The Shamer's Signet

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  Falk got tired of waiting. Without any signal from me, he headed down the hill in a resolute manner. It suddenly struck me that he might actually know more than I did—after all, he had been to Baur Laclan before. Perhaps I should simply leave things up to him.

  The clatter of Falk’s hooves echoed between the walls of the first houses we came to, and sent a couple of chickens scrambling out of our way, squawking and cackling. From a narrow, fenced-off alley came a furious barking, and a small rough-coated gray dog thrust its head through the fence, snapping at Falk’s hocks. For once, Falk was completely uninterested in skittishness. He turned into another alley and from there through a gateway into a cobbled yard. He headed straight for the water trough in the middle and sunk his muzzle deep into the water. I looked around. Two stories on all sides of that ocher-colored wattle and daub. And above the door of one wing hung a cast-iron sign with THE WHITE DOE in big letters, and a painting of a deer, white on blue. Falk had found us an inn. But what did one do when one had no money to pay the innkeeper?

  A small, balding man with bushy black eyebrows emerged from the stables—the ostler, probably, who looked after the horses. A couple of straws decorated the back of his worn woolen waistcoat; it looked as if I had woken him from his afternoon nap.

  “How may I serve—” he began. Then he noticed that the customer was only a boy with a tired mud-spattered horse, and changed his tune. “What d’ye want?”

  “I… erh, is there any work to be had? Just so I can pay for a good feed for my horse and a night in the stable for both of us?”

  He looked at me. Then he looked at Falk. And then at me again.

  “What are ye doin’ with one of Maudi Kensie’s horses?” he asked.

  I could feel my cheeks burn, as if I actually were the horse thief he took me for.

  “It belongs to my mother now,” I said.

  “Oh,” he growled, “ye’re the Shamer’s boy. Why didn’t ye say so at once? Put the horse in the corner stall there, and then we’ll see about the rest.”

  The Shamer’s boy. I had ridden for two days with the sword on my back, ready to risk my life, ready to fight like a man, but in his eyes, I was obviously still Mama’s little boy. He sounded just like Kinni, damn him. I suppose it was better than being taken for a horse thief. But not much.

  “I don’t want any handouts,” I said angrily. “I’ll work for my keep!”

  “Oh, aye,” he said. “That ye will. No need to crow at me, cockerel.”

  Two hours later I was thoroughly regretting my words. “Aye, well, ye might just clean the henhouse for us” was the way the innkeeper had casually put it. He did not mention that the henhouse was the size of our cottage, or that it had three separate coops, each with a highly belligerent cock lording it over more than a score of heavy, copper-colored laying hens… or the fact that it had been at least five years since anyone had made any effort to clean the place. Five years’ worth of chicken shit, ranging from the ancient and hardened, practically fossilized layers to oozingly liquid-fresh spatters. Phew, what a stench! The air was thick with dust, and with bits of straw, down, and feathers, not to mention mites and fleas. I had to take off my shirt and tie it around my nose and mouth to be able to stand it. And when I got to the third flock and wanted to chase them out into their run, the cock went for me, clawing three long bleeding scratches across my chest.

  “I hope you end up in the soup pot,” I cursed, finally managing to get the contrary creature out the hatch with the aid of the broom I had borrowed.

  It was a long and weary while before I was able to wheel away the last barrowful of muck and put fresh golden straw into clean nesting boxes. Darkness was falling, and the hens were crowding anxiously around the closed hatches. The ostler with the bushy eyebrows poked his head through the door to inspect.

  “Hmm,” he growled. “Well, ye seem to be doin’ a proper job of it. Good for ye.”

  “Is there somewhere I can wash?” I asked. “And wash my shirt?”

  “Scrub off the worst of it by the pump,” the ostler said. “If one of the guests has ordered a bath ye can use the tub when he’s done, but I can’t see Master firin’ the kettle just for you.”

  I stuck my head under the pump and scrubbed till it hurt. I felt as if I were positively crawling with lice and fleas. I knew most of it was only in my imagination, but I had seen the bugs leaping in the filthy old bedding, and it felt as if they had all leaped onto me.

