The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  ‘I’ll have me some ale then, and wait.’

  ‘Food?’

  Corla considered, and then shook her head. The boy’s eyes fell to the blood splattered across her cloak and nodded again. He handed her a filled tankard, and fished on a high shelf for a small leather bottle.

  ‘What’s this?’ Corla asked, pulling the stopper and sniffing.

  ‘Strong.’ He grinned. ‘On the house.’

  ‘I can’t decide whether you are a demon or blessing. Goddess knows where Tegan found you.’

  ‘The slave market.’ Corla froze, and gave a swift glance to the boy’s neck. He pulled his shirt loose. There was no bond-collar. Corla considered the boy’s features and sighed.

  ‘Jodis’ boy?’

  He nodded. Corla shook her head slightly, and handed over the payment for the ale. She glanced about the inn. Quiet still. She felt a great disinclination to talk to Maeve. That could wait for midnight and the full weight of whatever was in that leather bottle to take effect. She chose a dark corner where she could watch the door to Tegan’s private quarters and took a slow sip of the ale. It wasn’t what her body wanted. She tried the bottle. Fire ran down her throat and spread tentacles through her stomach, unravelling the knot of silence and tension. She gasped. She sensed eyes on her and glanced at the boy. He nodded. Corla closed her eyes against his knowing look. A child that age ought not to understand how she was feeling, ought not to know how to deal with her hurts.

  Corla had finished her ale and was a third of the way through the bottle by the time Maeve emerged. She leant further into the dark corner, and kept still, but Maeve had no eyes for what was going on about her. Tegan on the other hand, noticed her at once. She waited until Maeve had walked out into the darkness, then raised her hand towards Corla and waited.

  Corla smiled weakly, gathered the bottle to her and followed Tegan through to her private rooms.

  As soon as they were in the better light Tegan looked long and hard at Corla.

  ‘What have you to say that you couldn’t share with Maeve?’

  Corla looked at Tegan. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the frown line between her brows was more pronounced than usual.

  ‘I didn’t think Maeve would come to you for comfort.’ Corla said, dropping into a seat.

  ‘I don’t know that she did.’ Tegan stirred the fire, and joined Corla at the table. ‘She came to tell me. I’ve known Riordan since he was a child. He was almost-kin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Maeve never knows how to share anything, even grief.’

  ‘Yes. She’ll want it all for herself.’

  Tegan sighed and smoothed the frown line with her thumb.

  ‘And you and I?’

  Corla shrugged, and held out the leather bottle. Tegan smiled.

  ‘Juhel’s a clever lad, but be careful how much of that you drink, it could kill you.’

  ‘I should care?’

  ‘Corla, you might not, but I would.’

  Corla nodded.

  ‘I know when to stop.’ She hesitated, not wanting to talk about Riordan yet. ‘I didn’t know you had taken on Eachan’s reclamation plans.’

  ‘Juhel, you mean? It’s not something I’m going to shout about.’

  ‘Have you found any more?’

  Tegan shook her head.

  ‘He’s probably the only one old enough to know for himself who his mother was. Without that, there’s no certainty, and we have to be careful who and how we ask.’

  ‘It’s not Eachan you’re doing this for, is it?’

  Tegan held Corla’s glance.

  ‘You know better than to ask.’

  Corla took a slow swig from the bottle, watching Tegan over the top.

  ‘She’s still here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brede. I saw her on the lower bridge.’

  ‘What in hell is she doing here still?’

  ‘Begging.’

  Tegan made an incoherent noise of anger and despair, and put her head in her hands. She shook her head, her eyes still buried in her palms.

  ‘I don’t believe this. What is going on? Has everyone gone stark mad?’

  Corla sat back, considering that question.

  ‘I think Brede may have. She’s not making sense.’

  ‘I told her to go. I warned her about the witch.’

  ‘The witch?’

  ‘She still has that sword.’

  Corla sat up and put the bottle on the table. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘What sword?’ Corla asked carefully.

