Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

  “It would gladden my heart to do so,” Alyssa said. “I take it she follows your craft.”

  “She does, or to be precise, she’s a master of it, while I’m but a journeyman. Her name’s Valandario.”

  They rode down into the town and the inn, a pleasant place catering to merchants. Benoic and Joh stayed behind with the gear and horses while Travaberiel took Alyssa and Cavan to see Valandario. Alyssa was expecting that a great master of dwimmer would live in a magical place like Haen Marn or perhaps a luxurious villa in the Bardekian style. Instead, Valandario had a small suite of rooms above a pottery.

  Inside, however, the rooms were luxurious enough, decorated like an elven tent with embroidered cushions, Bardek carpets, wall hangings, and the like. On one wall hung an unstrung bow and a sword in a sheath, which Alyssa took as meaning she had a husband or male partner of some sort. Valandario herself dressed simply in a linen tunic over a pair of loose wool trousers, both dyed blue. Pale, very thin, with hair that might have been gray or ash-blonde, she was sitting on a pile of cushions with a patchwork cloth, further decorated with embroidery, spread out in front of her.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said to Travaberiel. She sounded oddly casual, as if he’d merely stepped out for a moment and come right back in. “Alyssa, greetings! I’ve heard much about you.”

  Alyssa curtsied. “I hope it was good, my lady.”

  “Very. Come sit down, both of you.”

  As they did so, Valandario folded up the cloth and put it into a small leather sack that lay on the floor beside her.

  “Brae’s not here?” Trav said.

  “Out fishing. Crabbing, actually. It’s the right time of year. Now, Alyssa, Travaberiel asked me to make some arrangements for you. I’ve found a ship, a small coaster, that will take you both to Cerrmor, but they only have room for three passengers. Even that will be a stretch.”

  “We’ll have to leave one of our silver daggers behind, then,” Trav said. “Curse it all! We need guards. What about one of the bigger trading ships?”

  “Their captains won’t interfere, and that’s how they see it, interfering.” She glanced at Alyssa. “Gwerbret Ladoic is very highly thought of around here, you see. I know he can be blunt and downright nasty at times. Most human men can and do. But he has a decent streak if you can reach it, and he’s always been scrupulously fair in dealing with us.”

  “I see, my lady. I’ll admit to being surprised. But then, I’m only a commoner, and he frightens me.”

  “No doubt.” Valandario grinned at her. “Let me tell you a thing about the gwerbret. He very much admires boldness in a person and plain speaking. If you earn his admiration, he’ll drop the table-slapping bluster and do what he can to help you.”

  “My thanks! This could be very useful indeed.”

  “Let us hope you get a chance to meet him, actually meet him, I mean, not merely see him go past in a procession. Trav, we have friends in Cerrmor, don’t we? Can you get Alyssa in safely?”

  “Most assuredly. It’s her husband we need to worry about.” Travaberiel thought for a long moment. “I may be able to arrange sanctuary at the Bardekian embassy. If we can reach it safely.”

  “If,” Alyssa said. “Do you think we can?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t try. We have some important people on our side, including the Bardekian ambassador and his wife.” Trav glanced at Valandario. “You know her, I believe?”

  “We’ve met.”

  A simple word, met, but Alyssa found herself wondering if some other meaning lay behind it, simply because Trav and Valandario both seemed to be trying very hard to sound casual. Was the ambassador’s wife one of those mysterious “friends” Valandario had referred to? That’s the trouble with all this dwimmer, she thought. You start suspecting it everywhere! The dwimmermaster smiled in a suspiciously vague manner and looked at Cavan. She started to speak, then paused to look him over with an unsettling attention. Cavan fidgeted and blushed.

  “I know I’m only a silver dagger,” he said, “but I intend to make Lyss the best husband I can be.”

  “I meant no insult, lad. My apologies.”

  “Accepted, of course.” Cavan was staring at the carpet as he spoke.

  The uncomfortable silence stretched out until Travaberiel broke it with a cough.

