The Shadow Isle

by Katharine Kerr

  “And doubtless someday I’ll call that debt in.” Mic grinned at him. “But we’ll worry about it then.”

  “Going with the caravan’s a wise decision,” Kov said. “You and Berwynna will be safer that way. The Northlands are wild and rough, worse even than down in Deverry.”

  “Have you ever traveled across them?” Mic said.

  “No, I’ve never had reason to.” Kov hesitated, shocked at the wild idea that was forming, seemingly of its own will, in his mind. “But you know, I wouldn’t mind having a chat with the silver wyrm myself. Enj, that story you told about the other Mountain Folk to the south—it’s been nagging at me ever since. I consulted Garin about it, and we both wonder if they’re indeed the Lost Ones from the old city. If Rori can give me some idea of where he saw them, I just might gather a few good men and go down into Deverry to search for them.”

  “It would be worth doing, all right,” Mic said.

  Enj nodded his agreement and had another sip of liquor. Besides, Kov thought, there’s Berwynna. She had her giant, who’d be traveling with her, but what if she tired of that Roundear lout?

  “Of course,” Kov went on, “my going depends on Garin’s permission. He’s my master in my craft.”

  Enj accompanied Kov when he went to see Garin, the head envoy. Over the winter, his beard had gone completely gray, and he’d taken to spending the vast majority of his time in his quarters. They found him sitting at a writing table littered with parchments, plates bearing scraps of food, and ancient maps, which he was consulting by the light of two thick candles. He put his pen down and listened while Kov explained his idea. Much to Kov’s relief, his master in the guild approved.

  “I’ll be interested to hear what the dragon can tell you.” Garin tapped a finger on the map spread out in front of him. “Besides, we know next to nothing about the country between us and Cerr Cawnen. Oh, the traders have told us a fair bit about monsters in the rivers and suchlike.” He rolled his eyes. “But what we need, with those maggot-born Horsekin riding around up there, is solid information. Can they feed their horses on the way to Lin Serr? What’s the rock like? Can we build traps and tunnels? That sort of information, not fancy tales.”

  “Just so,” Kov said. “I should take something to write upon and take notes.”

  “Good idea.” Garin turned to Enj. “Will you carry letters back to Haen Marn for me?”

  “Gladly,” Enj said. “In return, may I borrow one of your mules? It can haul the empty coracles upriver, and I’ll get him back to you eventually.”

  “Yes, certainly. You see, I can’t go to Haen Marn myself, even though I should go welcome your kin home. I’m going to be consulting with a representative of the Deverrian high king about establishing a formal border between Dwarveholt and his highness’ territory.”

  “It’s about time,” Enj put in. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been trouble between us already. An unmarked border’s a dangerous border.”

  “So they always say,” Kov said. “I suppose we can thank the Horsekin threat for the lack of trouble. This is no time for allies to start bickering among themselves.”

  “Just so.” Garin sighed and looked away. “I hate traveling, these days, but Voran specifically asked for me, so I can’t get out of it. We’ll meet in Gwingedd.”

  “Voran himself?” Enj said. “I would have thought a herald would—”

  “This matter is too grave to leave to the heralds,” Garin interrupted him. “Voran’s been newly appointed Justiciar of the Northern Border.”

  “Um, what?” Enj said. “What does that mean?”

  “Anything he wants it to, I wager.” Garin smiled, as sly as a bargaining merchant. “Whatever power he can gather, whatever teeth he can put into the new law.”

  “I see,” Kov said. “Then knowing Voran, I’d say it’s going to amount to a very important position indeed.”

  Not just the Mountain Folk, but everyone in Dun Cengarn, and especially its gwerbret, had been wondering about this new post of justiciar as well. While they waited, Prince Daralanteriel had been inquiring about the exact meaning of the term, but neither Lord Oth nor the priests of Bel in Cengarn’s own temple could give him much information.

  “It’s a new post that the high king’s invented,” Dar told his curious vassals at an impromptu council. “Cerrgonney has no gwerbretion, you see, so it needs some sort of legal officer. Voran will be able to try criminals and adjudicate feuds and disputes, just like a gwerbret, but his post won’t pass from father to son. The king wants someone who owes fealty directly to him rather than drawing his power from a holding of land.”