  Tegan’s head jerked up. She said nothing. Corla pulled her hands sharply away from the surface of the table, to tie them in an uneasy knot out of sight of Tegan’s stricken expression.

  ‘Oh,’ she said lightly. ‘That sword.’ She dropped her eyes, gazing intently at the bottle. She pushed it jerkily towards Tegan, still not meeting her gaze. Corla felt burdened and panicky. Tegan took a large swallow from the bottle.

  ‘What will you do?’

  Corla shook her head.

  ‘Corla, I have to know.’

  ‘Or what?’

  Tegan frowned, her hand tightening on the bottle. Corla watched the hand metaphorically wringing her neck and sighed.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t told me.’

  ‘So do I. I thought she was gone, I thought she was safe.’

  ‘The witch hasn’t found her yet, and she does have a sword with her, I suppose it’s that one.’

  Tegan shrugged. What other? Corla shook her head. The thought of Riordan stabbed through her fear; fierce, impossible to ignore.

  Will it be like this forever? she wondered, winding imaginary bandages about her hurt. Will I be beating my head on walls and screaming in two years’ time? She pulled the bandages tight; feeling the throb of pain stifled, but not cured, and doubted it.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said calmly. ‘Brede can go to hell, and all the rest of them. I don’t care.’ She sighed. ‘But you do, don’t you, Tegan – so I will help.’

  Tegan shunted the leather bottle from hand to hand, thinking. Corla waited impatiently, then snatched the bottle away. She moved it to the far side of the table.

  ‘Bring her here, protect her, take the risk?’ She moved the bottle to the other side. ‘Get her away from here, somehow?’

  Tegan sat still, her hands flat on the table, staring at her fingers.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Whichever I can persuade her to.’

  Corla stood.

  ‘Fine, come on then.’

  She led the way, the leather bottle cradled against her. Tegan grabbed up a coat and followed.

  They walked the short distance to the bridge in silence. Corla strode slightly ahead, impatient, angry, wanting to be getting on with her grieving, not dealing with this. Tegan kept up, just; equally angry, but afraid, trembling with uncertainty. Corla reached the bridge; loped down the slope and reached for the shoulder of the huddled form in the turn of the stonework, and looked down into the startled, sleep confused eyes of a complete stranger. She swore sharply and stood back.

  The beggar swore at her, and pulled his blanket more tightly about his shoulders, waiting for whatever abuse was about to come his way.

  ‘Where’s the woman who is usually here?’ Corla asked. He shook his head. Corla got a grip on the blanket and yanked at it. ‘The woman with the sword and the leather hat, where is she?’

  Tegan loosened Corla’s grip and held out a coin. The beggar took it.

  ‘Don’t know. You’re not the first to ask, though.’

  ‘Who else?’ Another coin.

  ‘Pretty woman, lovely voice. She smelt good. Had an escort of soldiers.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Another coin.

  ‘“It’s been here recently, I can hear it.”’

  ‘Did they ask about the woman?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Yet another coin.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Something about a sword. Course, I k
new who they meant. Isn’t anyone but she with a blade.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Didn’t tell them anything. They smelt of death.’

  ‘That’s quite a nose.’ Corla said hoarsely.

  ‘Can smell what you’ve been drinking. Can smell what you think, too.’ The beggar’s eyes gleamed palely. ‘Grief and fear and blood and anger.’

  Corla backed away.

  ‘Come on,’ she said sharply.

  Tegan followed reluctantly, back towards the West Gate.

  ‘If they haven’t found her already,’ Corla said softly, slowing her walk enough for Tegan to keep pace. ‘Our looking will draw them to us, and perhaps to Brede too.’

  Tegan nodded, and held out her hand for the bottle of spirits. Corla handed it over and let her drink deep before demanding it back.

  ‘I’m going back now. Go see to your business, Tegan.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What I ought to be doing. Helping Maeve get through tonight, let Maeve help me get through it.’