  “Anyway,” he said, “besides the Bardekians, there are others in Cerrmor who’ll be on our side. For instance, Clan Daiver.”

  “Hah!” Alyssa said. “Dovina’s betrothed belongs to that clan.”

  “So he does.” Travaberiel grinned at her. “He most certainly does.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ONLY ONE GWERBRET IN all of Deverry had the freedom of the city of Cerrmor. Verrc, Gwerbret Daiver and head of the Two Rivers clan, had his apartments on the second floor of the clan’s town house, a tall stone building with four floors and more chambers than most bothered to count. His late wife—for he was a widower—had done up his private study in masculine tans and white, just touched here and there with gold on the sconces and the brocades of the drapes. Brown leather covered the solid, comfortable chairs. Verrc himself generally sat at his dark oak desk. When his nephew, Lord Merryc, arrived, the old man gestured at a chair.

  “You wanted to see me, Uncle?” Merryc sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

  “I did, to offer you my congratulations. On your betrothed. Pretty lass, isn’t she? And with land of her own. I trust you’ll accept her?”

  “If she’ll have me, I will. Men like me marry to please our clan, I know, but frankly, I’m quite pleased myself.”

  “Your mother has done you proud. Dovina has a nice little shape to her, too.”

  “She has, indeed.” Merryc allowed himself a brief smile. “More to the point, I’m impressed with her quick wits. She’ll need them.”

  “Because she’s marrying into our clan, you mean? She will at that.”

  A manservant entered with a foaming glass pitcher of dark beer and two tankards. Verrc considered wine fit only for women. Merryc took one tankard and had an obligatory sip. Verrc had a good long swallow and wiped his gray mustache on his embroidered sleeve. The servant placed the pitcher, still on its tray, on the corner of the desk and retreated.

  “And of course,” Verrc continued, “she brings us a connection with Ladoic of Aberwyn. Very important, that. If naught else, you can draw her out about the real problem. Find out what he’s thinking, where he stands, about these cursed law courts.”

  “If she can be drawn.”

  “See what you can do.” He paused for another swallow of the beer. “A pretty face, but a nice parcel of land, too. Pays a good rent. Your mother looked into that first thing.”

  “Good. I’ve got a bit of coin of my own, but for a decent marriage we’ll need more than that.”

  “Just so. Well, if she’ll let you know where her father stands, come tell me. Don’t write it down or send a page. Not with Tewdyr in the city and Standyc on his way here.”

  “Understood. If Ladoic finds out we’ve been gathering information, things could get difficult.”

  “Hah! Difficult enough already. Did you hear about Gwarl of Aberwyn?”

  “I did. Ye gods, have things gotten that bad in the west, to have men taking heads again?”

  “First one in a long time, and by every god, let’s hope it’s the last.”

  When he left his uncle, Merryc went to his mother’s pink and white suite. She was sitting in a bay window with Lady Ledda, her serving woman, and working on a massive embroidery in a wooden frame. Merryc bowed to them both, then flopped down on a nearby cushioned settee.

  “Did you speak with your uncle?” Amara said.

  “I did. He approves of the betrothal.”

  “Do you?”

  “Very much so. My thanks, Mam.”

  She smiled
and ran her needle into the cloth. She turned a little to face him while Ledda stitched earnestly on.

  “But I’ve heard summat that’s a bit troubling, about Dovina and her father.” Merryc hesitated, searching for just the right words. “They seem to understand each other oddly well, or so I’ve heard. As if they were perhaps too close for a father and daughter.”

  “Who told you that?” Amara leaned forward in her chair.

  “No one outright told me. I heard servant lasses gossiping in the great hall. As soon as they saw me, they stopped. Of course, if it’s only servants—”

  “Merro, dearest, don’t be a dolt. Maids gossip to their mistresses. Mistresses pass the gossip on to other women, and usually when their servants are present, too.”

  “I wonder.” Ledda ran her needle into the cloth. “Could it be Rhonalla behind this?”

