by Greylady
Well, ar’Talvlyns were good at being patient, and Bayrd saw no reason why a solitary Talvalin should be any different. He had been waiting for a long time for a lot of things, and one more wouldn’t hurt. At least he still had his friends, Marc and Mevn. It was just as well. Without House ar’Dru he wouldn’t have had a roof over his head this past half-year, not since clan ar’Talvlyn threw him out. Even though he had a bed to sleep in, it wasn’t Mevn’s. It amused her, in a sharp-edged way.
“Who are you trying to impress with this great strength of will?” she had said that first night, sitting at the foot of his bed but making no attempt to get into it. “Me? The Elthaneks? Or the gossiping tongues of the average Alban – which are going to wag no matter what happens between us?”
“I want to marry the woman,” said Bayrd, grateful for being able to say that to someone unshockable.
“So I’ve heard. And I’ve heard she’s not interested. How many proposals now?” She grinned at him to take the sting from the words, though it didn’t work as well as it might. “Those tongues do wag, don’t they? The lady’s a difficult fish to land. You should change your bait. Duels and chastity aren’t working…”
The first meeting between Eskra and Mevn ar’Dru had been something worth watching – from a safe distance. Marc had been given a solid elbow in the ribs when he leaned in and offered Bayrd odds of twenty to one that his sister wouldn’t end the day the same shape or species as she had got out of bed.
For all her protestations that he was a free agent so far as his private life was concerned, the initial reaction from Mevn had been pure claws-out green-eyed jealousy. At the same time there had been fascination, interest, curiosity – and the definite feeling that no-one who shared her lover could be all bad, wizard and foreigner or not.
Eskra didn’t enlighten her on the depth or otherwise of their relationship. Indeed, she had very little to say at all; the only depth that concerned her was the one she was so far out of. Bayrd’s attempts at an explanation of Alban life and culture had fallen far short of what was required, and other than setting up the necessary wards and spell-circles, she had shyly tended to stay near her quarters in the Overlord’s household. It surprised and disturbed him to think that the brisk, tough, self-assured woman he had met outside Dunrath had been lost somewhere on the way home.
Bayrd sighed, and tried to push his private problems aside. There were other matters requiring his attention, and one of them was what had brought him to the hillside above the lake. Albanak had sent him, not to admire the view or even lust wistfully after the fortress which dominated it, but to examine the lie of the land. Or more correctly, the lie of the lake.
Vanek ar’Kelayr had been growing increasingly abusive over the matter of his property dispute with Lord Gerin, so much so that the Overlord had been forced to step in and act as a mediator. The last thing Albanak wanted was for an inter-clan feud to break out so deep into territory that had once been allied to Lord Gelert of Prytenon, especially a dispute over the division of land. Lord Yakez of Elthan was likely to take a dim view of anyone laying claim to what was after all still his land, and alliances could be renewed too quickly for comfort. The destruction of a sizable number of Alban kailinin by his erstwhile ally, and thus without loss to himself, would be of considerable advantage to Gelert.
Albanak’s position was not an enviable one. For all his rank and status and the respect that went with it, he had very little real power, and only just enough men among his retainers and household troops to back up the power he did have. The Albans had dealt with kings too often to be ruled by one, or to grant any man among them kingly powers of decision without the approval of his high-clan lords. The Overlord could act as judge in this quarrel, but he could not save everyone time, expense and trouble by simply weighing up the merits of the case in his own mind and then deeding the land to one side or the other. That might easily lead to the losing party claiming bribery or favouritism, and declaring feud against him.
In place of the power he lacked, Albanak-arluth had developed cunning to something approaching an abstract art-form. When the land-claim first grew heated, Bayrd was summoned to the Overlord’s pavilion, a large, starkly elegant officer’s tent which was another acquisition from the barracks at Kalitzim. He had arrived, and was already rising from making his obeisance, when one of the senior hanen-vlethanek Archivists came bustling up with a somewhat older book than the one he wrote in nowadays. This one was open, Bayrd learned a few seconds later, at the page where, almost two full seasons past, the old man had noted Bayrd’s commentary on his first journey north into the province of Elthan. Indicating a few closely-written lines with the butt of his pen, he handed the book to Albanak and then settled down to note what was about to happen now.
