“Allow me to escort you to your seat, your ladyship.”
Although she curtsied out of respect for his god, she would rather have been escorted by a snake. At least, given the strict celibacy of his order, he refrained from offering her his arm.
“We did want a word with you,” he said in a quiet voice. “Just to tell you that your father can count on our support.”
“The support of the god is always welcome.” Dovina forced out a smile. “My thanks.”
For a moment his face showed confusion, as if he couldn’t decide if he’d been rebuffed or not. He gave her a smile as oily as her own and led her to her chair.
Once she was seated, Dovina turned in her chair to look at the towering oaks of the grove. Men in Bardic Guild livery were guarding the wagon where Cradoc’s body lay. Behind them lay cooking pits with the cooks standing ready to pull off the covering of sod and bring up the roast hogs. Tables mounded with loaves of bread stood off to one side. With her weak eyes, Dovina couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw Alyssa’s father in charge and her older brother there as well. It made sense that the Bakers Guild would send their highest officials in respect. Dovina sent up a brief prayer of thanks that Alyssa had gotten on the road before the bakers saw her do so. She turned back before they noticed her watching them.
She had an easier time picking out details of the crowd that waited for the ceremony to begin, because they stood in strong light, not the shade of the trees. She disliked the way that the Aberwyn and Abernaudd men had placed themselves—never together, but always within hailing distance of each other. Now and then she saw the underchamberlain raise a casual hand and the others answer him with a quick wave or a nod of the head. The two gwerbretion of Aberwyn and Abernaudd were technically allies but in most things bitter rivals. That some of their sworn men would cooperate was ominous, she realized. She wondered again why Ladoic had refused to end Cradoc’s fast. Some grim reason, she thought, that involves more lords than Father.
Malyc walked to the edge of the platform. When he raised both arms for silence, the crowd gave it to him. He lowered his arms and boomed out the first line of the gwerchan, the “last song,” in Cradoc’s honor.
“Voice of valor, silenced now, void-tossed . . .”
The crowd sighed as the poem unrolled in great waves of sound, emphasized now and then with soft moments of regret. Malyc never faltered once during the long performance, never dropped a syllable, never gasped nor caught his breath. By the time the gwerchan finished, many people in the crowd wept, men as well as women.
Malyc stepped back to allow his second, Callyn, to come forward to speak. An apprentice handed Malyc a discreet goblet of something to soothe his throat as Callyn raised his arms in turn to quiet the crowd.
“My friends,” he began, “today is a dark day for Aberwyn. One of our great men, anchor of the people, strong as an iron mace, has been laid low by arrogance and a vast disrespect for the sacred laws of our kind. What must the gods think of a man who lets a bard starve outside his—”
“Hold your tongue!”
“Treason!”
“You’re slandering our gwerbret!”
The voices rang out in a well-rehearsed chorus, like chimes of a bell. The underchamberlain and the other Fox men had slithered their way forward to the front of the crowd. The two Abernaudd men stood close by them. Shocked beyond belief, Callyn did naught but stare—only for a tiny space of time, but too long a one.
“Filthy liar!” the underchamberlain roared. “Slander!”
A burly fellow with a leather apron over his clothes grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and punched him so hard under the chin that the underchamberlain left his feet and fell hard. The other Fox men yelled and tried to push their way toward him. Screams broke out. Women tried to get free. Men jostled to get closer. Screaming, yelling, little eddies of fighting around the Fox men like water swirling around rocks in a stream—Malyc dropped the goblet and ran to the edge of the platform. His voice boomed out like thunder over the crowd.
“Stop! Fellow citizens! Stop, I beg you! This is no way to honor Cradoc!” Over and over he repeated it more loudly than Dovina had ever imagined a man could shout. “I beg you, stop, calm, stop.”
“Listen to our bard!” Callyn joined in. “Listen to the Penvardd!”