  “An excellent guess.” Amara paused for a ladylike snarl. “Merro, pay no attention. It’s because of Dovina’s poor mother. She’s an invalid, you know, and almost never leaves the dun. Mostly she stays in the women’s hall with her ferrets. It’s rather common, in such cases. The daughter takes over some of the wife’s duties, listens to the father, accompanies him to public events and places.” She laughed with a sudden snort that wasn’t in the least ladylike. “They fight like cats in the stableyard, Ladoic and his Dovva. They’re too much alike, is the trouble. Not that either of them will ever admit it, not until the hells melt, anyway.”

  “Truly? Ye gods, what am I marrying, then?”

  “Someone quite unlike you, my darling. Which will make all the difference.”

  “I’ll hope you’re right.”

  Ledda got up and curtsied to Amara. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, let me go ask Pharra if she’s heard this rumor.”

  “Please do!” Amara glanced at Merryc. “Ledda’s maid.”

  Ledda hurried from the chamber. When it came to matters of fine feelings and the subtleties among families, Merryc always deferred to his mother on the rational basis that she understood what he didn’t. Ledda returned in just a few moments.

  “Well, well, well!” the serving woman said. “Pharra tells me she heard it from Lady Rhonalla’s maid, who heard it from Rhonalla herself.”

  “The nasty little vixen! Rhonalla, I mean, not her poor maid. My thanks, Ledda. You were quite right. Let us all keep our ears open for more of this gossip, shall we?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Ledda said.

  “Just so,” Merryc said. “One last thing, Mother. My page told me you’re giving a fête here, not in the guesthouse.”

  “I am indeed. Rhonalla thinks she’s ever so well-connected, but her husband doesn’t have the freedom of the city, does he? This will show her that spending a lot of coin on a fête can’t compete with having one’s own town house to give it in.”

  Merryc smiled at her with a little shake of his head. She often denied caring about such things as rank and status, only to show that she cared very much. He stood up and bowed to the ladies. “I’d best be on my way. Belina and I promised to show Dovina and her companion the city gardens.”

  * * *

  Cerrmor’s famous gardens lay outside the east gate of the city. Although they were open to all during the day, a high stone wall surrounded the full three acres, and iron gates closed them off at night. Near the gates stood a long wooden roof, supported on poles rather than walls, where the carriages of the wealthy could wait safe from sudden rains. When they drove up, Merryc hopped out first and helped Dovina descend while the groom and the page helped the other two ladies. Dovina had been hoping that this candidate for betrothal would have decent manners, and so far, he’d passed that test.

  The gardens stretched out green and pleasant before them. In the distance, Dovina could make out a small hill topped by a small round temple—to the spirit of water, Merryc told them.

  “It shelters an artesian spring,” he said. “There are other sources of water for the fountains, too, but I’m not sure of where or how they operate. You’ll see why it’s important.”

  As soon as they walked through the gates, Dovina did indeed see. Even with her weak eyes, she could pick out the play of fountains that rose like thrown diamonds from beautifully carved basins. Not far in they came to a pair, one on either side of the slate-inlaid path, that depicted the horses of the sea, a mare in one, a stallion in the other, rising from shallow ponds edged in white marble that matched that of the statues. In the basin water circulated in smooth ripples.

  One of the gardeners knelt beside the stallion’s station and pulled the little weeds that were growing round the base of the pillar. At the sight of the noble-born he started to rise, but Merryc smiled and waved at him to continue his work unbothered. He was an odd-looking fellow, not very tall, with brown hair as short as fur that grew down in a peak almost to his plumed eyebrows. As they walked on, they saw two more workers whose hair grew in exactly the same way, though one of these wore expensive blue linen breeches and a fine white shirt of Bardek silk. These gardeners stood beside a fountain where naked undines made of pale green marble consorted in jets of water, and water lilies grew all around. He was explaining something to his assistant in a language Dovina had never heard before.

  “That’s one of the engineers,” Belina said. “They come from way up north near the Desolation. They’re in charge of the city’s water supply, too, and it’s amazing how well they understand water and the pipes and all of that.”

