The Warrior's Bond

by Juliet McKenna

  Tension crackled in the air so palpably I wouldn’t have been surprised to see lightning strike. Dagny’s mouth twisted and he launched a hacking stroke at me. I met it even before he’d got the full force behind the blow, stepping in and grabbing for his sword-hilt with my free hand. That sent him scuttling back in confusion, remembering the way I’d pinned him earlier.

  He tried to spit on the ground again but now his mouth was dry. I waited patiently with a mocking smile and when he brought his sword level I took up the same Aldabreshin stance. Dagny thought he saw an opening and tried his favourite thrust down at my legs, but as soon as I saw his shoulders tense I angled my blade down to defeat the blow, hitting him hard enough to shake his balance. That gave me an instant of opportunity; I twisted my wrist over and sliced deep into his forearm, the blade falling instantly from his nerveless fingers. Scarlet blood saturated his sleeve in a moment but he just stood there, gaping.

  I ripped the torn sleeve off my own shirt and shoved up Dagny’s cuff to see the damage. It was a deep gash right along the meat of his forearm but I’d taken him so much by surprise he’d had no chance to turn his wrist. That should have saved the tendons but I’d hit a major blood vessel by the looks of it. I pressed the linen to the wound, my hands already sticky and slick. “Hold this down hard.” I took his free hand and clamped it down.

  “But they said I had to kill you,” he muttered unguardedly, shock at the unexpected wound doubling the garrulous impulse born of tahn.

  “Who said?” I demanded, too soon, too curt, but people were crowding on to the sand.

  He focused on me and realisation shuttered his eyes. “I’ve ever fought against Archipelagan sword styles before. They said you weren’t fit to be chosen anyway.”

  “Who said?” I repeated, pressing down hard on his wound, more to hurt him now than to staunch the blood.

  “Let me see!” Den Thasnet’s man tried to pull my hands off Dagny.

  “Back off,” I growled. “Send for Mistress Fyle.”

  “She’s on her way,” someone said behind me.

  “We’ve nurses of our own,” insisted Den Thasnet’s man; I heard fear in his voice. “Come on Dagny, we’re leaving.” He wrenched at my bandaged hand.

  I swore at him but hadn’t the strength in the injured fingers to resist. A solid phalanx with trefoil amulets were pushing forward to surround Dagny, pushing everyone else away. I saw someone behind Stolley answer a brutal shove with a ready punch.

  “Let him go!” I shouted. “If the stupid bastard bleeds to death in some gutter, it’s no loss to us.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man!” Fyle tried to hold Dagny back, but Den Thasnet’s man smacked the provost’s hand from the lad’s shaking shoulder.

  “You’re stopping us?” A thick-set brawler with foul breath and pox scars pitting his face stepped up to Fyle.

  “Provost!” My curt formality got Fyle’s attention just before he shut the man’s mouth with his fist. “They came looking for a fight and they’ve had the only one they’re going to get. Their man lost and that’s all there is to it.”

  I was relieved to hear a murmur of agreement behind me, led by Mistal and Temar.

  “True enough.” Fyle looked at Den Thasnet’s man without a hint of good will. “Get your filth off my ground.”

  The pockmarked man grabbed at Fyle’s shoulders, ready to smash the provost’s nose with his forehead. Fyle was too quick, making the self-same move an instant sooner and sending the big man stumbling back blindly.

  “Ingel, leave it!” Den Thasnet’s man was still trying to staunch Dagny’s wound, the bandages already sodden with blood. The mob sworn to Den Thasnet gathered still closer as Dagny stumbled, face greenish white.

  “Let them pass!” Fyle raised a commanding hand, his own fury vented in part by breaking the pockmarked man’s nose.

  “Wait.” Mistal stepped in front of Den Thasnet’s spokesman. “As an advocate sworn to the courts of law, I call all here to bear witness. You are removing this man from competent care of your own choice. Don’t even think of making any claim that Fyle or D’Olbriot failed in their duty to succour the wounded.” His words rang with authority and I was pleased to see uncertainty flicker across Den Thasnet faces.