And slowly, a few at a time, the men in the crowd did, stepping back, catching the arm of a companion who looked inclined to continue the fighting, muttering soft words while the women called to each other and gathered in little groups to surround and thus hobble the troublemakers. The Fox men grabbed the underchamberlain, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him, as floppy as a rag doll but upright, out of the crowd.
Dovina suddenly realized that she’d stood up. She breathed out with a sharp sigh and sat down again. Lady Tay leaned over the back of her chair to speak to her.
“That was entirely too close to another riot.”
“It was, my lady,” Dovina said. “I think me we’d all best leave before the feasting starts.”
“I agree. I’ve spotted far too many ale barrels. I’m surprised at your father, stooping so low.”
“Do you think he sent those men, my lady? He wouldn’t. You forget. The men in his service will do almost anything to curry favor. I’d bet high that the underchamberlain organized this little expedition.”
“Ah. I see what you mean. Much more likely, indeed.”
But what about those Abernaudd men? Dovina asked herself. She saw two men leaving the crowd and hurrying in the direction of the waiting horses, but with her poor eyesight, she could no longer tell who they were.
It took Lady Tay some while to gather the scholars and get them organized to leave. As Dovina was climbing down from the platform, Malyc caught up with her. He helped her descend, then leaned her way to talk in a quiet voice—quiet by his standards at least. His voice finally showed the strain with just the beginnings of hoarseness here and there.
“My lady, I owe you a courtesy. Soon enough your father will know about this, but I wanted to give you a bit of a warning. The guild is thinking of filing a formal suit against the gwerbret for his treatment of Cradoc.”
“Good,” Dovina said. “It was despicable.”
“I trust you won’t see fit to tell your father?”
“I shall wait for the formal announcement. No doubt it will come soon enough.”
“As soon as we decide how to proceed.” Malyc hesitated, visibly thinking something through. “I know I can trust your discretion, my lady. I see no reason to file suit the way things stand. Why ask the gwerbret to take the matter into his court?”
“No reason on earth. We all know what his verdict would be.”
“If my plan carries the day in the guildhall, we’ll petition the Prince Regent to establish a justiciar here on the western border. If he does, then we’ll take the actual suit there. If he doesn’t—well, there’s no use in continuing to fight that particular battle.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree. All you can do is try to outflank him. This should be very interesting. I shall endeavor to be in the great hall when the messenger arrives.”
It’s going to be quite a display, Dovina thought, when Father hears about this. She felt a little stab of fear, a sense that more lay behind the Bardic Guild’s desire for fair courts than she’d been allowed to see.
* * *
Since Alyssa and Cavan had traveled several miles down the road before the crowd erupted, they of course had no idea what had happened at the funeral. In the bright sunshine, free of stone walls and gloom, Alyssa felt almost happy, but losing Cradoc ached like a fever in her heart. When Cavan urged his horse up next to hers, she turned in the saddle to glance his way.
“I hate to miss hearing Cradoc’s gwerchan,” Alyssa said. “But it has to be.”
“Just so. I’ll wager you could compose hi
m a splendid tribute of your own.”
“Mayhap. I’d like to think so.”
“This road we’re on. Does it run the whole way to Haen Marn?”
“It doesn’t, but it’ll take us to the actual road. There are inns and suchlike on the way. Lots of people travel there, you see, for the healing.”
“It must be a hard journey for someone who’s gravely ill.”
“There are canal boats for them. Well, at least, the canals run most of the way.”
“Not all of it?”
“The noble-born who live around there—” She hesitated.
“Are stubborn old bastards?” He grinned at her. “I know their kind. I’ve had to listen to too many of them, muttering over their mead, saying all these canals and the mail coaches are only going to unsettle the common folk. Let them know too much. Don’t need all this cursed learning to read, either.”
“Just that!” She smiled in return. “Anyway, about the boats, we’ll reach the river harbor by tonight, and you’ll see.”
