“You have heard the crimes from Darmod Pick,” he began, “a man who has a right to be angry. And this is no crime of slander, no simple trespass, no offense against a single man or woman. This is poaching, and poaching by an outsider. Every one of us has a right to be angry. This year has been a year of plenty, but other years may be lean.”
“Poacher!” someone cried. The Reeve waved his hands dismissively at the assembled villagers.
“Who among us,” Alec asked, “has tasted neither milk nor meat of Darmod’s flock? Who has worn no cloth spun from his wool? Blacken Darmod’s eye or steal his shoes, and you victimize one man. But a theft from his flock is a theft from all of us—from our chandler, who goes without tallow, and from our children, who go without blankets in the night.”
“Your words are wise,” the Reeve said, “but you do a poor job of speaking in its defense.”
“Let me finish,” answered Alec. “This is no city court and I am no tribune. I am a simple man with simple facts. The karach has lived like a beast, and must be punished like one. But our judgment cannot be so clouded by thirst for revenge that we forget our own wounds. If we kill him, as might well be done, even in less barbaric times and lands than these, Darmod will be avenged. But vengeance puts right no wrongs. It makes none of us whole, and will not restore what was lost. I know not how much tallow comes from four fat sheep, but we’ll not get it from the karach’s body.”
“Burn him!” someone cried. Aewyn, who sat near the karach and translated Alec’s words in a trembling whisper, neglected to repeat it.
“Aye, burn him?” Alec said. “And then starve, three winters from now, when we’ve had no more lambs of those four ewes? No. Put him to work, I say, in the fields. We will need the food, with those sheep gone. Let the karach live, and let him put his strong back to such hard work that no one will mistake our prudence for mercy.”
“Let him live,” some murmured in half-agreement, including Grim, though he did not know why.
“Burn him!” another woman shouted from the back. Grim’s wife, Karis, clearly recognized her.
“Burn him yourself then, you old busybody,” she snapped. The din of the crowd rose until the Reeve stood, hands outstretched as if he were preparing to wrestle the whole moot-hall.
“Enough!” he shouted, his deep voice rumbling below the rising noise of the townsfolk. “That’s enough!” He sat again as the noise receded. “I did not call this assembly to hear the shrill grot of shrewish women. I need not have left my house for that honour.” Those who knew well the Reeve’s wife and daughter stifled their laughter, and order was again restored.
“Alec Steel has made a reasonable point,” he said. “What can a karach do? Can it pull a plough?”
“I cannot say,” said Alec, “but during the Annexation, I saw them lift and throw down animals that could.”
“This winter may be unkind to Darmod,” said the Reeve, “and unkind to us all. We’ll want a large spring crop, and that means expanding the south fields. Perhaps we’ll plant east of the Rock too, if we can draw water that far. That’s hard work—brush that needs clearing, furrows that need ploughing. Those who hold land, or make oath to work it, will pay tribute to Darmod for use of the karach.”
The crowd murmured in mixed assent.
“That is my judgment,” he said with firmness. “I’ll suffer my heart to ache a single day for vengeance, before I’ll suffer my belly to ache for hunger the whole next year. The silver price of four ewes, last told by the markets in the Iron City, will be Darmod’s remedy,” he went on. “If more homesteads contribute, each man pays less—but the karach’s time will be divided accordingly, among more households. Who makes use of him will pay down his debt to Darmod.”
“We can pay,” shouted Marta, wife to one of the miners. “If the karach does my husband’s work, he may as well winter in the hills too.”
A few of the tradeswomen laughed.
“Most of your husband’s work, leastwise,” one added. The comment seemed lost on Marta.
“We already have oxen,” someone cried. “What can it do that an ox cannot?”
“How many oxen?” answered the Reeve. “At an acre a day per ox, with new fields to water all the way from Miller’s Riffle, it will be a hard season.” His stern gaze lingered long on the karach, who hunched low over the young girl and seemed to sense more than understand the thrust of the conversation. “A season of labour may pay us what we’ve lost. Two seasons certainly will.”