  “But is it just for Cerrgonney, Your Highness?” Gerran said. “I thought the title was Justiciar of the Northern Border.”

  “It is indeed.” Dar paused for a sly grin. “And Ridvar’s very aware that Arcodd stretches along the northern border for a good long way.”

  “What’s east of Cerrgonney?” Mirryn asked.

  Everyone turned to look at Salamander, who shrugged. “Not much,” the gerthddyn said. “Mountains, mostly. I’ve always assumed that Mountain Folk lived in them, but you know, now that you mention it, I’m not sure if they do or not.”

  No one else knew, either. They were all sitting in the warm sunlight down in the meadow below Cengarn’s grim cliffs. The Westfolk had raised their tents and made a proper camp along the river’s edge among the scattered trees. On the other side of the ford, their horses grazed at tether.

  “From what I hear about Cerrgonney,” Dar continued, “Voran will have more than enough trouble to occupy him without worrying about the eastern hills.”

  “Or about us,” Calonderiel said. “Which gladdens my heart. As long as their own territories keep them busy, the cursed Roundears won’t be trying to take ours.” He glanced at Gerran and Mirryn. “No offense meant to our allies, of course.”

  “Of course.” Dar rolled his eyes. “Your son has turned out to be a fine herald. He must have gotten his tact from his mother.”

  “Actually, Rhodda didn’t have any, either.” Cal grinned at the prince. “The lad grew up listening to us fight, and I think that’s what made him decide to be a peaceable man.”

  “Well, once Voran gets here, Maelaber’s going to have plenty of official work to do,” Dar went on. “And I hope Voran gets here soon. We don’t have a lot of grain left, and the first harvest won’t come in for some weeks yet.”

  Fortunately, Voran arrived in the middle of the next afternoon, accompanied by a retinue of officials and servants and a warband of seventy-five riders. They had brought supplies with them from Dun Deverry, a good thing, as Lord Oth remarked, considering how many of them there were. Except for an honor guard of ten, the warband camped out in the meadows with the Westfolk archers, but the officials had to be accommodated in the dun itself.

  The two princes and the gwerbret seated themselves at the honor table while the servitors sorted out the arrangements. At Dar’s invitation, Gerran and Calonderiel joined them there. Ridvar played the perfect host, inquiring after his royal guest’s health, apologizing for his primitive dun, so different from the splendor of Dun Deverry, adding a few direct compliments to the prince. Voran smiled and replied in kind, but once a servant had brought mead in the dun’s best silver goblets, he turned the talk to more serious matters.

  “I very much appreciate your hospitality, Your Grace,” Voran said. “Besides my lawsuit, I need to discuss a small matter with you, so it can be settled before I go back to Cerrgonney. I’ll be negotiating with Envoy Garin of the Mountain Folk. About Lord Honelg’s old dun—is it ready to be settled upon whomever their council’s chosen to man it?”

  “It is, Your Highness,” Ridvar said. “I left a fortguard there over the winter to repair and maintain the place. Lord Blethry had my scribe draw up the necessary documents, which you can take with you, if you’d be so kind, to deliver them to the envoy.”

  “Splendid!” Voran saluted him with his goblet. “My hearty thanks
! That’ll give us a fixed point where we can start drawing the border.”

  “Which reminds me. Lin Serr’s envoy sent letters for you here, Your Highness,” Ridvar said. “Do you have a scribe with you?”

  “I do, my thanks. I have a letter for you as well, this one from the high priest in Dun Deverry, official seal and all. It authorizes you to take action against Govvin.”

  “Good. Then we’re on firm legal ground in this matter.”

  Gerran had his own legal matter on his mind, but he hesitated to bring it up so soon after Voran’s arrival. After that evening’s formal dinner in the great hall, he sought out Salamander and asked his advice.

  “Well, you want to do it soon,” Salamander said. “Before Govvin arrives for the gwerbret’s malover, because that will take precedence, of course. On the other hand, you don’t want to push yourself forward too strongly.”

  “I just hope that Ridvar isn’t insulted or suchlike because I’m taking the matter to the justiciar instead of him.”