  “Here,” said the ostler, handing me a gritty gray sliver of soap. “The baths are over there, down them steps. If ye hurry, the water’ll still be hot.”

  I hurried. The water in the stone tub was more lukewarm than hot, but it was much nicer than the cold pump. When I had finished scrubbing myself, I started on the shirt and kept at it until it was once more reasonably white and certainly smelled a whole lot better.

  I got out of the tub and wrung the water from my hair. I had told Mama to stop cutting it last year, and it was now long enough to be gathered into a ponytail like the one Callan wore. I was tying the leather thong around it when I suddenly heard a chorus of suppressed giggles.

  I spun around. In the doorway were two girls, fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing white caps and aprons. One of them had the hem pressed to her lips in an attempt to smother her laughter. I grabbed my shirt and held it so that it covered my crotch. What were they laughing at? Was there anything wrong with me, or was it just because I was naked?

  “Mistress says to say that there’s food for ye in the kitchen,” said one of them and let go of her apron so that I could see her face. Her teeth were a bit rabbitty, but apart from that she was quite pretty. I could see that the laughter was still bubbling inside her, though.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Ye might want to get dressed first,” she said. Her companion practically squealed with laughter, and as they both retreated down the passage, giggles kept floating back to me. It was a relief when they were finally gone. I looked down at my body. Was I really that comical? I thought I looked fairly ordinary. A bit on the skinny side still, perhaps, but my shoulders had become a little more impressive these last six months. And as for the rest—when I and Black-Arse and Kinni went swimming, nobody laughed. Silly geese. I tried to forget about them, but suddenly I didn’t feel like sitting about in my bare chest and woolen waistcoat the way I usually did while my shirt dried. I wrung the shirt as best I could, but it was still very wet. And then I suddenly thought that it was stupid of me to pay so much attention to a couple of giggly girls when I had come to this town to fight a man, life or death. I left the shirt to dry and put on just the waistcoat.

  The innkeeper’s wife gave me a bowl of broth thick with meat and split peas, and as much bread as I could eat.

  “There’s a mug of beer for ye when ye’ve eaten,” she said. “But just one. The water is good here, ye can drink yer fill of that.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” I said, blowing on the soup. It was steaming hot, and I was so hungry that I could barely wait for it to cool.

  Later, as I sat enjoying my beer, I asked casually: “Does Mistress know where I might find Ivain Laclan?”

  “Ivain? He lives up at the castle, or he does when he’s here. The man does a lot of travelin’. Why? What d’ye want of him?”

  I took another swallow of cool beer, then wiped the froth off my lip. “Oh, nothing much,” I answered, not looking at her. “It’s just that I have a message for him from my mother.”

  DAVIN

  Ring of Iron

  They let me sleep in the barn, and I lay comfortably nested in last year’s hay, with my blanket under me and my cloak on top. Despite my tiredness, I found it hard to sleep. I think it is easier to do something dangerous if you can do it right away and not have to think about it so much. Callan’s many warnings tumbled through my mind—“Look at the sword, lad, not his silly face!”—and for the first time I considered what it would feel like to push the s
word into a man’s body and see him fall and become limp and cold, like a pig one had butchered. And what if it turned out I was to be the butchered pig?

  When I finally did sleep, I dreamed that my sword had suddenly become so heavy that I couldn’t lift it, and a man in shirtsleeves and a butcher’s apron was circling me, cutting me here and there, so that the blood streamed down my arms, legs, and stomach. I tried to defend myself, but my sword felt chained to the ground, and my opponent laughed and made a deep cut in my neck. Falling, I saw a whole flock of white-capped maids descending on me, giggling and squealing and brandishing butcher’s knives. “Hurry, hurry!” they cried. “He’ll make sweet ham, will that one.”

