Fortress of Owls

by C. J. Cherryh

  “I am the king’s friend. All I’ve done is to establish Amefel’s borders, and prevent war from coming here again…which I don’t permit and which I don’t think Cevulirn will permit.”

  “We will not permit it,” Cevulirn said staunchly. “But that’s my tale, such as it is, sirs.”

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  “Long live the lord of Ivanor,” Crissand said, and everyone said the same.

  It was a high beginning, the matters of kings and the doings of barons. But it was not all that waited attention: “My lord,”

  said Tassand, who had a list of things they should see to in the gathering, and brought it to the steps of the dais, “the matter of the Guard, the search after the officers. The dereliction of the command of the garrison: Your Grace’s captain’s come with his report.”

  “Are they found?”

  Tassand ascended a step to lean close. “The lord captain’s taken the sergeants,” Tassand whispered, while every ear in the hall attempted to overhear. “And has them all an’ some of the soldiers with him, an’ Paisi…all to come in the hall, my lord duke, at your order.”

  “Bring them,” he said, reluctant to have all this spread before the earls and the chance carpenter with a request for supply: but so Emuin had advised him he should rule. He settled himself for a lengthy proposal of the case, and the debate of the earls on every point of it, including Paisi’s requisite apology.

  But he had not reckoned with Uwen Lewen’s-son, who marched in the soldiers in proper military order, saw them stand smartly to attention, and had Paisi trailing all with a hangdog look and a bundle in his arms. And then he said to himself that by Emuin’s advice he should let his men speak, in public, and do business under everyone’s witness.

  “Uwen,” Tristen said. “Captain Uwen. What do you have to report?”

  “First is the justice wi’ this lad,” Uwen said, not at all abashed, “m’lord. An’ he’s to give the property back to the man in good order. Jump, boy. Do it!”

  “M’lord,” Paisi said in a faint voice, “I can’t. He ain’t here.”

  192 / C. J. CHERRYH

  “And where is he?” Uwen asked the foremost of the men.

  “At the border,” said that man.

  “Then give the kit to him in trust,” Uwen said, “and apologize like a man, on your lord’s order.”

  Paisi all but ran to bestow the kit on the Guard officer, and blurt out: “On account of I was wrong, sir, an’ will never be a thief, an’ I beg your pardon, sir, for the captain’s sake and m’lor’s.”

  “Given,” came the short response, not entirely in good grace.

  “He’ll do duty for a fortnight,” Uwen said, “an’ stand wi’ the guard at night, besides ’is duties in the house. An’ when the Dragons march home again he’ll come an’ get that kit and beg pardon again, an’ lucky I don’t send ’im to the border to carry it.”

  “Sir,” the soldier said, in far better humor. There was, as it were, a breath and a shifting in the ranks, even at attention, as if every man had found satisfaction in that.

  “Yes, sir,” Paisi said.

  “’At’s one thing,” Uwen said, and strode along the polished pavings in boots a little short of absolute polish, unlike the lords’, and with his silver hair windblown out of its tie. But in his broad, work-hardened body and use-scarred armor and the brisk sureness in the orders he gave, there was no doubt at all this was a man sure of his authority. “There’s honest men in this company. But, m’lord, the captain an’ the senior sergeant is very likely bound for Guelessar wi’out leave, which is a disgrace an’ a shame to these honest men, especially as they did it only hearin’ ye wisht t’ speak to ’em. An’ while it’s true there’s some good men find this a hard duty an’ ain’t happy in Amefel, and some has been forward in saying’ so, I told ’em on my honor an’ your authority, m’lord, they was free to FORTRESS OF OWLS / 193

  follow the captain an’ the master sergeant and take their horses an’ all an’ leave wi’ no let nor hindrance nor slight to their honor, on one condition: that they have the face to come here an’ stand on two feet an’ ask leave of the lord of this province like soldiers, not desertin’ like some damn band of brigands.

  So’s here’s a fair number o’ decent soldiers what ain’t content to be here, an’ if ye’ll grant ’em leave, they’ll go. An’ here’s others as is content and proud o’ this company, an’ will stay.