The road fell lower in gentle slopes until they’d left the coastal hills behind. The fog had long since burned off, and the warm sun was a welcome luxury. The road here ran beside the Gwyn on their right hand and rich farmland on their left. In the fields the winter wheat had sprung up and dusted the land with pale green. In the meadows white cows with rusty-red ears grazed on the new grass. Young calves followed their mothers on spindly legs or took a few venturesome steps away.
“A question for you.” Cavan turned in his saddle to look at Alyssa. “Why exactly are we going to Haen Marn?”
“What? Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“I suppose there wasn’t time. I know we’re supposed to be fetching some old book, but that can’t be the real reason.”
“But it is. It’s not any old book, but an ancient volume about the customs of the Dawntime, when gwerbretion were elected by the people to be judges, not overlords.”
“Elected? Judges? Ye gods! I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Neither had Dovina’s father until she told him about it. He refused to believe it, of course. It’ll be a right fair shock when we prove it to him. Maybe he’ll be less stubborn about keeping his grip on the law courts.”
“He’s not the only one who’s going to refuse to believe it. Every gwerbret in the kingdom will squall. Do you truly think it’s going to make a difference, what some old book says? This whole thing sounds daft to me.”
“It’s not the book itself. It’s what the Advocates Guild in Cerrmor can make of it. It’s only a gesture, in a way, but in this war a gesture’s like a skirmish. It’s not the real battle. Winning the war will take a long time.”
“That’s one way to think of it, I suppose. But I don’t see how it’ll do much good.”
“It’s a legal precedent that can lead to a compromise. Give us men who are proper judges, and we shan’t say a word about your rank. We’re not saying that the gwerbretion ought to be abolished. Just that they shouldn’t be in charge of the everyday law courts.”
“Legal precedent?” He paused to grin at her. “You sound like a priest of Bel.”
“I’d take that as a compliment if you weren’t smirking.”
Cavan winced. For some little while he studied the road ahead in silence. “My apologies,” he said at last. “You’re not like any lass I’ve ever known, you see, and at times I don’t know what to say to you.”
He spoke so quietly, so sincerely, that she believed him. “Well,” she said, “I’ve never met a noble-born man turned silver dagger before, either.”
“The second, fair maid, trumps the first. Think of me as dishonored scum. The rest of the kingdom does.” He tossed his head and grinned, but she could hear pain in his voice. Tempted though she was, she knew better than to ask a silver dagger what shame had earned him the long road. After a moment’s strained silence he spoke again.
“You know, I never got to hear your speech, thanks to that foul-mouthed dog in the market square. Could you recite a bit of it while we ride?”
“In truth, I was almost finished. My teacher always urged me to keep important speeches short. Listeners’ minds tend to wander if you go on too much. Do you truly want to hear it?”
“I do.” He was looking at her without a trace of his smile, and his eyes seemed utterly sincere, but she remembered Dovina’s warning against the flattery of noble-born men. They learn it at their father’s knee, and I wouldn’t trust it one bit.
“You were interrupted,” he continued, “right where you asked what we could all expect after the way Cradoc was treated. Nothing at all, was your answer.”
He’d remembered. He must have been paying honest attention at the time. She took a calm breath, cleared her throat, and began speaking, while Cavan listened with every indication of interest. She finished up with a brief tribute to Cradoc.
“A man whose eyes saw a better future now sees only the dark of the Otherlands. A man whose mouth spoke for all of us has been silenced. Aberwyn, O Aberwyn, will you honor him, or will you forget him to your shame?”
She took a deep breath and made a slight bow from the saddle. Cavan grinned at her. “Splendid!” he said. “No wonder the gwerbret sent a spy! He must have known you could move men’s hearts with words.”
“I doubt if he’s ever heard of me, much less heard me speak.” Yet she had to admit that his praise pleased her, flattery or not.