  Tegan looked thoughtfully at the bottle, then nodded.

  ‘There’s not enough left there to kill both of you, but don’t have too much more yourself. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Whatever tomorrow offers, I won’t be out looking for beggars with swords. You shouldn’t either.’

  Tegan nodded, then hugged Corla to her, her arms fierce with pent up anger.

  Corla worked her way free and walked swiftly towards the barracks. Tegan walked as quickly back to the inn, flinging the door wide as she entered. She glanced about the drinkers crowding the room, then strode over to Juhel. He considered his employer, and reached down another leather bottle. He thrust it into her hand. Tegan looked from the bottle to the boy and frowned. Then she pushed her way through the door to her private rooms, turned, and bolted the door.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Brede woke to voices, faint, but angry. She glanced around quickly but none of the refugees and beggars she shared the stable with stirred in the pale dawn light. As sleep receded, she realised that the thin wooden wall beside her formed part of the next building. Listening to snatches of conversation had become a habit, providing a welcome, if unsuccessful, diversion from hunger. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The argument concerned Lorcan’s capture, and the possibility of persuading a witch to take up the government’s cause and win him back.

  Brede lay in the musty straw, staring with great concentration at the grain of the wood beside her, and the patterns that woodworm had made. She wondered what could possibly persuade a witch to rescue Lorcan, and where they would find one with enough power to do it. She wondered why the rebels hadn’t simply killed Lorcan.

  The louder voice thought the plan unworkable. Brede approved his scepticism, and then remembered Tegan saying that there was a witch in the city. Probably there were hundreds, but if there was one who was known like this, then she must be a Songspinner.

  The quieter voice, the more reasoned, and perhaps more desperate, said something about mutiny. Brede’s mind latched onto that word. She wondered who those voices belonged to, and whether they meant what they said or were speculating. The meagre remnants of Lorcan’s army would not hold together without his hand on the leash. It was only a matter of time before the restless and undisciplined ones decided to open the gates to the rebels, or to loot the city themselves. The few who continued to hold fast in the face of that destruction had no hope of controlling the situation. It was a time for drastic action. What alternative could there be? The argument the other side of the wall continued – a mustering of the townsfolk untrained and frightened – could they really consider arming them and sending them out to fight? Why not try to persuade a witch?

  Curiosity made Brede struggle out from her nest in the hay, scramble carefully over the sleeping bodies about her, and limp around the stables to look at the building adjoining her shelter. It had an abandoned air to it – just an old house, although a fine one, and well secured. Brede was about to turn away when the door opened. She slid to the ground, and sat with her back to the wall of the building opposite, hand out in the familiar beggar’s posture. Peering out from under the brim of her hat, Brede watched two men leave the building. They wore no identifying badge nor uniform, but there was no doubt in her that they were Lorcan’s generals. Brede kept her head down, not wanting her interest in them to be recognised.

  As they passed, Brede caught a murmured comment; the soft-voiced one, still almost angry.

  ‘She owes us. The sword is not returned for all her promises.’

  Brede had to force herself to keep her head down. She had no doubt as to the meaning of that. The witch, or Songspinner, or whatever she was, had promised Lorcan his sword back.

  Brede ran a finger down the hilt, and out along the guard, remembering the sour ache of the sword when she’d touched it, lying on her makeshift bed in Kendra’s cave. She hadn’t thought, until now, why she had returned to the city. Now she wondered: had she been called back? If Tegan was right in her guess, she should get rid of the sword, before it could drag her into a trap. But she had been in the city long enough, why had the witch not found her?

  Brede’s thoughts strayed back to the generals and the possibility of mutiny. Abruptly she worked her body upright and limped down the alleyway that led back to the bridge, where she could listen to the gossip, and hope for some food. At least she could be prepared for what would come.

  Her usual place was taken. Brede considered whether she was prepared to fight for it. The man who sat in her preferred corner raised his head sharply at her approach and rose. He scuttled towards her, arms raised, his tattered blanket wings flapping as he lurched. Brede stepped back into a doorway, startled. He pressed up against her, staring beyond her shoulder, at the hilt of the sword.