  Also, m’lord, here’s a sergeant I served with, Wynned, who’s come to ask leave on a different account, on account of his mother is ailin’, an’ he wants leave to see ’er, an’ he’ll come back soon’s he’s paid his respects an’ seen to her wants.”

  “What Uwen says,” Tristen answered quietly, and not without careful looks at the men, “I do agree to, and if you will go, go with whatever supply you need.” The gossip was already sped and the harm was done; and he was glad to know Uwen had sifted the garrison for chaff.

  “Your lordship,” one said, “horses and lodging on our way.”

  “Horses and lodgin’s is fair,” Uwen said. “Seein’ the weather.

  Tents an’ the packhorses is needed here.”

  “What Uwen says, I support,” Tristen said.

  “They stood their part an’ discharged their oath,” Uwen said,

  “an’ by me they’re free to go.”

  “Go, then,” Tristen said, “and bear my goodwill to the Lord Commander. I wish you good weather.—And, Wynedd, I wish your mother well.”

  “Your Grace,” the man named Wynedd said, blushing bright red, and Tristen thought to himself that in Wynedd Uwen might have found his messenger.

  “They’ll be on their way in the hour,” Uwen said. “Face! An’

  turn! An’ bear yoursel’s like soldiers, no farewells in the taverns!—Lewes!”

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  “Sir.” One man stood fast as the others left, and Uwen waved him forward.

  “This here’s Corporal Lewes, who’s a likely man, and who I’d set in a sergeant’s place, among this list here. Lewes is Wynedd’s corporal; an’ I’ll name others, by your leave, m’lord.”

  “As you see fit,” Tristen said. He was amazed. Uwen, so shy and soft-spoken with him and within lords’ gatherings was something else entirely in the field; and, it turned out, in a gathering of soldiers. He did recall that when Idrys had dealt with the Guard in Cefwyn’s court he had not quite summoned such a large troop of them, but he had seen very little of court: he found the entire matter of the Guard dealt with and disposed of in far shorter a time than seemed the rule of things in council.

  His newly assembled earls looked with wonder at this public exchange and the trading of appointments in the garrison.

  But had not Emuin said to proceed in public? There was good reason the province should know the quality of the men who kept order in the town, and no one looked displeased to witness the departure of the disaffected men; and not displeased at Wynedd’s reasons or Lewes’ recommendation, either, or with Uwen’s handling of matters. There had been talk behind hands, but more for politeness and quiet, it seemed, than hostility.

  “’At’s my report, m’lord,” Uwen said in conclusion, as the noise of soldiers faded in the hall.

  “Well-done,” Tristen said, and looked to the rest of Tassand’s list, which proved thereafter the small business of petitions, the sort that had overtaken him in the hall, and requests, one for a marriage of a ducal ward.

  “Am I in charge of this person?” he asked, and truth, as Lord Azant explained, the ducal ward was a

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  relative of Lord Cuthan, a young girl, as Tassand knew and interjected, left behind in Cuthan’s flight. Merilys was her name, and she was twelve years old.

  “Twelve,” he said. Ages of Men eluded him, but this seemed young. “A child.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said another, elder man. “In need of guidance and direction, and protection of the estate she can in n
o wise manage.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “Thane of Ausey, Your Grace. Dueradd, thane of Ausey, betrothed to the lady in question.”

  “My lord,” Earl Azant said, edging forward. “I stand remote kin to the child. In the absence of the earl, and his dispossession, all obligations of kinship are fallen on Your Grace. The marriage—”

  “The marriage is contracted by the lady of Idas’aren,” said the groom, “and agreed and sealed by the earl of Bryn, as m’lord can see if he will be so kind…”

  “All agreements by the earl are abrogated,” Azant said, “and this marriage is not in the girl’s interest.”

  “Not all the earl’s agreements are abrogated. His market agreements are being honored…”

  “The lady of Idas’aren is not a heifer at market, and her mother, my cousin, is against this union!”

  “What does the lady of Idas’aren say?” Tristen asked, lost in the back-and-forth of rights and arguments.

