“Honest men, sir.” He didn’t want to say “sir,” to someone who would either kill him, or be killed, this night, but he found himself doing it anyway. And he could not hate this man, who was so much more reasonable than Kelaive.
“Honest merchants?” Scorn edged the brown main’s voice. Gird noticed one of the men stiffen: that had gone home. “You think to find honest judges from a tangle of merchants who pour water in the milk, or chalk in flour they sell you. Or among farmers who put the bruised fruit in the basket first, or craftsmen who put as much base metal in gold or silver as they can?”
“As near there as among nobles, sir,” Gird said, and braced himself for the blow that would surely come. The brown man glared at him, showing anger for the first time. “At least among common men, of different trades, there’s a chance they’d stick to a measure, not make different weights and measures for each case.”
“Damn!” The brown man clenched his fist then opened it. “You are a man, after all. I hate—it’s too bad you cannot bring yourself to take service here.” He glanced aside, at the black-bearded man who had been one of the swordsmen. “Remember what I said, Caer? Squeeze the mud, and it turns to stone; beat the ore and get gold: from the pressure we put on them, such comes out. I would be proud if son of mine had courage to speak so before a deadly peril, had wit to think in bondage.” He turned back to Gird. “Death it must be, but a man like you does not fear death. I swear no torment; come quietly and I’ll ensure the headsman’s single blow. If you must fight, then I cannot interfere, and not all wounds kill cleanly.”
For some reason he could not define, Gird felt a change in the room’s atmosphere, as if a shutter had opened, letting in fresher air and truer light. He smiled at the brown man. “Sir, it’s not my way to give in so easily. But I will admit that had my lord been like you, I might not be here.”
“Were my subjects like you, Gird, I might not be here either.” He looked around again. “Out of these weaklings, these trimmers, you’d make an army? Were you to have the chance to try, I’d wish you luck of it, but worry none.”
Some bright image stung Gird’s mind, and he said “Well—if you have no worry, you could let me train them, as a wager, and see if they can withstand trained arms.”
The man laughed openly. “Well, indeed, fellow! Wit and tenacity combined! Let you train a score or so of malcontents to harrass my guards, and for a wager—that passes wit, Gird of Kelaive’s domain, and near approaches madness. And I should be mad to take such wager.”
“But why are you here, if you fear nothing from them?”
The brown man scowled, and a quick flicking glance to the green-eyed youth in the shadows conveyed some urgent menace. “You ask much, fellow. But if you think only subjects have troubled families, and because you will soon be dead, I’ll tell you. That—” He flicked a hand at the green-eyed youth. “That’s my son, one of them, a true-son, of my lady’s breeding. I came because he came, and knew he came because that bold tailor, there, came to me and warned me. My son’s of an age to seek adventures, to throw off fatherly wisdom, and stir up excitement—to seek, in a word, such midnight meetings, secret societies, all that.”
“I tried to tell you—” began the youth, but his father’s gesture stopped him.
“He would say that he’s done this for me: the lad lies, and all my beatings never stopped him. He feels deprived, that his brothers’ share of my wealth is larger. They’ve increased it; he’s squandered his. So he joins conspiracies against me, but with no real conviction. He’d most likely have confessed this one in another season.”
“Your son. You love him?”
“Love! He’s my son; he’s my blood and bone—but he’s as craven as any of these fools about to spend their last breath in prison.”
“You’ll put him there too?”
“Him? No; he’s my son. I may send him off to serve with the king’s army against the nomads, though. Let him freeze his rump in an icy saddle for a winter, and see if he learns wisdom.”
“And so a rich young man, who’s had all the chances to do better, gets off with a half-year’s exile from home, while the poor wretches with him must die—”
“It’s necessary,” said the brown man roughly.
“Oh, it’s necessary,” said Gird slowly, drawling it out in caricature of his own peasant accent. “And it’s that makes it necessary for us to fight. When it comes down to it, your justice is to save your own blood, and kill what stands in the way.”
“So does anyone!” snapped the man, his patience clearly fraying.