“There is some small mention made of racing, Bayrd-eir,” the Overlord said. “In what connection – recreational, sporting, or competitive?”
“Sporting, Lord. There was gambling on the outcome of each race.”
“So.” Albanak glanced at the page again, tapping at occasional words as though he thought them poorly chosen. “And was this a tradition? A custom of the country, perhaps?”
Bayrd gave him a weak grin and as much of a shrug as was proper. “Lord,” he said, “it was half a year ago, and this was just part of a child’s story…”
“Remember, please.” There was no severity in the command, which made a pleasant change. Lord Albanak could be gravel-throated when he chose. “This may be more important than you realize.”
“Then yes, Lord,” said Bayrd after a few moments of careful thought. It had been something to do with Lord Ared and the fortress. Something to do with the acquisition of land…and suddenly the slant of the questioning became quite clear, so clear that Bayrd silently cursed himself for being so slow. “Yes indeed. One could make a case that it was traditional.”
He didn’t elaborate any further until he was asked, for the very simple reason that having forgotten most of what he had been told, he needed time in which to make something up. But that was when Lord Albanak decided that the question of the land around Dunrath would be settled by a race. A boat-race. Greatly daring, Bayrd asked him why.
The Overlord’s cool consideration settled on him again. “Don’t presume too much on your position with Lord ar’Diskan,” said Albanak in tones of mild reproof; but the man was plainly so relieved to find a way out of his present difficult position that he was speaking the lines of his accepted role rather than being truly irritated. “And since he is not merely your liege lord, but one of the disputants, I ought not… But you deserve an answer, since you provided mine.”
With a quick wave of his hand, Albanak indicated that the Archivist should cease his scribbling for the time being. “Firstly, I would as soon this matter was kept from the ears of High Lord Yakez.” Bayrd grinned crookedly and nodded understanding. “Quite so. He may not take kindly to our dividing up his province… Anyway. The boat-race. Yes. The onus of winning or losing in a boat-race, you see, does not rely on any one man – except perhaps for the men who choose who will row each boat. And I intend, in this instance, that each clan-lord in this wretched altercation selects the rowers from among his own…”
“…Household retainers.”
Albanak’s address to the assembled crowd was almost word for word what he had told Bayrd in private two days before, except for his more disapproving references to the case. “The race will begin at Lord Gyras ar’Dakkur’s command, from the southernmost point of the lake, and will end here before me at the north. The first to strike shore will be adjudged the winner, and his claim to the lands and territories in question will be granted. My lords, I wish equal luck to both of you. Go now. Race with speed, race with strength, and above all else, race with honour.”
It was a holiday atmosphere in that armed camp, mostly generated by men, though there were some women warrior-archers as well. Bayrd was sorry that more of the women and children had not come with them to the nort
h. But it had been considered unsafe, and only a few were here.
Mevn and Eskra were among them; Mevn having refused to be left behind under any circumstances, and Eskra as part of the Overlord’s household in case Gelert of Prytenon should try any sorcerous tricks. They were somewhere in the crowd, and Bayrd had already seen a score or so of the villagers from Redmer, no doubt profiting mightily from selling the beer and foodstuffs they had been carrying. He grinned briefly at that; they were probably covering wagers as well. Old Youenn wasn’t the man to let such an opportunity go by, and it had been the same, more or less, all the way up their route of march from Erdhaven and the coast. It was ironic, and only grew more so the more he saw of it: the peasants concealed their goods and fled in terror from their own lords and supposed defenders, but came out to meet the Alban warriors who had invaded their country. Invaders or not, their reputation for honourable fair dealing carried more weight than the fact that they were the enemy.