“Two seasons at the plough, then,” Grim shouted, “and call it settled!” Aewyn looked to him with a look of betrayal as the hall shouted their agreement.
“You told me he would be a welcome friend here,” she said.
“I said nothing of the sort,” he protested. “I said there would be food, and there was. I said he could meet everyone. Well, he’s met them.”
“You tricked him,” she said, glaring. “You tricked me.”
“This is how it has to be,” he whispered to her. “He stole. Do you understand? He stole those sheep from Darmod. Stole and killed what didn’t belong to him. That’s a crime.”
“I don’t see how you can own another creature.”
“Well, you can,” said Grim. “Sheep, at least.”
She shook her head. “That’s like saying you own a wife.”
Grim shrugged. “There’s places like that, too,” he said. “Be glad we don’t live in one. Look, two seasons is the wink of an eye. Nothing but a cuff on the ear, as punishments go. They’d have killed him, if we’d let them. Do you understand? If they’d caught him in the wild instead of me—if Robyn had caught him on patrol, she would have killed him. Stuck her big spear right through him. Or maybe he’d have killed her. Would you prefer either one of those?”
“He’d be free in the wild but for you,” said the girl, teary eyes blazing. “This is all your fault.” Grim snorted and moved away, back to Karis’s side, trying to look smug about the whole thing. Better that she blamed him than herself.
“Two seasons at the plough,” said the Reeve finally. “But no man or woman takes the karach until fair coin has been given. The township of Widowvale will advance the sum, and pay Darmod the price of two ewes at once, and two ewes after the next census from Travalaith.”
Aewyn cast pleading eyes on Grim. “It’s not fair!” she called, though her small voice was lost beneath the crowd, which grew increasingly noisy in the wake of what sounded like a final decision.
“Two seasons at the plough!” many shouted.
“Burn him!” some still called out. The karach shifted uneasily, eyes and ears darting. Aewyn had stopped translating for him in her distress. The shouts of rage could mean anything, now.
“We are adjourned,” the Reeve roared over the crowd, “if Alec’s mercy has been satisfied.”
“Mercy,” someone shouted mockingly at Alec, as he rose with patient satisfaction.
“Mercy!” they all cried. The Reeve, his own bellow drowned out now in the noise, pounded his staff and pushed the rowdy hall-goers toward the door. Two burly farmers brought a yoke and chain for the karach, since the town had no manacles to fit him, and there were none who seriously thought the rope would serve.
Grim was adept at reading people, and it may have saved Aewyn’s hide that night. He left his wife’s side, pushed back toward the girl, clapped a firm hand on her shoulder as the karach crouched low and sucked in his breath.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. But he tightened his grip—his fat fingers were suddenly as serious as a wound by the heart—and hauled her backwards at the last moment.
With two huge hands Poe met the yoke straight on and pushed hard, shoving it back against the men who carried it. Their shouts of surprise were lost in the noise; and by the time they had drawn their knives, he was past them. He touched the crowd gently, as if handling glass, but they were easily scattered and could not hold him, and he reached the doors of the moot-hall in a few long strides. Aewyn strained against G
rim’s hand, but in spite of his age the vintner’s grip was hard as stone when it had to be.
“Poe!” she called after him.
The farmers who had been elected to yoke him were somewhat prepared for this, and they started after him, but the townsfolk were unready, and the confusion had driven many to their feet, and some into the center aisle.
“Call the riders!” shouted Marta. “Where are the Havenari?”
“Wintered at Seton,” the true-widow Oltman cried. “Bram is the Havenari. Think he’ll stop it?”
“Gods and fishes,” said Marta, “somebody do something!”