  “My lord, she’s too young to know her advantage.”

  “Then until she’s old enough to know her advantage…”

  Tristen said. He found all sympathy for a young soul tossed and bartered about without her understanding or her consent.

  He had no idea of marriages. But he did, of being set about and ordered here and there. “…may I have the marriage wait?”

  There was a murmur, and Tassand, a mere servant 196 / C. J. CHERRYH

  in Guelessar, and now in charge of the household, said quietly:

  “I’m sure Your Grace can do whatever Your Grace pleases.”

  “Then I say let the marriage wait until she’s older and can say what she wishes.”

  Azant made a small ha! of triumph, and the thane of Ausey retreated with a mutter of angry protest, drowned in the murmur of the hall. No one else looked unhappy, and no few looked well satisfied.

  Meanwhile Tassand read out the next matter, stone for repair near the gate, “…requiring,” Tassand said, “only Your Grace’s word to pay the workmen, which seems justified here.”

  “I give it,” he said, as he had agreed to a hundred such requests.

  Had he done justice to the young girl? He felt a motion of his heart and he did as seemed right to him. He assented to what for some reason needed his assent. The other matters were as mundane as the request for payment…a request of the town clerks for Zeide records, and that, he knew was impossible.

  “They’re likely lost,” he said, and saw the Guelen-born clerk who had come with him from the capital come forward, just to the edge of the gathering. “Are they not?”

  The clerk gave a little bow. “M’lord, there’s progress, but I beg to say, no, my lord, we still can’t provide all the records.

  It’s property and inheritance the magistrates want, and it’s all a muddle, for reasons Your Grace knows.”

  The archives had been kept in disorder, or at least the semblance of it, even during Lord Heryn’s life, so no king’s clerk could find proof of Heryn’s doings, that was what Cefwyn had said. Now the disorder was real, for Parsynan had done nothing to set the place in order that he could detect; and the senior archivist

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  who might have kept the whereabouts of important papers and books set in memory was dead, murdered by the younger, who had fled.

  “We make lists as quickly as we can,” the clerk said, “but to tell the very truth, Your Grace, two more clerks or even a boy to carry and climb would speed the work; and Your Grace to rule on disputes, supplanting records.”

  “Tassand,” Tristen said, out of his own competence.

  “I’ll inquire, m’lord,” Tassand said, and he trusted it would come to some good issue, or Tassand would report to him. He had no idea what it cost to pay clerks, but he knew the books, which now were jumbled in towering stacks on tables, exceeding the shelves that existed, needed better care than Heryn had given them: not only inheritance and tax records, but works of philosophy, of history, of poetry, all gathered into one confused pile. There were treasures still in that place, he was convinced of it, and no knowing what Lord Cuthan might have destroyed or taken. As he understood, they had hardly a list of what the king of Ylesuin might have taken…nothing would Cefwyn destroy, no question there. But Cefwyn had certainly taken the tax records, and a history or two.

  Cuthan had done the worst.

  And wondering about Cuthan’s dealings with the library led to other questions, and the welfare of Cuthan’s people, which, if he had arranged the matters under discussion, would have been the foremost thing to do. But it seemed a discussion more appropriate to the lords alone, not to this hour when burghers from the town and clerks and common soldiers rubbed shoulders.

  So when Tassand reported the list of petitioners exhausted and asked whether he would say anything

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  he found nothing in particular to say. Now that he had taken up the broom to sweep difficulties and cobwebs off his doorstep, there was one paving stone missing from a complete and unscarred structure in Amefel: there was one outstanding fault, and he had thought of the man in two problems which had come before him, even in one audience.

  Cuthan. Cuthan, Lord of Bryn.

  Cuthan, Edwyll’s betrayer.

  Cuthan, Crissand’s enemy, who had fled to Tasmôrden.

  INTERLUDE

  In the old scriptorium that served as solar in these cold winter days the consort’s court stitched and gossiped. Lady Luriel was a primary subject of interest; but Ninévrisë said nothing, only attended her small, precise stitches, gathering news of Luriel’s previous and current indiscretions, sure that in her own absence the subject of gossip was herself, and Father Benwyn, and Cefwyn.

