“Do you think you’ll ever find aught that’ll convince his grace?”
Jill shrugged to say she didn’t know, but Rhodry could see the hopeless look in her eyes. Convincing die gwerbret that one of his sworn lords was a traitor would take the word of a priest, no doubt, or maybe a templeful of them. His grace wouldn’t be listening to a silver dagger and a common–born boy.
“Why?” Meer snapped. “Why kill me?”
“I don’t know,” Jill said. “But I wonder if our lordship worships those false gods you’ve told me about, and if he thinks you might recognize him for the traitor he is.”
“Hum.” Meer considered this for some moments. “Could be. Again, we’ll not be having an easy time finding out for certain.”
“And in the meantime, who knows what Matyc will be doing,” Rhodry said. “I think me I’d best keep him from working harm.”
“Rhoddo!” Jill turned to him with a snarl. “This is a matter for the laws, not for murdering.”
“And did I say I was so much as thinking of murdering the man?”
“You didn’t, but I know you cursed well. The first thing you always think of is blood.”
“I’m not about to get myself hanged for killing one of the noble-born. Don’t trouble your heart over it. What I will do is stay close to Meer and Jahdo for the next few days. And I think I’ll just have Yraen keep an eye on our fine lordship.”
“Now that’s a splendid idea.” Jill turned back to her patient. “All right, lad, you can take your paws out of the water now. Let’s see what they look like clean.”
Time, Rhodry knew, was their ally and Matyc’s foe. Now that the gwerbret had given his vassals leave to return to their own lands, Matyc quite simply couldn’t dally in Cengarn without some good reason. With his lack of imagination, reasons would be hard to come by. As he told Yraen, while they lingered at table after the evening meal, Matyc was going to have to make his move fast, if indeed he did strike again.
“I’m going to stay in the bard’s chamber tonight,” Rhodry said. “Having a silver dagger sleeping in the doorway does wonders for keeping trouble out of a room.”
“True spoken. Where are the lad and Meer now?”
“Up in Jill’s chambers. I figure they’ll be safe enough there for a bit.”
“I wouldn’t cause trouble where Jill could see me, not on your life.” Yraen paused, chewing on the ends of his mustache. “Now, as for Matyc, I might be able to bribe a servant to give me a place to sleep near his lordship’s apartments. Worth a try.”
Only half consciously they both turned to look across the great hall, laced with a strand or two of blue smoke from the secondary hearth, to the table of honor — Although die gwerbret and his lady had retired, and the prince and Carra were nowhere to be seen, the two vassals lingered over goblets of mead. Matyc listened, his face its usual mask, while Lord Gwinardd told some long tale that, judging from the way he laughed as he told it, was meant to be humorous.
“I’ve never seen a man so sour as Matyc,” Yraen remarked. “You think he’d at least feign a smile for the courtesy of the thing.”
With his story fallen flat, Gwinardd lingered but a moment longer. He rose, bowed briefly to Matyc, and stalked out of the great hall. Without a trace of expression on his face, Matyc watched him go, then reached for the flagon of mead. Yraen stood, considering.
“I’ll just go have a word with Matyc. One of his riders was telling me that his lordship dearly loves to gamble on a good game of carnoic, and the gwerbret keeps a set right there, in that chest in the curve of the wall. I’ll see if Matyc will take a challenge from a silver dagger.”
“Good thinking.” Rhodry stood, too. “I’m just going to take a walk out in the ward.”
By then the sun had all but disappeared, and the first few stars were coming out over the towering walls of Dun Cengarn. Out by the kitchen hut servants scurried round, and the scullery boys lugged bucket after bucket of water from the well, but otherwise the ward stood empty. Rhodry made a tour round, looking for places where a man bent on murder might hide, and finally strolled down to the main gates, which still stood open with a guard on either side. The town spread out downhill, dark except for the occasional crack of firelight from an open window. Far away in some temple or other a bronze bell clanged.
“A friend of yours rode in some while back, silver dagger,” a guard said. “That dwarven merchant, Odo or Thoto or whatever his name is.”
“Ah. I wonder if the little bastard’s finally come to pay me what he owes me?”