“After it!” the Reeve shouted, caught in spite of himself in the growing frenzy. Aewyn was only too eager to go, but Grim would not be evaded; he would not be bargained with, and even the kick she launched into his leg as he dragged her away brought only a grunt of stoic resignation. His pace was slow but sure, as if he were standing still amidst the chaos—but Aewyn knew he was taking her to his home, to the house at Grimstead where she knew not what punishment awaited her. She wanted nothing more than to start after Poe with the others, whose shouts grew distant now as they chased the karach up the escarpment and into the wood.
The golden heads of Grim’s youngest children peeped quietly from the loft as he trudged into the cottage. Karis was still at the moot-hall, or somewhere along the way; he had no doubt she’d take care of herself.
“I hate you,” Aewyn spat. “You’re a liar and it’s all your fault.”
“You’re upset,” Grim grunted as he set her down. “We all speak nonsense when we’re angry.”
“You’ve always hated me,” Aewyn cried. “I’m not like Ali and Gray and your other right children. I’m not your real child and you’ve always wanted to make me different. All you want is to get me in trouble.”
Grim sighed sadly. “You’re not in trouble,” he said. Then, in a tone of warning, “not yet, leastwise.”
The girl looked ready to bolt, but knew she dared not try it.
“They’re going to kill him,” she pleaded.
“He’s a criminal,” Grim said. “He’s broken our laws.”
“They’re not his laws,” said Aewyn.
“Then he’s worse than a criminal. He’s an outlaw.”
“What’s the difference?”
Grim thought about it. “A viller who lives in town—a man who acts lawfully every day but one—that’s a criminal. A raider, a bandit who comes and goes without regard for any of it—that’s an outlaw. It’s a fair sight worse.”
“They’re going to kill him,” she said again. She slumped against the cottage wall numbly, and Grim’s stony face softened when he saw that she really believed it.
“One or two might try, if they had the chance,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think they’ll catch him. How long have you known him, lass?”
“Six summers,” she said. “Since he was small. Celithrand brought—”
“There’s to be none of that,” Grim snapped, “not today. This is serious business. No more fairy folk, no tall tales.”
She was silent.
“Six summers,” he breathed. “And five of those summers, you’ve lived among us and told us that story. And you see what happens? Tell enough stories, and no one believes you when you speak the truth. Tûr’s breath, I wish now I’d listened to you. Might have been a time I could counsel these damn fool ideas out of your head, or lash them out, if you were too damned stubborn for counsel.”
“W-will I be lashed?” she asked.
“Would you really learn anything?” he answered sharply. “My father always told me, ‘Grim,’ he said,
It pays no help to raise a welt
Unless you weal a foe;
You whip a whelp, the welt you dealt
Will only heal to woe.
Aewyn looked at him in confusion and some fear.
“No, you’ll not be lashed,” he clarified. “Well, you may be yet, but not by my hand. There’s folk enough in this town who treat you like their own child, and have a strong enough arm to prove it. You’re damned lucky Darmod Pick’s never taken a hand in your raising, or he’d take a hard hand to you now. Man’s fit to be tied, and I can’t say I blame him.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked. “Am I an outlaw too?”
“You’re a child,” said Grim. “Too young to have had a part in this. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me, for not teaching you better.”
“They won’t kill me?”
“What’s all this killing nonsense about?” Grim asked. “We’re none of us killers out here in the thick. That’s why we came out here, some of us. Even the Havenari—Travalaithi soldiers, most of them, or else men of soldiering age. Killers who got tired of killing, or boys who didn’t want to grow up into it. Out here, we need every man we’ve got, every woman. We need you.”
“Me? For what?”
Grim furrowed his brow. “I’ll think of something,” he said. “Somehow, you’re going to make this right—and not by dying, lass. There’s no killing or beating for you. That’s not who we are.”
“Poe says that’s all you are,” she whispered.
“Is that right?” Grim snapped. “Even me?”
“Even you. All city-men.”
“City-men—” Grim stopped and composed himself at that. “Who digs holes for the spring trellises? Who digs a thousand holes every Idismaunt thaw?”
“You do. You and Arran, and Glam, and me.”
“And what do your little—what do Gray and Ali do?”
“They bring us the mouse-sticks.”