  I watched them leave the rapidly emptying practice ground with frustration burning in my throat, that and the bitter chewing leaf. I spat it out. Who had told those men lies convincing enough to bring them here for a fight in blatant disregard of every custom?

  “Dalmit?” I saw a sworn man I recognised from Tor Kanselin. “You’re not on duty tonight, are you?”

  “Me? No.”

  I spoke quickly in low tones. “Someone wanted trouble here today. I want to know who, and so will the Sieur, but none of Den Thasnet’s are going to give D’Olbriot’s the steam off their piss now. How about you and a few lads swing round the inns and brothels where Den Thasnet’s men slake their thirsts? See what you can kick or cajole out of some unwary drunk? I’ll make your purse good for everything you spend.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you think this ties in with whoever wanted your D’Alsennin dead?” A sworn man taking that kind of news to his Sieur would be remembered.

  I shook my head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “It’s got to be worth a look,” said Dalmit with a predatory grin. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Shall we get you cleaned up?” Mistal tried for a smile. As he took his hands out of his breeches pockets and found some chewing leaf, I saw his hands were shaking. Temar by contrast looked like a hound who’d caught an interesting scent and then been chained up in the kennel yard.

  “We agreed not to give them a fight, Temar,” I reminded him.

  “Must that mean we never hit back?” he growled.

  “We need to know who we’re fighting,” I pointed out.

  “Den Thasnet for one, that is clear enough,” he said scornfully.

  I pulled off my bloodstained, sweaty shirt. “We’ll go back to the residence and start planning our campaign, shall we?” My injured hand throbbed and the strains of intense sword-play pulled at my muscles. I was going to miss Livak’s skilful fingers working rubbing oils into my shoulders tonight.

  “You need something to drink and something to eat!” Stolley reappeared, offering me an uncorked bottle. I drank deep, no way to treat a good wine, but I was too thirsty to care.

  “Not until you’ve had that stitched.” Fyle elbowed him aside, bandages and salve at the ready.

  I looked at the oozing slice on my arm and took another long drink of wine. “Have you some tahn paste to numb it?”

  “Rysh! Get yourself bandaged and we can start the serious drinking!” Jord raised a tankard to me as he shouted over the avid debates being joined all around us.

  Mistal looked at me. “This is probably our best chance of finding out if anyone put him up to answering the challenge, him and Lovis.” D’Istrac men all looked keen to join any celebration going.

  Temar was bright-eyed with interest. “It would hardly be courteous, to leave at once.”

  I hesitated. “We can stay for a little while.”

  A Hireling Coach,

  Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Evening

  And do you remember Inshowe, the tailor up by the portage way?”

  Temar did his best to look interested at what would doubtless be yet another story about people he didn’t know and places he was never likely to see.

  “Had a wife with a limp?” Ryshad sat up straighter as the carriage carrying the three of them bounced over uneven cobbles. “Three daughters, all with faces like a wet washday?”

  “That’s him.” Mistal could hardly speak for laughing. “The wife, she was all for putting a wonderful new frontage on their house, squared-off stone, nice Rational lines, none of these old-fashioned bays and turrets.”

  Ryshad frowned with the effort of recall. “But all those houses are timber-framed. You’d be better to tear the whole thing d
own and start again.”

  Mistal nodded with heavy emphasis. “That’s was Hansey said when they came asking. He totted up the men and materials for a job like that and her ladyship near fainted in the yard.”

  Hansey and Ridner were the oldest Tathel brothers, Temar remembered belatedly, stonemasons down in Zyoutessela.

  “Inshowe’s never as rich as he likes to pretend.” Ryshad yawned. “If he was, someone would have taken those whey-faced girls off his hands.”

  Temar felt slightly let down by that unguarded remark.

  “Hansey reckoned that’d be the last they’d hear of it,” continued Mistal. “But next market day Ridner comes home saying the word round the well is Jeshet’s going to do the work.”

  “The brickmaker?” Ryshad asked, puzzled.

  Mistal was nodding. “He’d convinced Inshowe he could reface the building in brick. It would look just like stone, he told him, built up to a nice flat roofline. Only someone reckoned to save time and coin by not taking the old roof off.”