“No, sir. I’ve seen it myself, villagers sharing their few bits of food so the fewest died. We was all hungry, sir, each one of us, but we didn’t grab for self alone. You don’t have to believe it, but I’ve seen, and I know, and so does most of these others.”
Suddenly, as if he were suspended in the air at the very top of the room, Gird saw himself from outside, his own heavy-boned weatherbeaten face, his shaggy thinning hair, his heavy arms gleaming with sweat, his old leather jerkin a little loose where the past months of travel had thinned his belly. Baggy-kneed breeches, patched and stained, worn boots badly in need of resoling, no weapons but fists like knotted lumps of hardwood.
And he saw the brown man, and even into the brown man’s mind—saw the slight awe the brown man felt, and the fainter tinge of disgust that such a lout should speak sense, when his own son had none. He saw the candlelight quiver on a guard’s helmet as the man shifted slightly; he saw the sides and backs of the other heads watching him. And he saw the green-eyed man, that had looked older but was only a youth, sliding a throwing knife from his sleeve, as he looked at his father.
He was back in himself, yelling “No!” in a bellow that raised dust from the boxes, and throwing himself at the brown man so fast that the guards could not react. He hit the brown man square, and knocked him sprawling, just as the blade came spinning out of the dark, catching light and flickering. It missed them both, and stuck in the floor, quivering. The guard on that side had seen the blade whirl past; he turned to face the thrower. The other guard moved forward to swing at Gird, but met instead the black-bearded man, who had yanked his sword out to take Gird from behind. Their weapons rang together, and Gird managed to roll off the brown man and get out from under them.
Then a second blade flashed through the light and caught Calis in the throat, even as he pointed a finger to the green-eyed man.
“Traitor,” he said. “Call my father in, will you? Try to warn him?” And as Calis choked in his blood and died, the green-eyed man had his own sword out, and came into the fight on his own. He caught the black-bearded man under the ribs from behind, then parried the guard’s pike stroke and danced away. “Brother in law, are thy ribs sore enough?” The black-bearded man had fallen, hardly an arm’s length from Gird, and blood rolled out from beneath his hand. The brown man scrambled back, grabbing the fallen swordsman’s weapon.
Gird saw this in a strange inside-out way which left him dazed for the moment. He had wedged himself between two boxes, and tore at one with his hands, hoping to loosen a slat he could use to fight with. Now the other three swordsmen had their weapons out—but not all on one side. Two struck at the brown man, one defended; one of the pikemen, by this time had fallen to another thrown knife, from whom Gird could not see.
Of all the outcomes to such a meeting, he’d never imagined this, a fight between nobles—and not only nobles, but father and son. Across the room, he saw one of those he thought true rebels slip toward the door. Another caught his eye, lifted spread hands. What could they do? Clearly nothing, but escape—this was no brawl for unarmed men to meddle in. He could not help watching, though, as the father stood ground over the black-bearded man, fencing cautiously against his son’s supporter. It was madness to stay—the son must have arranged his invitation, planning to blame the father’s death on a stranger, a troublemaker from another land. Yet—as he saw from the edge of his vision another of the onlookers sl
ip out the door—yet he had to know who would win, who would be pursuing him.
The fight went on, the clash of blades surely loud enough to draw notice. None of the combatants bothered with Gird; he might have been a spectator at a wagered match. He wondered if any of those who left were going to alert the city guard. He wondered more at what he saw. The green-eyed son, for all the faults his father claimed, a most skillful swordsman, pressed his father’s ally back. The second guard, after a few cautious chopping strokes with the pike, tried to pin his opponent in a corner, but he was taken from the side, by the third man, who opened his belly. The guard groaned and sagged to the floor.