“He said he was headed for the great hall, but good luck. Squeezing coin out of a dwarf’s a hard day’s work.”
Rhodry trotted uphill to the main broch and slipped into the great hall by the back door. The riders’ side stood empty, while up at the honor hearth a small crowd flocked round the table, watching and wagering upon the game of carnoic. Judging from the silence in the hall, it was running close. Rhodry saw Otho, standing back a bit by the hearth itself and looking as irritable as if he had a thorn in his breechclout. As Rhodry was walking over to join him, he heard Lord Matyc swear. Scattered groans and whoops broke out in the crowd.
“Good move, silver dagger,” Matyc said, and never were fair words so grudgingly sounded, not that Rhodry had ever heard. “Let’s have another, shall we?”
“Now here, I can’t hang about with you louts all night.” Otho shoved himself forward. “Yraen, I need a word with you.”
“It’ll have to wait.” Matyc snapped out the words before Yraen could answer. “We’re in the midst of a gamble.”
“I don’t give a pig’s fart,” Otho snarled. “Can’t find Rhodry, so I need to talk to Yraen—here!”
Otho dodged back just in time as Matyc slapped at him in lazy contempt. So! Rhodry thought, losing is one thing that goads our lordship.
“You impacted pusboil from the hind end of a leprous mule!” Otho snapped.
“Don’t you insult me, you stub-legged excuse for a man.”
“Very well, I retract that. You’re a running sore on a leprous she-mule’s cunt.”
Matyc leapt up so fast that he tipped the bench over behind him. Yelping, riders and dogs alike scattered out of his way. The lord slammed both hands palm down on the table and glared at Otho, who stood his ground and glared right back.
“Draw that knife of yours,” Matyc said, and his voice rang dangerously level. “If you dare.”
“Hold.” Rhodry stepped in front of Otho. “We’re in a gwerbret’s hall.”
Matyc let out a long breath in a deep sigh.
“So we are, silver dagger, and you have my thanks for reminding me of that.”
If Otho had held his tongue or muttered something conciliatory, the matter would have died, but Otho had never been much for keeping his lips together.
“Very well,” the dwarf snapped. “If that piss-proud excuse of a noble lord apologizes to me, I’ll accept.”
“Me apologize to you?” Matyc’s voice cracked. “I’ll see you dead first.”
At that the captain of Matyc’s warband grabbed his lord’s arm. Matyc shook him off, his face as cold and blank as a stone.
“Fear not,” he growled. “His grace’s hall is safe from my spilling blood in it. But come the morning, dwarf, you’d best be here, because I’m bringing this matter to justice in malover.”
Matyc spun round and stalked out, his captain and his men filing out after him. Yraen, who’d been sitting on the other bench all this time, shook his head and began putting the carnoic stones back in their tiny coffer.
“This is going to cost you a grand lot of coin, Otho old lad,” he said, grinning. “Rhodry, we’d best get the hire he owes us out of his hide before Matyc drags him into court.”
Otho howled in sheer anguish. Although the other riders in the hall began to laugh, Rhodry turned and snarled them into silence.
“This is a fair bit more serious than coin,” Rhodry said. “His lordship feels his honor’s been insult
ed, and I doubt me if that’s a laughing matter, lads.”
Rhodry was proved right on the morrow morning. Since Gwerbret Cadmar could refuse no request for a judgment from one of the noble-born, he convened malover and sent a couple of servants trotting down into town to fetch Otho from his inn and a priest of Bel from his temple. Everyone in the dun who would fit crammed into the great hall, even Meer and Jahdo, way off in the back, while the latecomers stood just outside at door and window. To prevent trouble, Matyc’s warband was forced to stay in the barracks, but when Otho arrived, he brought his three kinsmen with him, to stand beside him as was his and their right under the laws. As witnesses, Rhodry and Yraen knelt on the floor up at the front of the hall. The best view, of course, was reserved for the noble-born. Off to one side but close at hand sat Lord Gwinardd, Prince Daralanteriel, the gwerbret’s lady, and of course Carra, pale with worry.