  Ryshad shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

  He wasn’t the only one, thought Temar sourly.

  “They built up the frontage with brick and carried it up to the same height as the roof ridge.” Mistal illustrated his words with gestures. “Then they filled in the gap, from the slope of the old roof to the frontage, with brick.”

  Ryshad gaped. “How did they secure it?”

  “They didn’t.” Mistal was still chuckling. “Half a season later the whole top section slid clean off the old roof, bringing most of the facing down with it! The street was blocked for two days and Inshowe had to pay a fortune to get it cleared. Now he’s arguing Jeshet’s liable for all that coin as well as making everything good. Jeshet says he only did what Inshowe told him.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Temar was appalled.

  Mistal looked perplexed. “No, it all came down in the middle of the night.”

  “A rude awakening,” Ryshad observed. “Who are you arguing for?”

  “Jeshet,” said Mistal promptly. “He may only be a brick-maker but that’s a more honest trade than tailoring.”

  “That’s good, coming from an advocate!” laughed Ryshad. Temar felt entitled to join in after what he had seen in the courts.

  The carriage lurched to a halt and the driver hammered the butt of his whip on the roof. “You wanted Narrow Shear?”

  “Yes,” yelled Mistal. The door hung crookedly on stretched leather hinges as he got out. “I’ll need credentials from Burquest to get access to the Tor Alder archive, so I’ll do that first thing. Oh, Temar, your clothes—”

  “Return them tomorrow,” Temar said politely.

  “First thing,” Mistal promised solemnly. “When I’ve had a look at the records, I’ll call round and tell you what kind of case we might make.”

  Temar wondered how early Mistal might consider first thing, given the bottles of wine he’d helped empty down at the sword school.

  Ryshad waved his brother off and settled back against the greasy upholstery. “Mist’s always full of the latest news from home,” he apologised.

  Temar managed a thin smile. “I imagine Zyoutessela is much changed from the town I remember.”

  “The colony expedition set sail from there, didn’t it?” Ryshad looked pensive.

  He was doubtless recalling those echoes of Temar’s own memories left him by the enchantment; it was a shame he hadn’t won some of Ryshad’s knowledge in exchange, Temar thought crossly. Then he might not feel so utterly at sea this side of the ocean.

  Ryshad yawned and fell silent, cradling his thickly bandaged hand across his chest. Temar watched the city go past the open window of the hireling coach. A puppet show was drawing a good crowd, rapt in the light of flickering lanterns in an alley mouth. Inns and taverns were doing a roaring trade on every side. Cheerful family groups bowled past in complacent coaches or walked along, arm in arm. Every so often some gathering blocked the flagway as people met with delighted greetings, exchanging news and embraces. The narrow houses of the tradesmen living below the old city were lit from cellar to garret, a season’s worth of candles squandered over the five days of Festival as visitors were welcomed, parties given and the births, betrothals and weddings of the previous season all celebrated in the finest style that each family could afford. As the coach wound its way up to higher ground, wealthier merchants competed with their neighbours in more decorous but ever more lavish revels.

  Temar looked at the proud dwellings, struggling between sadness and defiance. He had no family, no home, not on this side of the ocean anyway, and unless Burquest, Mistal and all their clerks could come up with some winning argument, he wasn’t going to have a House or a Name to call his own either. He smiled thinly to himself at the weak joke.

  What of it? He’d set his face eastwards when he’d first sailed to Kel Ar’Ayen, hadn’t he? He’d promised his grand-sire he’d raise the House of D’Alsennin to its former glories beyond the ocean, and by Saedrin he would do so still. He’d been mistaken to think all the cares of the colony were tedious and trivial, Temar realised. These so-called nobles, with their self-absorbed, trifling concerns, they were the petty ones.

  Temar turned his thoughts determinedly to Kel Ar’Ayen. Rebuilding what remained of the original settlement had been their first priority, that and ensuring the remaining sleepers in the cavern were guarded in comfort and safety. Both those tasks had been pretty much complete when he’d set sail, hadn’t they? What was left of the southern settlement, he wondered, where ocean ships had escaped Elietimm attack, salvation for those few who’d escaped under Vahil’s leadership to carry the enchanted artefacts home? He’d find out, Temar decided, as soon as he got back. Making plans for an expedition occupied him as the carriage rumbled through the city and Ryshad dozed silently.

