Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

  Alyssa felt like screaming in useless rage. The noble-born fought among themselves all the time, here on the western border of the kingdom. The common folk paid for those bloody battles with their taxes and the lives of their young men.

  “If we had true courts of justice,” she said, “mayhap we could do summat about these stupid squabbles. Settle them by laws, not the sword. Bulls, are they? Cocks squawking in the barnyard, more like, over the juiciest worms!”

  Cavan laughed. “You’d best not say that where Gwerbret Ladoic’s men can hear you.”

  “No doubt you’re right, good sir. Shall we go, then?”

  When he offered her his arm, she took it, and they headed downhill.

  The Scholars’ Collegia compound stood behind walls down near Aberwyn’s harbor. In the midst of narrow lawns and old oaks rose three separate broch complexes, each a tall tower joined round its edges by smaller towers like the petals of a daisy. Men students occupied the two tallest hives, as the students termed them, while the women’s college sat some distance away, caught between the kitchen garden and the back wall. Lady Rhodda Hall had grown from a small seed. Some three hundred years earlier, Lady Rhodda Maelwaedd had provided a bequest to a tutor charged with teaching women to read and write at Dun Cannobaen. The priests of Wmm at the nearby island shrines had taken up the idea and started a course of study based on Lady Rhodda’s library. Some ten women a year had finished the course and gone out to teach others, lasses and lads both. Slowly the knowledge of letters and learning had spread through Eldidd from the west.

  Thanks to a much larger gift from Carramaena of the Westlands, the queen of the kingdom to the west of Deverry, plus endowments from various guilds, this scattered group had turned into a proper collegium some years back. Compared to the men’s collegia, which had noble patronage, it was still small and shabby, but Alyssa loved it all the same. She was always conscious of the great honor afforded her, that she’d been allowed to study the history of Aberwyn and Eldidd, as well as the philosophy of Prince Mael the Seer. Although her father served as master of the Bakers’ Guild for all Eldidd, her clan were commoners through and through.

  As she and Cavan turned the last corner, they saw a crowd of men and horses standing around outside the collegium grounds. By the light of the lanterns that hung by the gates, Alyssa could just pick out the red and brown colors of the Fox clan’s livery.

  “Gwerbret’s men,” Alyssa said. “I wonder if they’re waiting to arrest anyone who was part of the mob.”

  “Not a bad guess, alas.” Cavan glanced around and pointed to the deep doorway of a nearby house. “Wait here.”

  Alyssa stepped into the doorway and watched him from the shadows. Cavan strolled down the street and made a great show of looking around as if he were lost. Off to one side of the pack at the gates stood a fellow holding the reins of a pair of horses. Cavan stopped beside him with a friendly wave. Although Alyssa could hear nothing of their talk, she did pick up a pleasant burst of laughter. With another wave, Cavan strolled back to her.

  “They’ve come to take the gwerbret’s daughter back to the dun,” Cavan said. “She doesn’t want to go with them. That lad with the horses told me that the vixen’s found a nice deep den.”

  “Vixen?” Alyssa snorted in disgust. “It’s obvious he knows naught about Lady Dovina. Very well, then, I’d best go round the back way.”

  Cavan escorted her as she hurried the long way round the collegium wall. At the back, not far from the women’s hive, the settling of the ground had caused a section of the stone wall to sink some few feet lower than the rest and bow inward a bit as well. Loose stones made a precarious series of steps up and over. Alyssa started to tuck her skirts into her kirtle, but Cavan was watching the display of ankle with entirely too much interest.

  “My thanks for your aid,” Alyssa said to him. “No doubt you’ll be wanting to get back to your inn and a nice tankard of ale.”

  In the light from the nearby oil lamps she could see him grin. She had to admit that she found his smile charming—but a silver dagger? Like every lass in Deverry, she’d been warned against the men of that band from the time she could toddle. Mothers pointed them out and made sure their daughters could recognize the dagger they carried. Dishonored men, all of them, who wandered the roads looking for paid employment rather than serving in a proper warband—and they all have the morals of street dogs, Alyssa’s mother had always said, when it comes to lasses. Cavan, Alyssa figured, would be no better than the rest of them, despite his smile and the elegant way he bowed to her.