  I woke up with a start at the crack of dawn, as one of the innkeeper’s cocks started crowing like a bird possessed. Probably the one that had scratched my chest yesterday, I thought sourly. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep; I felt far from rested. But of course the other two soon joined the fanfare, and then I suddenly remembered what I was doing here, sleeping on top of a haystack in an unfamiliar town. The last vestige of sleepiness vanished like mist, and my stomach turned cold and strange. But then I reminded myself of what my mother had looked like with that awful wound in her shoulder, and the anger made me much warmer.

  I washed at the pump, then put on my shirt—still a bit damp, but at least it looked better. I brushed the hay off my cloak and walked out of the inn’s courtyard and into the cobbled street, striding toward the castle were Ivain Laclan lived.

  “What d’ye want?” asked the gate guard sullenly. “Ye’re up awful early.”

  “I need a word with Ivain Laclan. Is he here?”

  “Aye, he might be. But he’ll not like bein’ woken at this hour.”

  I was tired of waiting. I wanted to get it over with.

  “Tell me where to find him, and I’ll go wake him myself.”

  He looked at me for a bit. Then he shook his head.

  “If ye like,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ye. He has a temper on him, does Ivain.” He stepped aside and pointed across the courtyard. “Up them steps to the second floor, and then right. He still sleeps in the Armsmen’s Hall when he’s here.”

  I nodded, thanked him, and crossed the courtyard with what I hoped were firm steps.

  The Armsmen’s Hall was a long, high-ceilinged room lined with alcoves along one wall. Loud snoring in many different keys rumbled behind the curtains, and clothes—breeches, shirts, and cloaks, most of them in Laclan colors—were strewn across the room. I jerked back the curtain of the nearest alcove. Inside sprawled a big hairy-chested brute of a man with his mouth open and his arms flung wide, as if he had just toppled backward into the bedding. The morning light made no impression on him; he snored on regardless. I hesitated. I had no idea whether this could be Ivain or not. I realized that I had only the vaguest notion of what the man looked like. And it didn’t seem like the best of ideas to prod a total stranger awake with my sword in order to challenge him to a duel.

  “Ivain,” I said tentatively. He gave no sign of having heard. “Ivain Laclan!”

  It was hopeless. Either it wasn’t him, or stronger measures were called for. And I was getting sick and tired of all the stupid little hitches my simple plan had suffered. Somewhere in this room was Ivain Laclan, if the guard at the gate could be trusted—and I would see to it that he woke up!

  I seized an empty chamber pot, leaped onto a table, and started to bang the pot with my sword. It made a beautiful racket.

  “Ivain Laclan! Ivain Laclan!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. And now the alcoves came alive, as sleep-sodden, cursing men toppled out of the bedclothes and went for their weapons.

  “Stop that infernal noise,” roared one of them. “What’s wrong? And who the hell are you?”

  I stopped beating on the tin pot. “Are you Ivain Laclan?” I asked.

  “Aye. And who are you?”

  I measured him with my eyes. He was not quite as big as Callan—luckily—but he was taller than I, and his bare chest and arms looked muscular and strong. But Callan had taught me that skill and will were more important than brawn.

  “I am Davin Tonerre,” I said, and went on to deliver the little speech I had rehearsed all the way from Baur Kensie. “And as you are a traitor and an honorless man and have done great harm to my mother, I challenge you to fight me, man to man!”

  A heavy silence fell.

  Ivain Laclan looked at me, cold-eyed and annoyed.

  “Take that back, boy,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Every word is true,” I said. “And no man shoots my mother and walks away unpunished!”

  “I’ve heard those lies before,” Ivain said slowly. “From the Kensie messenger. Why Kensie is suddenly so eager to do us insult, I don’t know. But every word of it is a lie, a damned lie. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, let alone shot one! Take it back, cockerel, unless ye want to meet me in the Ring of Iron.”

  I had not really expected him to confess to his crimes, but there was something about the way in which he stood there, denying it so coldly, that made me still more furious.

  “I would not meet you anywhere else, traitor!” I snarled. “And may only one of us leave the Ring alive!”