  “Indeed,” Merryc said. “When one of the pipes breaks, or there’s summat of a problem with the sewers under the city, they find it so fast you’d think they could swim.”

  “No one would swim in the sewers!” Belina said.

  “Well, true spoken, but when there’s flooding, and —” this to Dovina “— we do get flooding in the winters now and then.”

  As they walked further in, among flower beds and shade trees, Belina and Mavva talked earnestly about the problems of annotating and copying ancient texts such as Prince Mael’s writings. Eventually the two scholars insisted on sitting on a bench to “rest” but, in reality, to allow Merryc and Dovina to walk on together for a little privacy.

  “Your collegium’s emphasis on the works of Prince Mael interests me greatly,” Merryc said. “They’re certainly the best exposition of the honor code that I’ve ever read.”

  “They are that,” Dovina said. “Some might find that code archaic, but certainly we needs must understand it.”

  “Very archaic, the books and the code both.” He paused to study her face as if he were judging her reaction. “At times a concern with honor can be splendid. At others it presents a great danger.”

  “And not just to the honor-bound man himself.” Dovina also paused, then dropped a word into the conversation. “Unfortunately.”

  He nodded his agreement.

  “Sometimes,” Dovina continued, “those around an honor-bound man suffer with him through no fault of their own.”

  “No fault and to no profit to them, either.”

  “Very well put, my lord.”

  They strolled on a little further and stopped by the next fountain, a small one for contrast. A tiny marble dragon clung to the rim of a gray stone basin. Its wings were spread, and it leaned over as if it were about to drink the rippling water.

  “I’m hoping that you know the situation in Aberwyn.” Merryc paused for a long moment. “I heard that there’s been some trouble in the streets.”

  “There has, my lord.” Dovina chose careful words. “Over the situation in the law courts, as I understand it.”

  “So I understood as well.”

  They contemplated each other in cautious silence. Merryc spoke first.

  “I gather that the common people feel they have legitimate complaints about the gwerbretal courts.”

  “Indeed? Some of us find their complaints justified.” />
  Merryc suddenly grinned, and his nondescript face became for that moment attractive. “So I’d hoped,” he said. “Can we dispense with the fencing?”

  “It would be a great relief. I take it you know more about the matter than you were going to admit at first.”

  “I wanted to know what you thought of it. I’d not drive you away with wrong opinions. Now that we’ve met, I’m quite pleased with your father’s offer of a betrothal.”

  “I see. I’ll admit I find it more congenial than I thought at first, too.”

  They both smiled, but Dovina decided that it was too soon to approve of him in any binding way.

  “But about the courts,” Dovina said. “I’ve learned since we got here that the trouble’s not confined to Aberwyn.”

  “Very true. Your father is much more fair-minded, in fact, than many a gwerbret.”

  Dovina was shocked enough to find herself at a loss for words. Merryc seemed to misunderstand.

  “I’m not saying that for idle flattery.”

  “It gladdens my heart that you find him so. Some of the others must be utterly awful then.”

  He laughed, and she joined him. “Lughcarn, for example,” he said, “but I’d best not be indiscreet.”

  “Please do! A dear friend of mine has found herself entangled with a younger son of that clan, the one who’s become a silver dagger.”

  “Cavan?”

  “The same.”

  “It gladdens my heart that he’s well enough to get himself entangled. He was a page in my father’s court when we were both lads. His exile was—shall we say—troubling.”

  “Did you feel it deserved?”

  “I did not, and I said so at the time.”

  “Then perhaps there’s some hope for my friend. Is there any chance he’d ever be recalled?”

  “I doubt it. His father’s as stubborn as a mule, and his eldest brother won’t want him back in their rhan. He’s the jealous sort, Carlyn. And now I am being indiscreet. I really should hold my tongue, my lady. There are three sons in that family, you see, and four sisters. Carlyn’s the heir, and Cavan’s the second-born. Lughcarn’s youngest son is here in Cerrmor at the moment.”