Bayrd led Yarak off to one side, and saw the little mare safely into a paddock well away from the milling people before sauntering down to the lakeshore. The two contesting lords and their chosen supporters had already galloped off, and the next time they would appear would be in the long, narrow boats he had seen brought to the lake earlier that morning. They were rakish things like infant warships, with high prows and sternposts and a row of oar-benches along each side of the slim hull. Bayrd didn’t know where they had come from, or who had provided them, and he regarded someone’s claim that they were just fishing-boats from the lake with some doubt. They might have been, but they looked too elegant for such workaday vessels. Had the Overlord not been set against Yakez of Elthan knowing what this was about, he could almost have believed that Albanak had borrowed a pair of pleasure craft.
And maybe he had. The man was devious enough.
Another gaggle of men and women on horseback cantered off towards the far end of the lake. They would be planning to ride alongside the speeding boats, shouting encouragement – it was scarcely courteous to shout anything else – or simply watching the race. Bayrd had no intention of doing anything so energetic. He would watch the boats when they came into view, and not before. Until then, he planned to find one of Youenn Kloatr’s enterprising villagers and discover what beer they had this time. And if he met up with Eskra, or Mevn – or even both of them together – so much the better.
He met up with Marc instead.
“I would never have believed it,” said ar’Dru as they shared a pot of pale golden wheat beer, shot with green tints from an infusion of woodruff. “My sister and your lady, walking arm in arm and chattering like old friends.”
“It sounds like a good thing.” Bayrd grabbed at the beer as it went by.
“Good?” Marc choked on a laugh that had encountered a swallow of beer halfway down. “Speak for yourself. She’s only my sister of course, but I still wouldn’t want Mevn talking about me to any other woman.”
“At least they’re talking. Eskra’s been too quiet of late.”
“A woman can never be—” Marc started to say, then thought better of it. “You’re really very fond of her.”
“I love her,” said Bayrd simply. “You know that. You both do.”
“Does she? Bayrd-ain, this one-sided affair has gone on for – what? – seven months?”
“Six. And it might go on for another six. She’s not Vitya ar’Diskan, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” Frustration, annoyance, concern, disappointment… All of those emotions and more were so mixed up in Bayrd’s words and the thoughts which had prompted them that he doubted he could have singled out one of them for particular notice.
“Few women are.” The thankful relief in his voice was so obvious that Bayrd’s mood shattered and he laughed out loud. “That’s better.” Marc recovered the beer-pot and stared in dismay at its contents. “There’s a hole in this thing,” he said, “and I don’t mean the one at the top.”
“We need more, that’s all.”
“That little fellow with the barrel is just over there.” Marc signalled frantically until he managed to get an answering wave from the beer-seller. “We’ll wait for him.” Then he studied Bayrd for a moment. “It might be that she wasn’t comfortable in Erdhaven. That she’s just glad to be home.”
“This is where she lived. I don’t think it was ever her home. But it could be.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning that it’s pretty countryside. When it’s not under four feet of snow.”
“In other words, mind your own business. But did you ever tell her about you? About—” Marc made a fist with the index and little fingers extended, “—you know. Bzzt!”
“Somehow I was never able to steer the conversation around to it,” said Bayrd dryly. “Bzzt, yourself.”
Marc ar’Dru grinned, and as the beer-seller came by he held out the pot to be filled. “Don’t you mean, go and—”
“Ssh! Listen! The race has started.”
The faint, distant sound of a long cavalry trumpet came floating over the water and through the muttering voices of five hundred-odd people. Some of them very odd indeed, thought Bayrd callously. There was a slow, general surge downward towards the water, but Bayrd and Marc made their way through the fringes of the crowd towards where Overlord Albanak and several of his high-clan lords were seated on camp chairs, shaded from the sun by an awning made up of all their banners. Keo ar’Lerutz glanced in their direction and inclined his head politely; both of the younger men sent a very proper salute in reply. It was hardly surprising that he was here; his reputation for ruthless impartiality was both proverbial, and slightly frightening because of it. When matters came to judgment, Lord ar’Lerutz would be as fair – and as cold and as unswayed by any emotion – as the edge of a razor.