All morning, as they rode beside the river, they often saw a pair of squat barges, piled with sacks and barrels, gliding downstream with the current. In their sterns stood the horses that would haul them back up again. Once they saw a more unusual craft on the river. A galley shot by upstream, rowed by a crew of twelve men in Fox clan colors. Messages from the gwerbret, Alyssa assumed, heading for the negotiations with the Bears. Cavan shaded his eyes with one broad hand and watched it pass.
“Interesting,” he said. “I think I saw Travaberiel in that boat, riding as a passenger.”
“The Westfolk herald from Wmm’s Scribal?”
“The very one. Huh. He mentioned that the Westfolk are getting embroiled in whatever the controversy is. Things must be getting worse.”
“Did Travaberiel tell you more? Heralds always do know more.”
“Only that it’s about some land.” Cavan thought for a moment. “Two lords claim the same stretch of it, but it’s right on the border.”
“I knew that.” She grinned at him. “The Westfolk have an ancient legal precedent for claim to a lot of land that Eldidd men covet. It’s come to war before, back in 718, over the forests near Haen Marn. Which is why we’ve gotten hints of support from the Westfolk for our cause. They can’t come right out and get accused of meddling, of course, but they have a lot to gain if we can get some impartial courts.”
Cavan was studying her with a small tilt of his head and narrowed eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Alyssa said.
“Naught, nothing at all! I’ve just never known a lass with your grasp of this sort of thing. That’s all.”
“There are a lot of us in the collegium.”
He seemed to be about to speak, then gave her a watery sort of smile. Since she had no idea what he might mean by it, she let the matter drop.
The sun had traveled about halfway to the western horizon when they reached the road to Haen Marn, or to be precise, the two roads, one by land, one by water. The river forked around a small island. The Gwynaver’s natural channel continued north, and a deep canal headed west next to the towpath, a broad road of beaten earth bordered by a grassy verge. Out on the island stood a tower, built straight with a peaked slate roof in the modern style. As they turned onto the west-running road, Alyssa pointed out a huge winch standing on the island.
“The toll keepers live in that tower. There’s a chain across the canal, you see, well under the water when it
’s slack, but they can raise it if any barge looks like it’s trying to sneak past without paying.”
“That must make the gwerbret a fair bit of coin.”
“Mayhap. My father told me that His Grace does spend a fair bit to keep the canal open and safe. The guilds help, too. Haen Marn brings a lot of trade through Aberwyn. The pilgrims need bread to eat like everyone else.”
A few miles on, they heard a shout from behind them on the road. Alyssa motioned to Cavan to follow and turned her horse onto the grassy verge. Plodding along the towpath came a pair of big gray horses, followed by a bargeman on foot who held their reins. They were hauling a narrowboat, painted a pleasant green. She pointed out two cots lying in the bow and two more in the stern. On each lay a person bundled in blankets. A woman walked back and forth between the patients.
“They make them as comfortable as they can,” she said. “But still, it’s a hard journey if you’re ill. Most of these patients for Haen Marn are desperate for a cure. They’ve tried everything close to where they dwell.”
Toward sunset they came to a small village set back from the road. Unlike most villages in the western provinces, it included four inns and a couple of temples, one to Nwth, the god of merchants, and one to Sebanna, the goddess of healing. Alyssa led her silver dagger to a large inn that stood behind a whitewashed wall.
“We stayed here when I helped bring my father to Haen Marn,” she said. “It’s the second-most expensive one, but the cheaper pair are awful.”
“I take it you’ve got the coin to pay for it?”
“I do indeed.”
They dismounted at the open gates and led their horses into the nicely swept stableyard in front of the two-story inn. A stout young man with a leather apron over his shirt and breeches came hurrying out to greet them. He bowed to Alyssa, but took one look at Cavan and sneered.
“No silver daggers in our inn,” he announced. “You’re most welcome, good maid, but your guard here should try the Running Horse down by the canal.”
Alyssa shot Cavan a nervous glance, but he seemed resigned to this sort of abuse.
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