Peter Morwood - The Clan Wars 02

by Widowmaker

  The torn crest-coat with the dusty footprints on it still lay where it had been flung down, beside the three braids of fair hair that were unravelling a little now. Bayrd suspected that they might be still there tomorrow. Unless he gave an order that they be picked up, nobody except maybe Eskra would go near them. Such things were unlucky, and carried ill-luck with them as burnt wood carried soot. But he couldn’t shape the words, not now. It would be like…

  Like accepting what had happened.

  And perhaps if he didn’t accept it, and drank enough tonight, then when he woke up in the morning this would all have been a dream. Marc’s coat would be intact, his hair not self-cropped by that ugly shearing, and they would still be friends.

  And no stain would have been put upon his honour by the one man whose blood he could never spill to wash it clean.

  “You there,” he said, standing up and beckoning the man forward, bleakly gratified to hear his voice completely steady. There was a moment of almost-comical confusion at this unexpected attention, the stranger looking from side to side and then behind him before pointing at his own chest and raising his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Yes, you. Come with me. We’ll drink wine together,” – he was conscious of Eskra’s head snapping around and her eyes burning into him – “and you’ll tell me travellers’ tales. I’ll have music played. A fair exchange, eh?”

  Only his laugh rang hollow, but since he was already walking leisurely to the broad stairway that led up into the fortress donjon and towards the lord’s private chambers, there wasn’t time for it to matter.

  Bayrd studied the traveller more closely as the man threaded his way from the back of the hall towards the stairs. He was tall and lean, and though he was old enough for both hair and neat beard to be pure white, he bore himself as straight as a lance and moved with the quick assurance of someone many years younger. Anyway, hair could always be bleached, or tinted, or…

  Bayrd closed his teeth with a click only he could hear. This sort of suspicion chased its tail like an excited puppy, round and round without going anywhere. The man had no weapons about his person, not even a belt-knife, so why worry? He carried a long black walking-stave decorated with a metallic inlay in the shape of a dragon or some other legendary creature, but Bayrd suspected it was more for show than use.

  At least, he corrected, eyeing the crystalline spike at one end and the long steel point at the other with new respect, for use as an aid to walking. He frowned inwardly, and made a mental note to have words with the gate-guards regarding concealed weapons allowed into the citadel.

  What pleased him more was to see that Eskra had risen from her own seat and was coming to join them. Her features had relaxed from their frozen immobility and now shaped a tentative smile instead. Bayrd presumed that either she had come to some conclusion about Marc ar’Dru, or simply set the problem aside and decided to be pleasant as a welcome change in mood from the ugliness of the earlier part of the evening.

  Of course, he considered cynically, she might also be wanting to keep an eye on how much I drink tonight…

  With an inward shrug he dismissed the idea as unworthy – until an instant later when their eyes met, and unaccountably Eskra blushed. Bayrd felt his ears go warm, and once again he had the strange impression that there were times – and this was one of them – when his wife was able to read his thoughts as though they had been written in ink across his forehead. Other men said the same thing, in just the same rueful tone of voice; but Eskra was a wizard, which made it all seem rather more likely than not…

  It was just a pity she hadn’t performed the same conjuring trick on Marc.

  He saw her shoot a cool glare along the length of the hall, and her lips compressed slightly at the low buzz of conversation that had already sprung up, even before the clan-lord was properly gone from the room. “They might have waited ’til you left,” she observed. “Or have you forfeited so much respect already?”

  “Perhaps. At least they didn’t start while I was still in my seat.”

  As he turned, Bayrd caught that same look of disapproval in the traveller’s eyes – green eyes, the same clear deep green as emeralds – and briefly wondered why he should be concerned by the behaviour of another man’s retainers. It was as if he had once been in some position of rank or power, accustomed to the respect of his subordinates, and was still displeased to see a lack of it in others. It was hardly a surprise; there could be few men of this age in Alba who had not held some level of command in Kalitz. “Sir,” he said, “I regret that you come to Dunrath at such a strange time.”