  Often, the Ring of Iron is merely a circle scratched in the dirt; or, if there are men enough and weapons enough, a ring of swords stuck firm in the earth, with a rope linking the hilts. But Baur Laclan had fancy Ring of Iron posts shaped like swords, with a span of heavy rust-colored chain between each post. Scratched line or forged chain, it made no difference: once two men stepped into the Ring they were in a different world. No one could aid, and no one could hinder. And as long as they had stepped in willingly and lawfully no man could afterward avenge whatever had been done within the Ring. In this way two men could fight and even kill each other without involving the rest of either’s clan in a feud. And a quarrel that might have cost many lives would take at the most one or two.

  Ivain Laclan’s cold steel-gray eyes followed me every second from the moment we stepped into the Ring, even though the signal had not yet been given. My stomach felt like a small hard lump, but I only needed to think of my mother to bring back the fury, and the heat of my rage felt good.

  It was still very early, and the morning was so chill that my breath plumed in the air in front of my face. Despite the cold, Ivain was stripped to the waist, and I too had taken off my shirt. That seemed to be the way it was done. I swung my sword in one of the patterns Callan had taught me, trying to limber up a bit. Ivain merely stood there, watching me. Perhaps he thought that warm-ups were unnecessary before taking on a “cockerel” like me. Around us, outside the Ring, stood about thirty silent onlookers, all Laclans. They made me appreciate the chain—I’m sure they felt no urge to come to my aid, and that rusty chain ensured that they would at least not help Ivain either.

  Helena Laclan had come down into the courtyard too, supporting herself with a long black staff. Her hair was white as ash and her back bent by age, but her voice cut through the silence like a knife.

  “For the last time, then, I ask you: is there no other way to settle your dispute?”

  “Only if he swallows his damned lies!” snarled Ivain.

  I only shook my head.

  “You, Ivain Laclan, are you here of your own will and calling?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you will not turn back from this?”

  “No.”

  “You, Davin Tonerre, are you here of your own will and calling?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounded nearly normal.

  “And you will not turn back from this?”

  “No!”

  “Then let the Ring be closed. What starts here, ends here. No aid, no hindrance, no revenge.”

  She made a tiny break, as if to give us one last time to turn back. It sounded as if all of Baur Laclan held its breath the while. Neither Ivain nor I said anything.

  “Then let the fight begin,” said Hele
na Laclan, and thumped the heel of her staff against the flagstones with a sharp crack.

  Ivain raised his sword for the first time, and I could see at once that he was trained in its use. I had expected nothing else. My legs found the position without my even thinking about it—the one Callan had pounded into us until we could barely stand: “Right foot forward, lad! Raise that arm!” I could hear his voice in my head. I thought I was ready. I felt ready. But when Ivain launched his first attack, I barely managed to raise my sword in time to parry a slash that would have severed my arm from my shoulder. The blades rang, and my hand and wrist prickled and numbed from the force of it. That blow had been hard, much harder than anything Kinni and Black-Arse were capable of, and at least as hard as the ones Callan had landed on me in practice. And that was only his opening move. Where would his sword fall next? “No strike is the final one, until it is,” muttered Callan-in-my-head. “Think on. Think of the next, and the next after that.”

  Not that I really had time to think, at least not with my head. I had to leave that to my body. Ivain pounded away at my parries with a hail of blows to the shoulder, to the head, to the chest; had there been time, I would have been scared, for this was nothing like practice. I could forget all about trying to attack, unless I was ready to lose an arm, or worse. How could he be so fast? How could he keep on hitting me so hard? He came at me with feints and thrusts I’d never even seen before, and how I ever managed to prevent him from taking off my head is a mystery to me still.

  A heavy gray feeling of despair spread through me. It was the dream all over again—my arms hurt enough to make me want to scream, and the sword seemed to weigh a ton. Ivain’s ice-gray eyes did not leave me for a second, and the message in them was clear: I was just a beast that needed slaughtering, the quicker the better. And me—me with my dreams of avenging my mother’s hurts and making the traitor pay—I could do nothing except retreat and parry, parry and retreat, until I felt the heavy coldness of the chain against the back of my thigh.