Now the brown man and one friend faced three: his son and his two allies. Gird eyed the fallen pike: he could use that if he got hold of it, but how? And to what use should he put it, besides escape—and he could escape now, if he would. Instead, he watched, fascinated, the struggle before him. The brown man, when his guard fell, gave no sign of fear or alarm, but fought the more hardily, his blows coming swift and strong against two, while his remaining friend fought his son. Yet he had to yield ground, backing away from his wounded son-in-law. The green-eyed man opened a gash in his opponent’s arm, just as the father managed to slice deeply into one of the two he faced. That one dropped his sword tip to grab at the wound, and the father’s sword slid into his neck. But not unscathed—his other opponent stabbed deeply into his thigh, and he staggered. In an instant, he recovered, so that his eager opponent, careless, found himself transfixed on a blade that pierced him to the backbone. His legs failed, and he sagged from the blade, dragging the brown man’s arm downward.
Then the son turned, from a deathstroke to his father’s friend, and raised his sword. And then Gird moved, scooped up the guard’s fallen pike, and swung it like a quarterstaff to knock the son’s sword aside. Leaping over the welter of blood and bodies, he tackled the son as he might have tackled a runaway calf, bearing him to the floor with his own great size.
Silence, curiously loud in his ears. Someone groaned; several someones breathed harshly. Under him, the green-eyed man heaved up without success; Gird put a knee in his back and dared look back at the carnage.
He met the level gaze of the brown man, the father, now tightening a belt around his bleeding thigh. When he had it knotted to his satisfaction, the brown man pushed himself to his feet, and moved unsteadily to Gird’s side, looking down with an expression Gird could not read.
“Well, Jernoth, you’ve given me quite a problem this time. What can I do with you now?”
“I never meant this—” The voice was husky and strained, with what besides Gird’s weight on his back Gird could not tell.
“Maybe not: but you meant mischief enough. What can I do?”
“Kill him,” said Gird, without thinking. The brown man’s intense gaze shifted to him.
“Kill my son? Who, if others die, might be my heir?”
Gird felt the tremor beneath him, the shiver of hope. “You’d have killed me, sir, as hasn’t done you any harm, but saved your life twice this night. Why not him, that did the harm with intent? Do you think such a one should rule—do you think he’ll be better than Kelaive?”
“Quiet, you stinking serf!” said the captive. “It doesn’t matter what you want. I’m a noble; he won’t kill me.”
Gird ignored this, and looked straight at the brown man’s drawn face. “Sir, a farmer has to cull as well as foster: it’s part of good husbandry. Isn’t a ruler like a farmer, seeking to improve the quality of his domain?”
“My son—blood of my blood—”
“Your son tried to kill you, and not even openly, in challenge. He’s the cause of all these deaths. He was plotting you say, and not for the first time. Any farmer culls stock; foresters cull trees. You’d cull us peasants. Try the knife’s edge on your own cheek, before you shave another. Sir.”
The brown man picked up the pike Gird had used, and placed the point against his son’s neck.
“Get off him.”
“Are you—?”
“Get off him, fellow.” Gird slid back, catching the son’s elbows as he tried to get his arms under him.
“He’s lost less blood than you, sir.”
“Indeed. And I’m supposed to think you care which of us lives? Such as you hate all nobles; you’d be glad to see us all dead.”
“No.” Gird sat on the son’s hips, one hand clamping the other’s elbows behind his back, and fished in his jerkin for the roll of thongs he kept handy. He got it out, plucked one from the tangle, and quickly lashed the younger man’s elbows together. “No, sir, I don’t hate you, personally. I think you don’t see clearly, but you may be trying the best you know how. At least you aren’t like Kelaive. And I’m not going to let your son up to kill you, with you so weak.”
“And you weren’t thinking of taking this pike to me if I fell?”
“No. That’s not what I’m here for.” He pushed himself up, wondering if the brown man would now swing at him with the pike. He was unhurt; he ought to be able to dodge it easily enough.
“No. I suppose you weren’t.” The brown man regarded him thoughtfully. “You were here to teach my subjects how to fight my army, but you weren’t here to play my son’s game and kill me.” His eyes closed briefly, and he sighed. “Damn. What a tangle this is—and I wonder why the city guard hasn’t been beating the door in? We’ve made noise enough. Perhaps Jernoth bought them off, too.”
