.” Deanyn attempted glibness, but it sounded like sorrow. “Not anymore.”
Tenille tried a more serious answer, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. “We fight to serve—”
“Bryndine.” Genna’s voice was soft, but somehow the sound of it silenced the others. “We do it because of Bryndine.”
“Not anymore,” Deanyn repeated quietly.
Genna looked at me with only faint hesitation—although she, like Tenille, had held back from drinking too much, the ale had made her bolder than usual. “Scriber Dennon, you know how people speak of her. She protects us from scorn by taking it upon herself. We’re here because—” Halfway through the sentence she realized she had become the center of attention and halted abruptly, then flushed red and finished in a nervous rush, “—because she brought us here.”
Orya nodded emphatically. “I’d’ve lost a hand or worse, stealin’ in Highpass.” She illustrated the point with a pantomimed chopping motion towards her wrist. “But the Cap’n stopped it. Army wage was more’n I’d make in a year, ‘fore she foun’ me.”
“I had the Warfare training, but no opportunity to use it before Millum Wren introduced us,” Tenille agreed. “And she inspired many of the girls to seek her out themselves. Wynne wanted a chance to serve the Kingsland when she couldn’t get into the Academy. And Janelyn—Father rest her—begged to join us the moment she came of age.”
“Didn’t go well for Janelyn. Sometimes it’s better… not to get what you dream of.” I drained the last of my wine and peered glumly through the empty glass. Dozens of bubbles and imperfections warped my view of the women sitting across the table; Genna and Orya melted down like used candles.
“Don’t you dare diminish her death!” Tenille’s anger surprised me, and my fingers fumbled, letting the glass fall to the table. “You’ve read the Book of the Divide, Dennon. Women who wish to do more with our lives than tend to a husband have few paths to choose from. Bryndine gave us one. Janelyn knew the risks, and chose willingly—as any soldier does.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “No disrespect. Janelyn helped save my life. You won’t hear me saying she wasn’t fit for the Army. But why choose to fight for people who hate you for it?”
“Some of us wouldn’t have been allowed any choice at all without Bryndine,” whispered Genna. “Fathers can force their daughters into marriage. To men who…” Her voice broke, and she looked down at her hands.
“Erryn’s Promise says that all citizens are free and equal, but daughters and wives are treated as property more often than not,” Tenille said with no small amount of bitterness. “Mother forbid we try to make the kingdom safer for our families. Bryndine seeks to correct that where she can. Not many have the courage to challenge the King’s niece when she cites the Promise. The Army will be poorer for her loss.”
Deanyn laughed, but there was no joy in it. “That’s an understatement. She was the best officer they had.” Raising her mug and her voice, she shouted, “To the Captain!”
“Th’Cap’n!” Orya slurred with feeling, liquid sloshing out as her cup flew upwards.
In short order, all three tables were raising a loud toast to Bryndine. I joined in half-heartedly. For all that they claimed Bryndine had done for them, I could not help but feel she should have been there for them at that moment. The same thought seemed to occur to many of the women as they saluted their absent Captain; a pensive silence fell over them after they lowered their drinks.
“Sky’n’Earth, that’s too far!” A belligerent voice cut through the muttered conversation in the common room, and I looked to see a square-jawed bald man rising unsteadily to his feet from a nearby table. “You lot bein’ ‘ere is bad enough, but now yer toastin’ the dragon-Damned Bloody Bride, bringin’ the Mother’s wrath down on th’ rest of us? We’re good, Gods-fearin’—”
Sylla was upon him before he finished speaking, driving her fist into his stomach. She had been silent the entire night, not moving from her spot in the corner; I had nearly forgotten she was there. But as soon as she heard him insult Bryndine, she flung herself at the man with a swiftness that I could barely believe, particularly from a woman who had been drinking so heavily for so long.
As the man doubled over, she grabbed him by the hair, slamming his head down into her raised knee. Blood streamed from his broken nose, and he slumped to his knees cursing, but Sylla was not done with him. A final, savage blow to the temple sent him sprawling to the floor unconscious. The room was silent; no one could quite believe the ruthless efficiency of the beating they had just witnessed.
“Who else has something to say about the Captain?” Sylla demanded.
“You shouldn’ta done that, bitch.” A large man with a protruding gut stood from his seat at the bar, advancing towards Sylla. Her dark eyes flashed dangerously in response.
He made it no more than two steps before a blur of blond hair and sinewy limbs crashed into him. I could hear Orya laughing, of all things, as she carried the big man to the ground.
Chairs clattered against the hardwood floor as nearly everyone in the tavern rose, and then, complete chaos. Leste dodged a fist and countered by cracking her mug into the head of the man who had thrown the punch. Selvi or Elene—I still could not tell the twins apart—pinned a man’s arms while the other sister battered him with her fists. Three men surrounded Ivyla, and her vicious defense proved that she was not entirely the honorable and unimaginative soldier I had thought. She evened the odds by lashing a foot into the largest man’s groin and striking another in the face with a solid backhand, but the third caught her jaw with a roundhouse punch that sent her reeling.
A moment later, I could no longer tell one woman from the next in the tumult of bodies grappling through the tavern. Orya’s reckless laughter floated over everything, giving the mayhem an air of dream-like madness.
I tried to make my way towards the door to escape, but my wine-weakened legs faltered and I staggered sideways into a hefty man with a thick beard and furious eyes. His elbow snapped back into the side of my face, and I cried out as my cheek split open.
Falling to the floor, I scrambled on my hands and knees towards the nearest table. Vance was cowering beneath it already, and he greeted me with a helpless shrug. A drunken chuckle escaped my lips; we looked absurd, two scared, skinny men trembling behind the furniture while women brawled violently all around us.
The fight came to an end as suddenly as it began. With a bellow, the tavern-keeper gained everyone’s attention, threatening to call the guard. When it became clear that might not be sufficient, he added a lifelong ban for anyone who threw another punch. The latter proved much more effective.
When the violence had ceased, he turned to Tenille. “I want you lot out, and don’t come back. The wife warned me not to let you drink to begin with. I called her foolish. If their coin’s good, what’s the harm, I said. Well, I’m the fool now, I reckon.”
“Sky’n’bloody Earth, it’s him started th’ ruttin’ thing.” Orya pointed at the man Sylla had left senseless on the floor, wheezing through the ruin of his bloody nose. It did not make a convincing case for their innocence.
“We’ll go,” said Tenille, helping her husband to his feet as she spoke. When she bent down below the edge of the table, I saw that a nasty bruise was already forming around her eye. “Come on, women. Staying won’t do us any good.”
Some of the women muttered quietly, glaring at the other patrons, but they followed Tenille out the door. I clambered out from beneath the table and hurried after them.
It was late evening by then, nearly midnight, and most of the women said their goodbyes and began to stumble home. Tenille and Vance bid me farewell and took their leave, Vance fussing over his wife’s bruised eye. As I watched them go, I realized that I had nowhere to stay myself. I had thought to take lodging at the Doused Tree, but that was out of the question now.
Deanyn and I were among the few still lingering outside the tavern, and she flashed me an ironic smile. “Well, are you glad you joined us?”
“Overjoyed.” I raised a hand to the gash on my cheek, and my fingertips came back bloody. “You came out better than most,” I commented, looking her over. Besides two very light scratches on her forehead from what might have been fingernails, Deanyn appeared untouched.
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