  “I know a dismissal when I hear one,” Cavan said. “But may I see you again, on the morrow perhaps?”

  “At noon on the morrow come down to the old marketplace. Not the new one up by the gwerbret’s dun, but the old one near the smaller harbor. If all goes well, you just might find me there.”

  “I’ll pray I do.” Cavan made her a deep bow, then turned and walked away.

  Alyssa finished tucking up her skirts, then climbed the wall with the ease of long practice. Getting down again required grabbing the branch of the old oak that grew near the wall, swinging herself out and over, then slowly lowering herself to the ground. She managed and dropped lightly into safe territory. She hurried around the women’s hive and found the two chaperones standing guard by lantern light. Lady Werra clutched a stout walking stick in both hands, and Lady Graella, an iron poker.

  “Ye gods!” Alyssa said. “Are we under siege?”

  “We might well be. The porters are supposed to be guarding the front gate. If they weaken and let that yapping warband in, we’re ready.” Werra hefted the stick. “No men allowed in here after the last bell sounds. They’ll have to follow the rules like everyone else in Aberwyn.”

  “And speaking of such matters,” Graella put in, “where have you been, young Alyssa?”

  “Oh, come now, my ladies, you saw me leave. Things got a bit more difficult in town than I’d been expecting. I came back the long way round.”

  “Difficult? You might call it that.” Werra turned grim. “All of our lasses are here and safe, now that you’ve turned up, but two of the men from King’s are dead.”

  “Dead?” Alyssa caught her breath with a gasp.

  “And one of them noble-born, at that,” Graella said. “Young Lord Grif, and him but fifteen summers old. The other was the Dyers’ Guild Own Scholar, Procyr of Abernaudd. Their fathers will have a few harsh words for the gwerbret once they get the news, and the guildmaster will, too.”

  “More than words, my lady. Griffydd of the Bear is Gwerbret Standyc’s son. I doubt me if he’ll settle his feud with our Ladoic all peaceful-like now.”

  The two chaperones nodded their agreement. Graella sighed with a shake of her head.

  “Some of the townsfolk were badly hurt,” Werra said. “And there’s another man dead among them. They say one woman lost an eye from being whipped. She’ll be suing in the court for that, I wager!”

  “Huh!” Alyssa said. “As if His Grace will listen! They can take a suit to the law court, but who’s going to be judging it? His cousin by right of birth! He won’t be able to dismiss Standyc’s complaint so easily, though.”

  Werra was about to speak when distant noises reached them—angry shouts, a scream of rage, and then the clang of the iron gates slamming shut. Alyssa heard a strange low-pitched throb and finally identified it.

  “Someone’s shaking the gates,” she said, “but those locks are made of dwarven steel. They’ll not break so easily.”

  The two older women agreed with small smiles. Alyssa curtsied to them both, then followed them inside to the women’s great hall. In the big round room a scatter of old, scarred tables and benches stood on the floor, covered with woven rush mats for want of money for carpets. Opposite the door stood the stone hearth where a peat fire smoldered against the springtime damp. At intervals around the stone wa
lls hung candle lanterns, flickering in the drafts with the rot-touched smell of tallow. Off to both sides rose spiral iron staircases, splendid examples of dwarven blacksmith work and a gift from the rulers of Dwarveholt, that led to the upper floor and the access doors to the side brochs of the hive.

  The head of the collegium, gray-haired Lady Taclynniva, or Lady Tay as she preferred to be known, sat in the chair of honor at the one new table. As always, she sat bolt upright, her head held high, her slender hands at rest together in her lap. The two chaperones took their chairs on either side of her. Both Werra and Graella kept their improvised weapons in their laps, just in case, Alyssa supposed, some enemy rushed in. They were sisters, who years before had fled unsuitable marriages and taken refuge with Lady Tay. Both of them had strong jaws, wide foreheads, and dark hair just beginning to show gray.

  All around them the young women, with their loose red scholars’ surcoats over their tunics and long skirts, stood or sat on the floor, some weeping, some narrow-eyed with fury, all of them with their hair down and disheveled as a sign of mourning for Cradoc, their teacher of rhetoric. As Alyssa approached, Mavva hurried over to greet her. She had one hand on her tunic and clutched her silver betrothal brooch as if she feared it might be torn off. In the riot, of course, it might have been.