“There’s no one you can trust,” said Jernoth savagely. His father let the pike rest heavier on his neck, and he was silent.
“He could be right,” the brown man said. “And I’m not sure I could fight my way home, like this.” He looked at Gird. “And what about you?”
“I’ve no wish to die, when your traitor son lives, and no wish to spend time in your dungeons, either.”
“No—damn you, fellow, you keep making calm sense when any normal serf would be shivering in a heap. The others all ran away, and I doubt they’re sleeping sound now. What are you, anyway? Have the gods laid a call on you?”
“No.” Gird shook his head firmly. “My folk followed the Lady of Peace; she teaches submission. And your gods support you.”
A clatter of boots on the street outside stopped him; something crashed into the shop beyond the door.
“You should have run when you could,” said the brown man.
“You could acknowledge my help,” said Gird. Then the guards were in the room, their torches sending wild flickers of bright orange across the calmer candlelight. They skidded to a halt, their pikes at Gird’s back.
“M’lord Sier,” said the one with a knot of bright yellow at his shoulder. “Someone reported noise—” His voice trailed away as he looked around him.
“Treachery, sergeant,” said the brown man.
“This lout?” asked the sergeant.
“No.” The brown man smiled at Gird. “That fellow came to my aid; the traitors lie dead, all but one.” He looked down at his son, and the sergeant’s breath hissed in.
“Lord—Jernoth, m’lord?”
“Lord Jernoth. And two of these others.” He pointed, and the sergeant’s breath hissed again. Clearly he recognized them all. The brown man’s orders brought him to quick attention. “Sergeant, send word—I will need a cart; I’ve been wounded. This—fellow—” He waved a hand at Gird. “If he had not saved me, you would have a new sier this night; he is a stranger, but welcome in the city for three days, for his service. See he gets a tally from the guardhouse, meals and beer; I brought nothing with me, not so much as a copper crab.”
“Yes, m’lord Sier.” The sergeant eyed Gird with dubious respect.
“And then Lord Jernoth must be straitly confined until I pass judgment; it is ill done to hurry such a decision.” This he said facing Gird directly; but somewhere in the tone of his voice, Gird sensed that he would come to follow Gird’s advice.
From there, things went smoothly; the guards bound the young man more securely, the
n hauled him to his feet and away. Another tended the brown man’s wounds, and yet another had already sped away with messages. The sergeant opened his belt-pouch with deliberate slowness, and pulled out a flat wooden tally, one end stamped with the Sier’s mark.
“This here’s a meal tally, good at any inn but the Goldmark or the White Wing—them’s only for nobles.” He took his dagger and made three scores across the tally. “That’s for a day’s food and beer; they’ll break off the end each time, to the next line. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Gird wondered if he was really going to get free this easily.
The sergeant lowered his voice and went on. “What I heard was there was a meeting of conspirators, to hear a stranger, an outsider who came in to start trouble. Have any idea who that was?”
“Me, sir?” Stupidity was always a safe mask for a peasant.
“And then here you are, without a mark on you, but the Sier says you saved his life. Me, I wonder if you meant to do that—but his orders is my life, as they say, and he says let you bide here three days on free meals and beer. All I say is, you’d best be gone by sundown that third day, or the sier might have remembered something he wants to ask you. I would.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I don’t suppose you’ll be having any quiet little meetings with rebels while you’re here, either.”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Go fill your belly, and stay out of my sight.”
Gird went out into the dark street, only to be stopped by an arriving troop of guards, who let him go when he showed his tally. He tried to walk like someone with honest business, but the events of the past hour or so were beginning to touch his feelings, as well as his mind. When he got to the main square, he edged his way around it, touching the walls of one building after another, until he found the beggars’ steps.
Chapter Seventeen
“You had an interesting evening?” The old man’s voice was soft, but clearly audible. Gird jumped, then crouched quickly beside him. “Here’s your staff,” the old man said, brushing his knuckles with it, as if he could see in the dark. Gird clutched at it, consoling himself with its smooth oiled strength. If only he’d had it with him…
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