  “Strange perhaps, lord,” said the white-haired man. “But informative. There are such significant occurrences all over Alba. History is being made around us.”

  If not quite written down, thought Bayrd, remembering how the Archivists of each clan were ‘correcting’ their Books of Years. “Does history concern you so much?”

  “All knowledge concerns me. For those with the wisdom to see it, learning can be an end in itself. Especially since I am…” He hunted for the word he wanted and failed to find it. “An-erhan is closest. Both a scholar and a traveller, neither exclusively one nor wholly the other.”

  Bayrd hid a frown. The man spoke clearly enough, but strangely; part was his accent, but much more lay in his inflection and delivery. Both were oddly slipshod, slurred, almost careless, as different in their way from Alban as Bayrd spoke it now, as his own accidental – or sometimes deliberate – Elthanek mannerisms would have sounded to his grandfather.

  And that word… “Travelling scholar” indeed. It was Alban enough, though arhan would be the more proper pronunciation – except that Bayrd had never heard it spoken aloud before. That didn’t mean as much as it might; each of the Three Provinces had their own words for things the others had no need of, and sometimes the only time they crossed borders was in the mouths of journeyers trying to show off. He guessed rightly, for Eskra smiled thinly and nodded.

  “A Cernuan title,” she said. “Indeed, you have come a long way to be here. And tonight of all nights. How…fortunate for you.”

  “Lady,” the traveller said, “that is the art and science of the erhan. To be where something may be learned, at the best time it may be learned.”

  “Just so. And a host should learn the rank and style and title of his guest.” Eskra let the words drift back over her shoulder as she walked past the white-haired stranger and on up the stairs. She paused and glanced back at Bayrd, not disapproving of the slip in protocol so much as surprised he needed reminding of it. “Or is it your intention that he sit nameless at our table?”

  Bayrd raised one eyebrow at her. It wasn’t as if he had had the time to ask them anything so far; but she was right, as usual. “No indeed,” he said, ushering that guest to follow Eskra up the stairs. “But you forget, my lady, that I have other matters to consider.”

  “I do not forget,” said Eskra. “Nor will I.”

  “While I,” said the traveller, “forget my manners.” He pressed one hand lightly to his chest as he bowed his head to her and to Bayrd together, then touched that same hand to his forehead as he straightened. “My house-name is ar’Ekren. Call me Gemmel.”

  5, - Spellsinger

  The Clan-Lord Talvalin’s private apartments took up two floors of the south tower, high in the central citadel of Dunrath-hold. The location made them a last redoubt that could hold off an army if the fortress fell. It also meant they were a place of retreat from the cares and concerns of the world, where such things could be shut away beyond the massive doors of eight-inch crossed-ply oak.

  Part of that space was taken up with the sleeping and dressing rooms for Bayrd and Eskra, and part was a personal office. An untidy office at that, strewn, at least on Bayrd’s side, with a litter of smudged palimpsest parchment waiting to be scraped clean and used again, charred stub-ends of sealing-wax, and all the various other ink, brush, pen and sandcaster impedimenta involved in the everyday work of running a lor
d’s domain.

  That was something else he had learned about being a clan-lord. For every time the swords ran red with the blood of the enemy, there were a thousand times when the pens ran black with the ink of the clerk. Somehow it didn’t have the same heroic spark…

  Eskra’s side of the office was a great deal tidier. It had to be. None of the fortress servants were brave enough to rearrange, or dust – or even touch – the books of sorcery and the Art Magic that she kept on her shelves.

  And then there was the retiring-room, as different from those other places of intimacy or work as it was different from the cold, echoing formality of the Great Hall. It was snug, luxurious in the small, human way of overstuffed chairs, scuffed footstools, the floor covered with those comfortable sorts of rug that wouldn’t be damaged – though they might possibly be improved – if a spark from the fireplace charred them.

  It was a room where those whose days were hedged around by the requirements of dignity and duty and respect could finally kick off their boots, and sprawl like the citadel cats before a bed of glowing coals, and take their ease at last.