  Luriel found no mercy with these women. There was some whisper about “His Majesty,” which a matron swiftly hushed; but mostly the ladies buzzed like bees about Panys’ sister Brusanne, a plain, awkward, and myopic girl whose stitching always suffered from untimely knots. Brusanne was not accustomed to being the focus of attention, and said, clearly without thinking, regarding her brother, “His Majesty said he might have Eveny Forest and Aysonel if he married her.”

  Every eye turned to Ninévrisë, quick as a lightning stroke, and they were all trapped, looking at one another, exposed and naked, on a point of common dismay.

  Then Ninévrisë calmly snipped a thread. “What a nice notion,”

  she said blithely, feigning ignorance. “She’s been so unhappy.

  Murandys is a rocky place, is it not? And Panys is full of forests.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Brusanne said, blushing deep red.

  “I look forward to her joining us here,” Ninévrisë said. “She’s very well read, so I hear.”

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  “I think she’s sleeping late,” said the shameless widow of Bonden-on-Wyk, and there was a general stir.

  “Madiden!” said the Lady Curalle, thoroughly Guelen, and staunchly virtuous.

  “Well, so she may be,” said the widow. “She’ll be wed, never a doubt. That one’s set at marriage and escaping her uncle’s hand, and would not I? Would not you? Small wonder.”

  “Well, I’d dance with Murandys himself!” said Byssalys with a wicked look. “Jewels can excuse every fault else, oh, and that man has treasury.”

  “His last wife had a lovely funeral,” said the irrepressible widow Madiden.

  Perhaps another lady of highest rank might have stilled the unseemly gossip, but Ninévrisë listened, and gathered knowledge, of Murandys, of Panys. It was a court far more tolerable, and more informative, with Lady Artisane in retreat. It informed her, as she listened, that Murandys was indispensable to Cefwyn’s plans, and yet was not a man worth leaning on or relying on.

  Here was a man whose treatment of three wives was in question, whose management of his tenants was notorious, and she was distressed that Cefwyn tolerated this man…habit, and his father’s policies, all that aside: if she were king of Ylesuin,
she would not tolerate him.

  But events had not made her a reigning monarch, nor even a reigning queen, and she could not claim that Elwynim nobility was in any regard better. A third of the lords of Elwynor had rejected her claim as a daughter to succeed her sonless father, Caswyddian and Aséyneddin had tried to marry her by force of arms, and if not all of the lords of Elwynor had rebelled, and if a brave handful had died in her defense and a brave handful more still held Ilefínian against

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  Tasmôrden, still she could not say that Murandys or even Ryssand was a worse lord. She would have to take the Regent’s throne by blood and iron, with Guelen troops. It would not come to her on a waft of love and tossed roses.

  Her needle pricked her finger and a spot of blood welled up.

  She evaded the bleached linen, but it stained the thread, and she sucked the finger clean and snipped the spoiled thread, tasting copper of blood in her mouth as she looked up to an arrival in the doorway.

  Luriel had indeed come to her small court, and made a deep and formal curtsy.

  “Your Grace,” said Luriel.

  “Lady.” She impulsively extended the wounded hand with the damp finger, and Luriel came to take it and to bow again in a rustle of fashionable petticoats, a cushioning flower of velvet and wool blossoming about her. Ninévrisë smiled on purpose when Luriel lifted her gaze to meet hers; and, reminiscent of the night of the fox-hued gown, she saw a strong-chinned countenance with brows like soaring wings, eyes full of cautious wit and defense and hope.

  “Welcome,” she said, not altogether a matter of duty to Cefwyn: in some part, in a dearth of sharp wits in her small gathering, she indeed held hope of this woman Cefwyn had once thought of marrying. “Have you brought your stitching? Make room, make room for the lady, all of you.”

  It was in immaculate consideration of precedence, who moved aside and who did not, and Luriel found a stool between Bonden-on-Wyk and Brusanne of Panys, who cast her curious, shortsighted looks, and above Dame Margolis, a knight’s lady, common as the earth and as generous.