After the servants turned the honor table sideways and placed his grace’s chair, Cadmar sat in the middle of one long side with a priest at one hand and a scribe at the other. Before him on the nicked and scratched oak slab lay the golden ceremonial sword of the gwerbrets of Cengarn. ‘Twixt table and witnesses, Otho knelt toward the gwerbret’s left and Matyc, to his right. Cadmar took the sword and raised it high, point upward.
“I hereby declare this malover open,” the gwerbret called. “Let the gods strike dead any man who lies during its course.”
He knocked the pommel of the sword three times upon the table, then laid it flat.
“Lord Matyc of Brin Mawrvelin will speak first and lay his grievance. Then Otho the dwarven merchant will speak to answer him. Then the witnesses will tell me what they saw.”
Lord Matyc rose in icy calm, his voice flat as he recounted his version of the incident.
“I’ll admit that I raised a hand to the man, Your Grace,” he finished up. “But I never meant to land a blow. It was just a stupid sort of slap, like brushing away a fly.”
The scribe wrote something down.
“And what did he call you, Lord Matyc,” Cadmar said, “that makes you feel your honor’s at stake here?”
Matyc hesitated, his face turning just the slightest bit pale.
“Unless you give out with the insult, lean hardly judge it, can I now?”
“Very well, Your Grace. He called me a running sore on a leprous she-mule’s cunt.”
Carra laughed. No doubt she was merely anxious, but she giggled so loudly that most everyone could hear, and way in the back of the hall some maidservant or other answered with a snicker of her own. It was too much for human nature to bear. The hall broke, man and maid alike snorting, tittering, guffawing, and outright howling. Cadmar hauled himself up and pounded on the table.
“We will have silence in this hall!”
The laughter abruptly died. Matyc was trembling with shame and rage, his lips bloodless, his face red, his fists clenched at his side. That’s torn it, Rhodry thought. When he glanced at Otho’s kin, he saw them rolling their eyes heavenward, as if in prayer.
“Otho the dwarven merchant,” Cadmar intoned. “Do you deny this charger?”
“I don’t, Your Grace, because he deserved every word of it. How was I to know he never meant to hit me, eh? When a hand as big as your face comes flying your way, you’ve no mind for subtleties.”
The wrangling went on, back and forth, while the great hall grew hot and fetid from the bodies packed into it. Although Otho turned furious, growling each word, Matyc stayed dead-calm, his entire face bloodless by then. Cadmar started scowling, then finally leaned forward.
“I find both of you equally at fault,” he snapped. “This is a stupid wrangle over naught.”
“Naught, Your Grace?” Matyc stepped forward. “He insults me in front of you, my peers, my captain, my men, the common-born servants, these silver daggers. His words shame me here in your very hall and expose me to the mocking laughter of my peers as well as my inferiors. And you call that naught?”
Cadmar hesitated, glancing at the priest.
“A lord’s honor is more precious than gold.” The priest began quoting from the laws. “Without honor in the eyes of his people, how may a lord rule? Will men who mock him in secret obey him in the open? Thus a lord must seek redress for the slightest stain upon that which he treasures.”
“Well, true enough,” Cadmar said, sighing. “But, Matyc, I can’t find you blameless. A slap at a man’s head is a threat. What redress would you have me assign you?” He glanced at the priest again. “What’s the usual price for this sort of thing?”
Before his holiness could speak, Matyc stepped forward.
“I want no coin nor cattle, Your Grace. I demand a trial by combat to let the gods assign the shame and blame for this.”
“That is his lordship’s right under the laws,” the priest said. “But I would counsel against it.”
“I demand my right,” Matyc snarled.
Otho sat down heavily on the floor, his mouth flopped open like a landed fish. Carra clasped both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. The crowd began to murmur as the gwerbret bent close to the priest to whisper. Suddenly Rhodry saw the way to solve the little problem of Lord Matyc once and for all. He stepped forward with a low bow toward the, table of honor.
“My lords, Your Grace, and all you assembled here.” Rhodry turned to look significantly at various members of the crowd. “Even by the standards of his people, Otho’s an old man. Even if he were a young one, he’d still have a bare half the reach of Lord Matyc here. And even if he had Matyc’s height, he’s never fought with a sword in his life.”
The crowd began to murmur, and Matyc looked Rhodry’s way with poison in his eyes. Cadmar let the talk go on for a moment or two, then yelled for silence.