  At least, if the events of that day allowed them to unwind enough to do so. Gemmel was certainly lounging in long-legged elegance, feet crossed at the ankles as he stretched back and sipped at his wine. Bayrd, however, was still sitting far too upright in his chair, working on the contents of his own cup with more determination than enjoyment. And Eskra…

  Eskra had actually gone so far as to pick up an embroidery tambour – a pastime Bayrd knew she loathed – so that she looked the very picture of aristocratic domesticity. She had tucked herself onto one of the long couches that were set along the wall to either side of the big hearth, and from this vantage-point in the shadows was watching both men with the same quiet interest as the mottled brown cat curled up in her lap.

  There was music playing in the background as Bayrd had promised, for all that it was in a minor key, music to be gloomy by. The prolonged, melancholy chords of a rebec drifted between the ebb and flow of a softly spoken conversation, one that touched on everything subject beneath the Light of Heaven that educated people might choose to talk about.

  Or at least, almost everything. The subject of the past hour in the Great Hall was being studiously avoided for the time being, although Bayrd was more than willing to discuss the matter with this neutral witness, once Gemmel was ready to discuss it with him. The man was unlikely – and too obvious both in presence and appearance – to be a spy. Even if he was, he could learn as much by talking to any of the people in the hall. Here at least he would have the advantage of learning the truth.

  And perhaps pass on some truth as well.

  “You must excuse my frankness, Gemmel-erhan,” said Bayrd, “but for all your desire to be where history’s in the making, you don’t seem to have taken the proper precautions for travelling at such a time.”

  “In what way, lord?”

  “I mean, sir, that I’d have expected you to come better prepared for… For trouble. In any one of a variety of forms. Your, er, significant events can’t fail to be coloured by where they take place, and Alba is a violent country, ruled by violent men.”

  Bayrd gestured at Gemmel’s belt; it was an article of clothing, of adornment perhaps, with its handsomely engraved metal plates riveted to the leather. But it was innocent of the rings and buckles where a man might hang a sword and dagger. “That’s no weapon-belt. I’m surprised to see you travelling unarmed.”

  Gemmel shrugged. “I am armed, lord,” he said, “and with enough weapons for safety, I assure you. Even though I don’t carry them quite so blatantly as a kailin might. But,” he grinned briefly, “your guards refused to let me carry them into the fortress at all. They still have them under lock and key at the Great Gate.”

  He sounded more amused than anything else, and Bayrd, glancing at the black dragon-carven staff laid on one of the sword-racks set into the wall, suspected he knew where the humour came from. This man probably carried weapons so well disguised that even the best of his guards wouldn’t recognize them for what they were. The talathen of Drosul, those Shadowthief masters of deception and secret slaying, had taught many things to those whose honour was less of a concern than their survival.

  “It was,” Gemmel went on, “a common enough request where strangers are concerned, of course. No cause for complaint, if the request is politely made – which it was,” he said in response to Bayrd’s unspoken question. “So, no more than a custom of the country, I thought. Especially in a time of troubles.”

  If that phrase had been chosen innocently, then he wouldn’t have grasped the significance of the hard look Bayrd shot at him. And if it was less than innocent, then the man was not only an erhan scholar but a consummate actor, for he met the glare eye to eye without so much as a flicker.

  “And I continued to think it, right up to the moment when I heard that gentleman downstairs say what was on his mind.”

  There it was again, all of a piece with the way he had made himself at home from the first moment of stepping into the room. A cool, assured confidence, rather than the slight apprehension that usually accompanied most people into the presence of an unfamiliar high-clan lord nowadays. Gemmel ar’Ekren seemed as much at ease in these surroundings as did Bayrd himself.

  At the same time, Bayrd himself felt more at ease talking to this stranger – and as an equal, rather than just a guest whom he was indulging on an errant whim – than he would have done with any of his own retainers right now. The retainers, the lord’s-men, the musicians and even the silent servants who drifted about the place pouring wine and lighting candles, would all have their own private opinions regarding what had happened here this past two days.