  The horses slowed on the long incline leading to the D’Olbriot residence just as a new notion struck Temar. It was time the settlements of Kel Ar’Ayen had names, to honour those with the vision to found the colony, who’d shed their life’s blood in its defence. Saedrin’s stones, he wasn’t about to let Den Fellaemion just be written out of history as subsumed into Tor Priminale!

  He snorted with inadvertent contempt as the carriage pulled up in front of the D’Olbriot gatehouse and the driver banged on the roof once more.

  “Did you say something?” Ryshad opened his eyes, swallowing a curse as he inadvertently leaned on his injured hand.

  “No, but we are back,” Temar opened the door before turning to Ryshad with a faintly embarrassed smile. “What is a fair recompense for the driver? I have coin, but—”

  “A couple of silver Marks will give him something over for Festival.” Ryshad scrubbed his unbandaged palm over his face. “Dast’s teeth, I’m weary.”

  “You have had a busy day,” Temar pointed out.

  “I should have taken more water with my wine,” said Ryshad ruefully. “At least you kept your wits about you.”

  “Avila and Messire’s surgeon were firmly agreed on that,” Temar shrugged. “As little alcohol as possible after a blow to the head, they insisted.”

  “Ryshad, Fair Festival!” The chosen man on duty in the gatehouse waved at them. “One of Fyle’s lads brought the news, and the Sieur said to broach a barrel for the barracks on the strength of it!”

  “Fair Festival to you, Naer,” Ryshad grinned. “What bet did you lose to be on duty tonight?”

  “Is the Demoiselle Tor Arrial within?” Temar interrupted. “You really must let her see that hand, Ryshad.”

  Naer shook his head. He was as tall as Ryshad, Temar realised, with the same lean build but substantially more years thickening his waist and thinning his hair. “The Relict Tor Bezaemar called for her late this afternoon, something about visiting a shrine fraternity? She’s not back yet.”

  “Are the Sieur and Esquire Camarl here?” Ryshad asked.

  The swordsman shook his head again. “They got back from the courts just after suns
et but went out again as soon as they’d changed. I think they’re dining with Den Murivance.” The swordsman looked at Temar with ready amusement. “The Demoiselles of the Name are holding a musical evening, Esquire D’Alsennin. They were most insistent I remind you as soon as you returned.”

  “Thanks.” Ryshad looked thoughtful as they walked away. “I wonder how well Master Burquest argued today.”

  “Tell me about Den Murivance,” Temar invited. “What is their status compared to D’Olbriot? What is their interest in Kel Ar’Ayen?”

  “I imagine the key there’s the embarrassment of eligible and marriageable daughters blessing their House.” Ryshad took a deep breath of the cool evening air but it still turned into another yawn. “Any one of whom would make a wife with rank to reinforce your claim to restoring your Name. That would certainly settle the rumours that the Sieur’s planning to marry you off to one of his nieces. Another major House stepping into play over Kellarin would give Names like Den Thasnet pause for thought as well.”

  They were heading for the residence, black shadows adding their own solid pattern to the complexity of the gardens. At every turn of these paths within hedges within walls Temar felt increasingly penned in.

  “Den Murivance is extremely wealthy,” continued Ryshad. “They’ve significant holdings from Lequesine to Moretayne. The only reason they don’t have quite D’Olbriot’s prestige is the last three Sieurs have been more interested in commerce than politics.” He looked at Temar with a wicked smile. “So, did you find Gelaia easy on the eye this morning? A white-feathered fan means a girl’s open to offers, did you know that?”

  Temar struggled for an answer. Looking away from Ryshad’s gently mocking gaze, he saw two figures coming down the path, their sudden hesitation catching Temar’s eye. “Who are they?”

  “Visiting servants?” Ryshad peered into the gloom but the men had halted in the dimness where the flaming torches of the gatehouse fell short of the glow from the windows of the residence.