  ‘People asking for you, swordswoman; asking for sword. Not wanting to buy, I’m thinking.’

  Brede shuddered, put a hand in his chest, and pushed. He fell back, grabbing hold of the remains of her cloak as he did so, ripping it from ragged hem to neck. Brede swore, helpless with rage.

  ‘Soldier gave me money,’ he said righting himself, and smoothing the torn strip of cloak over her shoulder. ‘Smelt of blood. Didn’t want the sword, wanted you. Mentioned the hat.’

  ‘So?’ Brede asked, guessing at Corla.

  ‘So I’m telling you. Stay here, they all find you, leave, they all not find you. Good pitch, –’

  ‘– Find your own pitch, you’ve got money, I haven’t.’ Brede pushed him roughly away and made for her corner.

  ‘They’ll find you,’ he called again.

  Brede glared at him, and laid the sword carefully beneath the crook of her knee.

  ‘Let them come,’ she muttered, trying to make either half of her cloak function as a garment. But once her heart had stopped hammering rage, an uncertain rhythm took over, and she watched every passer-by, jumping if someone came too close, wincing away if an eye stayed too long upon her. No way to get alms, no way to be inconspicuous, but she stayed, rigid with cold and fear, beyond finding the will to do anything but wait for whatever came to find her.

  For days nothing happened. The gates remained closed, the gossip became fanciful, and the food scarce.

  Dozing fitfully in her corner by the bridge, Brede was joined once more by Corla. She slid down beside Brede, and shifted her back uncomfortably against the roughness of the wall.

  ‘Still here?’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Still alive, which is more of a surprise. You know you’re watched for?’

  Brede raised her chin a fraction. Corla watched the motion out of the corner of her eye, and tried to fathom it – Indifference? Bravado? Stupidity?

  ‘What would you say if I told you that there are a great many people who’d gladly let the rebels in?’ Corla asked.

  ‘Mutiny? I’d say it was common knowledge.’

  ‘And if I say that Lorcan
with no Dowry blade is just a man in enemy hands?’

  ‘I’d say that he has never been anything else.’

  ‘And if I said that rumour had it they’ve already executed him?’

  ‘Not without the Dowry blade,’ Brede said, alert to how close her rival beggar had come, drawn by the sight of a green cloak.

  ‘Not without the blade, no. Do you still have it?’ Corla glanced furtively about, not seeing the tell-tale length of metal. Brede didn’t answer, didn’t move.

  ‘You know it’s the blade they’re looking for? Given a straight choice between handing over the sword and starving to death, why do you hesitate?’

  ‘I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ve no mind to help Lorcan.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before the witch ferrets you out.’

  Brede shrugged.

  ‘It’s taken her long enough so far.’

  Corla smiled wryly, and eyed the blade that Brede’s protective hand had drawn to her attention.

  ‘She’s probably walked passed you twice, seen that thing and decided her instinct was wrong.’

  ‘As might yours be.’

  ‘Brede, Tegan told me.’

  ‘She knows I’m here?’

  ‘That you’re still in the city at any rate.’

  ‘She’s not come looking.’

  ‘Yes she has. You weren’t to be found. If you want refuge it’s on offer; if you want help to get out, she’ll try to help with that too, although it’ll be a lot harder now.’

  Brede shook her head impatiently.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ Corla asked. ‘Why are you sitting there with the most sought-after weapon in the country under your knee waiting for disaster to creep up on you?’

  ‘Do you think Lorcan can do worse to me than he has already?’

  ‘Frankly? Yes, I think he, or his kind, can do far worse.’

  ‘I was called here. I can’t leave.’

  Corla turned her head slowly to see Brede’s face clearly. She let the idea that Brede might be completely mad flow through her.

  ‘Why are you wasting your time on this, Corla?’ Brede asked wearily.

  Corla shrugged.