And then they waited. And waited. And waited some more. The lake was not as long as some, but it was just long enough, that a proper level of tension and excitement built up before the first shout of “There! There they are!”
It was a stage-perfect ending to any contest: the two distant specks burst suddenly from a bank of warm-weather haze hanging low to the water, each one rimmed with a white collar of foam from its plunging bow and frantically-beating oars. As they drew steadily closer, the sharper-eared could hear the drumming hoofbeats of each crew’s supporters, their yells and cheers, and finally even the squeak and rattle of the oars against their thole-pins. After that nothing could be heard, for the entire crowd on the shore burst into a single roar of excitement, enough to drive the boats ashore by sheer force of noise alone.
They surged forward in a final effort, running together still, neither gaining on the other, and the two prows gouged into the coarse shingle beach so close together that the twin crunch of their impact was a single sound. Men fell from their benches at the sudden jolt; oars broke; a rush of foam-streaked water rolled up the shoreline and soaked into the grass.
And the judges looked from each face to the next in bafflement at which one of them would dare to make a decision. When not even the contending lords were able to stake their honour on a claim that they had landed first, one by one the heads of all within earshot turned towards Lord ar’Lerutz. He would know, and his respect for justice was such that his verdict could not be regarded as other than fair. The old clan-lord sat still and silent for so long that the crowd began to shuffle its feet impatiently. At last he straightened up, looked at them with mild disapproval, glanced once at each of the lords still standing on the decks of their respective boats, and bowed his head to Albanak-arluth.
“Together,” he said. “There is no question of it. They struck land together. The race is a draw.”
“My lord,” said Vanek ar’Kelayr as politely as he could manage despite a face reddened by sun and excitement and anger, “this race cannot be drawn. There must be a winner.”
“And a loser,” said Gerin ar’Diskan with a pointed glare at his rival.
Old Lord ar’Lerutz studied them as though
they were some odd, unpleasant form of aquatic creature which had crawled up from the water and started to query his existence and function in life. He was not accustomed to having his judgments questioned by anyone. “As there was neither winner nor loser,” he said severely, “this race has been drawn.”
“But my lord…!” Lord Gerin ar’Diskan was ready to argue the point, though sensibly he shut up before that.
Ar’Lerutz shifted on his chair and fixed first one and then the other with a long, slow stare. “If you want to see it, the answer is simple enough. Use horses to tow your boats back to the start line, then row another race. With,” and there was no contradicting that tone of voice, “with the same crews. You may add one extra man. But no more than one. And I suggest you agree on evidence of victory that is somewhat less ambiguous. Let us say, the first man to set hand on the shore. Proceed.”
And a moment later, Bayrd heard his name being called.
“I want you to be my extra crewman,” said Lord Gerin, scrambling out of the boat so that a pair of horses could start dragging it back down to where Lord ar’Dakkur was waiting to hear word of a result.
“My lord? Me? In that? My lord, I’ve never rowed a boat in my life! This is hardly the time for me to risk learning. You would lose–-”
“I don’t want you to row, Bayrd-eir. But I might need you to…” He glanced from side to side, and saw Marc ar’Dru standing not quite far enough away, with an expression of imbecilic disinterest on his face that would not have fooled a blind man. “Walk with me.” Gerin plucked at Bayrd’s sleeve and led him away from the crowd, and the ears of the crowd.
“That old fool,” said Gerin ar’Diskan with a disdainful toss of his head towards Lord ar’Lerutz, “wants no ambiguity this time. If I have to, I’ll provide him with proof of my winning that even he can’t deny. But I can’t tell you yet. Not even now. I might not need it, and then the fewer know the better.”
“How many know, my lord?”