  “There you are!” Mavva said. “Thanks be to the Goddess! Rhys and I are both safe, but I’ve feared the worst ever since I lost you in the mob.”

  “I was lucky to get out of it, truly. Ah, ye gods, what a horrible day this is for Aberwyn, to lose Cradoc so!”

  Mavva nodded, finally let go of the brooch, and wiped tears from her eyes. Alyssa turned to Lady Tay’s chair and curtsied.

  “Good, you’re the last of our strays,” Lady Tay said.

  “I lingered in town till the streets were clear, my lady.” Alyssa decided it would be politic to shift the conversation before she was forced to mention Cavan. “That mob at our gates? I overheard someone mention Dovina.”

  “No doubt you did, because she’s the prey they’re after. We all suspect that the gwerbret wants her back in his dun so he can marry her off. The riot tonight will be his excuse, or so Dovina thinks.” She nodded at the woman who sat at the far end of the honor table.

  Alyssa turned to Lady Dovina, who gave her a sickly sort of smile. “I fear me our lady is right,” Dovina said. “I wonder what starveling courtier he’s found for me this time?”

  With a sigh Alyssa sat down on the bench. As usual, Dovina had an open book in front of her and a candle lantern set nearby. A pretty lass, some twenty summers old, the same age as Alyssa, Dovina had thick pale hair that all the scholars envied and large blue eyes, which, however beautiful, tended to water. She held a reading-glass in one hand—a rectangular lens in a silver frame with a handle like a small mirror. Beauty and her high estate hadn’t prevented her from having weak eyesight.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Tay said, “it will be a worthy man this time.”

  Dovina made a most unladylike snorting sound. “I don’t care, my lady,” she said. “We all know that I was born for the scholar’s life. All I want is what I have already, tending our bookhoard.”

  “Nicely put,” Lady Tay said. “If only you can convince your father.”

  “Indeed.” Dovina turned to Alyssa. “Lyss, it gladdens my heart to see you safe. I was truly worried. And I need to ask you summat. I’ve been hearing reports that my father gave that order, when the riders charged the crowd, I mean. I can’t believe it of him.”

  “He didn’t. It was your brother, the younger one, at the head of his men. Not that he exactly gave an order.”

  “Gwarl?”

  “It was. He called us all rabble and ordered us to disperse. Someone—I couldn’t see who—threw a rock and hit his horse.” She paused to get the images clear in her mind. “He didn’t give any sort of order. The warband broke on their own. I’d guess it’s the honor of the thing, someone attacking their lord.”

  “No doubt it was just that. My thanks. That’s a great relief. My father can be difficult, the gods all know, when he blusters and yells at everyone, but I’ve never known him to do anything vicious. Gwarl, on the other hand, is a dolt. Always swaggering around and sneering. Rabble. Huh!”

  Alyssa listened in sincere admiration. Dovina held the highest rank of any scholar in Lady Rhodda Hall. Her father, Ladoic, ruled Aberwyn and the surrounding territory as gwerbret, the highest rank of nobility in the kingdom, just barely below the royal princes. Dovina said exactly what she wanted about her exalted clan and kin, words that none of the rest of them would have dared voice. Her brothers in particular—to Dovina, the “lout” was the gwerbretal heir, and the “dolt” the younger son. Rank or not, however, Dovina recognized Lady Tay as the leader of their collegium. She rose from her chair.

  “My lady.” Dovina paused to curtsy. “Has there been a message from the dun yet? About returning Cradoc’s body to us? Mavva saw some servants carry it inside the dun.”

  “No message yet,” Lady Tay said. “The Bardic Consortium also has a claim. I did send them a message straightaway when I heard that he was gone.”

  Dovina curtsied again and sat back down. She turned to Alyssa and smiled, a bitter little twist of her mouth.

  “So, what’s our next move in this game of carnoic?” Dovina said. “Will you still be speaking on the morrow?”

  “I will indeed. There’s more need for it than ever.” Alyssa felt tears rising behind her eyes. “With Cradoc gone.”

  The listening women keened, a soft moan, a whispered wail, and swayed. In the candlelight their scarlet surcoats seemed to flicker like the flames.