  Some of them would believe in him, as they had always done. Others would feel that all of their uncertainties after his marriage to an Elthanek wizard had been strengthened. And there would be a few for whom Marc ar’Dru’s outburst and departure confirmed what they had always thought. There would be fewer supporters in Dunrath-hold come the morning, and of those who remained, some would be supporters in no more than name.

  But Gemmel, even if he knew enough about both sides to form an opinion, would not care one way or the other.

  “I’m sorry,” Bayrd said with the abrupt realization that someone had asked a question and was still waiting for a reply. “Again, if you would?”

  “Which is correct, lord? Talvalin or ar’Talvlyn?”

  “Talvalin, sir. Always Talvalin. The name of an honourable high clan, whatever else you may have heard.”

  “And the other?”

  “Is in the nature of an insult,” said Eskra, with all the indifference of one long grown used to insults.

  “How so?”

  Bayrd felt the corner of his mouth quirk downwards, just a little. Persistent, aren’t you? he thought. I would have imagined a seeker after knowledge to be more subtle. Eskra might have been unconcerned by the question, but he at least was still smarting that the last person to use that particular gibe had been Marc ar’Dru. And then he realized the man was simply curious: he really didn’t know.

  “One is the name of my blood-clan now. The other was that of my line-family as I used to be. To call me by one and not the other—”

  “Makes a derogatory comparison. I see. Of your courtesy, lord, I regret—”

  “The question was not asked.” Bayrd was in a mind to be magnanimous. “The subject was never raised.”

  “Except that it was.” Eskra looked first at one and then the other. “Master Gemmel. My husband’s Honour-Codes do not permit him to ask this. They presume that all other men are just as honourable as he. But he is Alban. I am not. So I ask – of your courtesy – that you remember the insult. And avoid it even when you leave us.”

  “A gracious request, lady,” said Gemmel. “And graciously asked, for which I thank you.” Once more he made that elegant gesture of touching breast and forehead, and nodded his head forward in lieu of a proper b
ow. “And if I could give you some advice as fair exchange?”

  Eskra raised her eyebrows at him in silent query.

  “You would,” he said, “make a more colourful and lasting embroidery if you put a thread into that needle…”

  Bayrd hadn’t thought he would laugh out loud for a long day and more; and maybe awareness of that doleful lack was a reason for his response to what was, after all, a fair – but ultimately fairly feeble – joke. The sudden snort of mirth hit him coming up just as a mouthful of wine was going down. Its resultant explosion was uncontrollable, messy, and the cause of still more spluttering laughter. Before it was done, his cup refilled, and he and his surroundings mopped down by solicitous servants, Gemmel was chuckling as well.

  Even Eskra – her cheeks and ears bright pink with embarrassment – deigned to give him a rather tight smile. But that was all. There was more anger in her eyes than Bayrd liked to see. It had nothing to do with him being drunk – which he wasn’t, and they both knew it. The cause was Gemmel and his unfortunately sharp powers of observation. Perhaps.

  Or it might be something else entirely.

  Bayrd sighed. Whatever the reason, he’d hear all about it later tonight. But he was glad that the ice had been so irrevocably broken. He was still hurt and angry over Marc’s public accusation and betrayal, because that was what it had been. A Bannerman Companion was supposed to stand by his lord no matter what that lord might do. But he wasn’t capable of brooding on it to the same degree any more, and that was a relief of sorts.

  The music changed. It was still in the minor, but no longer the slow iron moaning of the rebec. These were the chilly measures of a spinet, an austere melody like intricate cobwebs spun by a steel spider, and the words were scored for the high purity of a counter-tenor.

  “At last the glittering Queen of Night

  With black caress kills off the day…”

  Bayrd listened for a few moments, half-turned in his seat so that he could see, beyond the heavy windows, how evening slid from rose to purple and died in the indigo of night. Somewhere out in the darkness a fox yapped. Stars glittered in the black vault of heaven, and for some reason a slow shiver ran through him. He knew the song – it was from a play he liked – and he had heard it many times before. But he had never felt this reaction until now. So it couldn’t be the song.