  “He won’t be, because you’re no longer a vassal of his vassal. That’s another thing justiciars are good for, truly, to preside over matters between folk who owe loyalty to different overlords, or in our case, to an entirely different royal line.”

  “I see. So it all comes down to how to approach Voran.”

  “Just so.” Salamander thought for a moment. “I know! I’ll write a note asking him when he as justiciar can hear your question. I’ll get some ink and pabrus from Neb.”

  “Ink and what?”

  “Pabrus. It’s a writing material made of water reeds. The Westfolk in Mandra make it as trade goods, and it’s much cheaper than parchments and vellum.”

  Salamander wrote the note standing at the servants’ hearth, and Clae delivered it to Voran’s scribe, who was lingering at table with Lords Oth and Blethry. The scribe in turn read it silently, then left his seat and rushed over to Salamander. Gerran could see them talking, heads together. The scribe kept waving the pabrus in the air as if he thought it a great marvel, as indeed he did, according to Clae.

  “It’s peculiar stuff, my lord,” Clae told Gerran. “It’s thin and crackly. Neb told me that it takes ink really well.”

  “Well, the scribes would know, I suppose,” Gerran said. “I just hope he doesn’t forget to tell the prince about my question.”

  Apparently the scribe did remember the message. After the morrow’s breakfast, Prince Voran summoned Gerran to the table of honor. Salamander, who seemed to have appointed himself Gerran’s second in the matter, tagged along. They both knelt beside the prince’s chair.

  “My scribe tells me that you have a matter to lay before me, Lord Gerran,” Voran said. “The gwerbret has given me leave to use his chamber of justice, where indeed he’s waiting for us.”

  “My humble thanks, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “May I call Lord Oth as a witness to this matter?”

  “Indeed you may.” Voran turned in his chair and summoned a waiting page. “Have Oth and my scribe join us in the chamber of justice.” He rose and beckoned to Gerran and Salamander. “Come along, then.”

  The chamber of justice, a half-round of a stone room, sat high up in the main broch on the east side. A flood of sunlight from its high slit windows fell across the polished table, where Ridvar was sitting to the right of its center. The gold ceremonial sword of the rhan hung on the wall under the sun banner of Cengarn rather than lying in front of the gwerbret, who would merely advise, not preside, since Gerran had appealed directly to the new justiciar. At the door two tabarded guards stood lounging against the wall, though they did straighten up and then bow when the prince walked in.

  Voran took the central chair behind the table. Gerran and Salamander knelt in front of it. When Oth and the scribe appeared, they sat at either end. A servant lass followed them in with a tray full of tankards of ale. She placed it on the table, curtsied, and hurried out. Ridvar helped himself to a tankard.

  “Now, then,” Voran said. “What is this matter, Lord Gerran of the Gold Falcon?”

  “It’s a question of an inheritance, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “My wife tells me that an uncle of hers left her a hundred silver pieces when he died, but she never got it. The coin came to Dun Cengarn—she’s sure of that—but her share was never disbursed.”

  Ridvar snickered and glanced at Oth with a grin, as if at a shared joke. “That old matter,” Ridvar murmured. “Ye gods, you think she’d give it up.”

  “May I speak, Your Highness?” Oth said.

  “That’s why you’re here, Lord Oth,” Voran said.

  “There never was any inheritance.” Oth gave Gerran a pitying sort of look. “She seems to think there was, but I’ve tried very hard to explain to her that she was left nothing. Women do have trouble understanding these things.”

  Gerran opened his mouth, but Voran raised a hand to silence him.

  “I don’t understand, Lord Oth,” the justiciar said. “Why would she claim she was due coin, then?”

  “No doubt Lady Solla made up a little tale, Your Highness, to increase her chances of a good marriage.”

  Gerran rose. He slammed both hands palm down upon the table so hard that the tankards clanked and spilled on their tray.

  “Lord Oth,” he said, “are you calling my wife a liar?”

  Dimly Gerran was aware of Salamander, rising from his seat to stand beside him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Oth’s face, suddenly pale, his eyes as wide and rolling as a spooked horse’s. Voran leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Gerran took his silence as permission to speak again.