“What for?”
“To put down the holes,” Aewyn said. “So if a mouse gets caught in a post-hole in the spring floods, he can climb out.”
Grim nodded, let her weigh the experience in her mind, let her feel the memory of loamy earth on her fingers.
“D’you really think we kill each other here?”
She shook her head, but no words came.
“You’ve known all along he was taking Darmod’s sheep. You should have told someone. If he’s hungry in the hills, we might have found fair work for him. They’re not beasts, are they, the karach? If he can think and speak like a man, he can learn to do fair work, and earn an honest day’s pay. At least, he could have done, before all this foolishness.”
For all her hateful words against him, she clung to him now and would not let go. “What must I do?” she sobbed. “How do I make things right for him, with the town?”
Grim put a big arm around her. “Now you’re asking wise questions. But it’s more questions than I’ve got answers.”
They sat in silence for a time. Grim put water on the fire for tea, and the children who woke when he stormed in grew weary and crept back to their beds. It was not long before Karis returned home; she took immediately to sweeping the floor and clearing the wooden bowls from the table. There was no hiding what that meant. She was making the place presentable.
“It’s a late hour for civilized visitors,” Grim said.
“The karach got over the top,” said Karis. “They lost him in the deep woods, of course, as you knew they would. If they’re still civilized after all that, you’re a lucky man.”
Grim stood wearily, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, reached for a bowl. “I am a lucky man,” he said. The smile they nearly shared would have been fleeting, if it had come at all.
“You see that?” he said to Aewyn. “I told you they wouldn’t catch him.”
“But they’ll catch me,” she said.
“Aye,” said Grim. “That they will. Run along up to bed now. Take care not to wake the others.”
“I…you’re not going to punish me?”
Grim sighed. “This is bigger than punishment,” he said. “Off to bed with you.”
They had time enough to clear the table, steep some root tea, and check on each of the children before the knock came. It was a slow, ponderous knock, not as forceful as Grim expected; it was the growing mu
rmur outside more than the knock that told the vintner his door would soon be thrown open, whether or not he unlatched it himself.
Grim came to the door with a long candle, as if he had just come from bed, and was surprised to find Alec Steel at the threshold, his face bright next to a blazing torch.
“I’d expected the Reeve,” said Grim, “or worse.”
“I am worse,” said Alec. “I’m the closest friend you’ve got, Grim, and I’m here to tell you that Widowvale’s making an unhappy stand on it.”
Grim looked past him to the dim faces in the darkness, none daring to step forward to accuse him, all waiting for the first punch or torch to be thrown.
“The karach is gone,” Grim said. “You’ve seen them run, haven’t you? You remember the Annexation. You waved your sword about a few times in the Clearances, I recall. You know the karach fear death, like any living thing, and you know what ground they can cover when they flee from it. He could be thirty miles gone by tomorrow afternoon. And judging by the size of your very impressive mob,” he added, looking out over the whispering line of townsfolk, “he’d be a fool not to cover twenty of them.”
“They’re not my mob,” Alec said. “The Reeve has made his judgment and wants no more of it. But these people want justice. They want the girl to answer for this.”
“Not Aewyn,” Grim protested, his voice lowering. “Not that poor drowned cat of a girl. That’s not justice; where I come from, folks call that revenge.”
“She brought him on us,” Alec insisted. “Forget for a moment what manner of creature he is. Forget that he could tear your head off with those jaws. The girl befriended an outlaw, and led him straight to our village. He poaches our stock. He flees from what little we have to pass for a court. He could have killed one of Oltman’s sons, if they’d been faster fetching the yoke and chain. She’s consorted with that trouble, and had a heavy hand in bringing it.”
“She’s a child,” said Grim.
“A fairy-child,” Alec countered. “That’s what they’re whispering now. They’re saying that Toren was right, and that’s no good for anyone. It’s no good for Robyn, Grim. She’s lost half her men already. Did you think of her?”
The Season of the Plough Page 7