“The silver dagger’s right enough,” the gwerbret said. “A trial by combat in circumstances like these would be an affront to the gods and naught more.”
“Your Grace!” Matyc howled. “Then where’s my re-dress?”
“Your Grace.” Rhodry knelt in front of the gwerbret. “I offer myself as a champion for the justice of the thing.”
The crowd started to cheer, then bit it back. Trapped in a rat cage of his own weaving, Matyc made a choking sound deep in his throat.
“Ye gods!” Cadmar snapped. “How has this stupid incident got itself so overblown? Your Holiness, I can’t countenance this.”
The priest shrugged with a little fling of his hands.
“I have no say in the matter, Your Grace. Matyc’s called for formal combat. There’s not one thing I can do to stop it now. When a man speaks in front of the gods, he speaks but once.”
Cadmar turned to Matyc.
“Will you withdraw your-request?”
“How can I, and have a scrap of honor left? Do you think I could ever hold my head up again if people thought me frightened of a silver dagger? The god will aid me, Your Grace, and then well see who’s acting for the justice of the thing.”
Otho sighed and wiped his sweaty forehead on his shirt sleeve.
“So be it,” pronounced the gwerbret. “You shall fight with the ritual arms: neither mail nor shield shall come between you, but you shall have a sword in the right hand and a dagger in the left. Lord Matyc, son of Arddyr, do you accept these terms?”
“I do, Your Grace.” To give him his due, his voice was rock-steady. “I submit to the arbitration of the gods.”
“And you, Rhodry, son of—my apologies, silver dagger. I don’t know your father’s name.”
“Devaberiel Silverhand, Your Grace.”
Whispers rippled through the great hall. Cadmar sat stunned for a moment, then lifted the sword for silence. It came promptly.
“Very well, Rhodry, son of Devaberiel Silverhand, do you submit to the arbitration of both the gods of Deverry and those of your father’s people?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
Cadmar turned to the priest.
“Your Holiness, I have called you here on a matter of ju
stice, and justice we shall have. Will you preside?”
“I will, Your Grace, but Great Bel will do the judging, not me or any other mortal man.”
Without waiting for another word from lord or priest the assembled warbands began to file out of the great hall. Although the crowd murmured as it fell back to let them go, the riders themselves walked in dead silence. They saw the rite of combat as a seal on their warriors’ lives, an outward and visible sign that their death-dealing stood holy in the eyes of the gods. Rhodry was enough one of them to know that they were at heart grateful for the chance to witness this rare act of worship. He followed them out, walking alone, with a little space around him that seemed as impenetrable as a dun wall, judging from the way none dared approach him.
Outside the many-towered dun, in a grassy stretch of meadow, the priest of Bel paced out the long rectangle of the combat ground and cut the turf with his golden sickle to mark it. Matyc’s men ranged themselves along one side, Otho and his kin on the other, and the gwerbret’s men stood all round to prevent trouble. In shirts, brigga, and bare feet Rhodry and Matyc walked to the center of the ground and handed their weapons to the priest, who kissed each one and prayed over it as well. When Rhodry and Matyc knelt before him, he laid his hands on their heads and offered up a long prayer, asking Bel to judge the true man from the false. Bel was the High King’s god, and all his life, whether as silver dagger or great lord, Rhodry had considered himself the High King’s man with a devotion greater than any Deverry man would ever pay to one of the deities. As he knelt on a matter of justice, Rhodry felt the touch of another hand, this one cold and hard upon the back of his. The god had come.
The prayer wound on and on through the assembled silence. Rhodry’s blood ran cold; the hairs on his nape and on his arms prickled and rose; he felt a profound stillness deep in his heart. Round him the sun turned hard and sharp and brighter than any sunlight he’d ever seen before. Rhodry was aware of Matyc, kneeling next to him, trembling a little, but in rage, not fear. Rhodry was sure of that. When the priest finished his prayer, they rose and took their weapons from the gwerbret, standing nearby like a page. Cadmar looked at Rhodry and stepped back involuntarily in sudden fear. Rhodry merely smiled and strode down to his edge of the ground.
Days of Blood and Fire Page 20