  “Are you?” Gerran went on. “If so, we’ll have this out between us in the combat ground.”

  “It’s his right to challenge a man who insults his wife,” Voran remarked casually, as if speaking to the empty air.

  Big drops of sweat broke out on Oth’s face and slid down his wrinkled cheeks. Salamander laid a warning hand on Gerran’s arm.

  “Very well,” Oth whispered. “Your wife speaks the truth. I— I—” He began to sob, but still he stared with wet eyes at Gerran like a rabbit staring at a weasel.

  “Gerro, kneel!” Salamander tugged at Gerran’s arm. “You can’t kill a man of thrice your years. Be calm and hand over that letter.” He bowed to the justiciar. “Your Highness, we have written proof.”

  Gerran let out his breath with a puff and knelt. Oth wept silently, his nose running like a child’s. When Salamander knelt beside him, Gerran reached into his shirt, brought out the letter, and handed it to Voran’s scribe, who looked it over with some surprise.

  “Read it,” Voran said. “Or as much as pertains.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” The scribe cleared his throat, then read. “My beloved and dutiful niece, I am leaving you a hundred silver pieces. When our clan turned against me, you spoke out in my favor, and I want you to know that I remember your kindness well and warmly. Put it aside for your dowry, dear Solla. Your brothers will receive some of my wealth as well. Do not mourn for me, though I am dying slowly—” The scribe paused. “The rest, Your Highness, though touching, seems a private matter.”

  “No doubt,” Voran said. “Gwerbret Ridvar, if I may ask, did you receive an inheritance from this uncle?”

  “I most certainly did. He was my mother’s brother, and he became somewhat of a merchant, which is why the clan disowned him.” Ridvar turned to Oth. “Ye gods, pull yourself together, man!”

  The scribe handed an ink-stained rag to the councillor, who wiped his face and blew his nose. Oth slumped in his seat and crushed the rag into a soggy lump with one hand.

  “Very well, Lord Oth,” Voran said. “What happened to Lady Solla’s inheritance?”

  Oth slumped down a little farther and spoke to the table. “I purloined it,” he whispered. “I was so heavily in debt. The gambling, and the cursed Mountain Folk—they threatened to go to the gwerbret— his grace’s brother, that was—I had to pay up, and I had to pay them within the for
tnight.”

  “What?” It was Ridvar’s turn for anger. “You told me my sister was lying because she’d not gotten anything. You told me she was jealous, and—”

  Voran held up one hand and cut him off. “Let’s let Oth finish, Your Grace, if you’d not mind.”

  With a gulp for breath Oth rose from his chair. Gerran was expecting the old man to kneel, but he remained standing. With an angry grunt, he threw the damp rag hard onto the table.

  “My thanks, Justiciar,” Oth began. “It gladdens my heart that someone’s willing to let me speak. No doubt I’ll be turned out of the dun with my hand cut off and end up a maimed beggar on the roads, but I’ll have my say first.” He paused, gulping for breath. “Ye gods, do you realize, does anyone realize, what my life’s been like? Although I’m noble-born, I come from a land-poor clan, so I was reduced to bowing and scraping to one great lord or another to earn my meat and mead. And the worst of all was this arrogant child, this wretched lad who’s run me ragged for years.” He spun around and glared at Ridvar. “You little swine! It’s been my lot to hurry this way and that at your beck, smoothing over your lapses of courtesy, placating the men you’ve angered with mincing flatteries, and never getting a word of thanks, much less any sort of decent reward. My one pleasure was the dice, and then they betrayed me.”

  Ridvar gaped at him. No one in the chamber moved or spoke or even gasped in surprise. We’re as stunned as cows at slaughter, Gerran thought.

  “I meant to repay it,” Oth went on, “but how could I, with only a coin thrown my way now and again as if I were some beggar at the gates? You never offered me the slightest bit of praise or profit, Your Grace, no matter how many times your judgment failed the dun and the rhan, and I had to work like a madman to repair the lapse.”

  Still Ridvar did nothing but stare.

  “Besides—” Oth’s voice caught in his throat. He wept again, swaying from side to side as he sobbed.

  “Sit down.” Voran rose from his chair. “Sit down, for the love of the gods!”