  “It’s a hard thing to bear,” Dovina said. “But we mustn’t let him die in vain. Our cause is just, and even a stubborn dog like Father will see that sooner or later.”

  Alyssa could only hope so. For some years now the people of Eldidd had been begging for a change in the law codes. As things stood, the judges in the law courts all came from the hereditary nobility. Fathers handed the positions down to sons, and some of the sons barely knew one law from another. The best anyone could hope for was a judge who’d listen to the advice of the priests of Bel. Not all priests, however, were more interested in deciding lawsuits fairly and criminal cases justly than in getting land and favors for their temples. More often than not, if a commoner brought a grievance against one of the noble-born, the commoner would get short shrift in court.

  The kingdom’s one free city had already forced through changes thanks to obscure legal precedents. In Cerrmor, the heads of the various guilds had equal say with the mayor when it came to picking judges. They’d banded together to found a collegium for the studying of law after the model of the Bardekian law schools across the Southern Sea. Advocates and judges both had to complete the course of study in order to appear in a Cerrmor court. The fairness of the city’s justice system had become known and admired all across Deverry.

  The news of these and other doings reached Aberwyn by barge and mail coach, but His Grace Ladoic, Gwerbret Aberwyn, would have none of these new ways. He was prone to announce—or bellow, as Dovina put it—that he stood firm on and for tradition. The old ways, he often said, were good enough for him.

  “And what’s good enough for him,” Dovina said, “is supposedly good enough for all of us.” She snorted again.

  “There are other precedents,” Alyssa said. “The Justiciars of the Northern Border are the best one. They’ve been handling the courts in Cerrgonney for what? About three hundred years now.”

  “Too recent for my dear father, or so he says.”

  “It’s too bad that there isn’t some older precedent we could refer to. His councillors talk about tradition all the time, but what if things weren’t so traditional? That would take a few of their stones off the game board.”

  “If his councillors have any stones.” Dovina flashed a wicked smil
e. “Of the other sort.”

  Everyone with earshot laughed, even Lady Tay, though she cut her laugh short.

  “Now hush!” Lady Tay said. “Such coarse words are most unbecoming! I’m sure all of you have studies to attend to. I suggest you go do so.”

  Whispering together, the scholars rose from where they’d been sitting, grabbed lanterns, and headed for the staircases. Clutching her book and reading-glass, Dovina fell into step beside Alyssa and Mavva.

  “You know, Alyssa,” Dovina said. “Your thought was a fine one, about the older precedent, I mean. I remember summat about such a thing in a book I read. It’s too late now, but tomorrow when the sun’s up, I’ll look for it.”

  “My thanks,” Alyssa said. “It would be splendid to have a citation.”

  “Will you be able to stay here long enough to find it?” Mavva said to Dovina. “Or will your father drag you away?”

  “If he comes and throws a direct order into my face, I shall have to obey him. Unless of course I can work him round.” Dovina considered briefly. “It would be best that I never hear that he’s at the gates. If he does come, tell everyone that I’ve got such a terrible pain in my head that I simply can’t be disturbed.” She laid a pale hand on her forehead and grinned. “My weak eyes, you know. Such a trial!”

  “I’ll spread the word,” Mavva said. “Lyss, you’re not really going to go speak in the marketplace, are you? I know we planned it, but things have gotten so dangerous.”

  “Curse the danger!” Alyssa said. “I said I’d speak, and I will, because now it’ll be a praise piece for Cradoc.” She forced her voice steady. “And for Lord Grif and Procyr, too. Do you know the name of the dead townsman?”

  “I don’t.” Mavva thought for a moment. “But I’ll find it out for you.”

  Alyssa spent most of that night in the hive’s bookchamber. With her good eyesight, she could read by candlelight. She had a reading candle as thick as her wrist and a good two feet high. The priests of Wmm had gifted the hive with a wooden crate of these candles when the scholars had visited the Holy Island to view the bookhoard owned by the temples. Alyssa read gwerchanau, the famous death-songs of the past, and stored up fragments of poetry in her mind to add to her speech. All of the scholars depended on memory far more than writing. While Bardekian pabrus had become far more common than parchment, and most certainly much cheaper, wasting even scraps of it upon notes and rough drafts lay beyond the women’s collegium’s finances.