‘And speaking of such matters,’ Graella put in, ‘where have you been, young Alyssa?’
‘Oh, come now, my ladies, you saw me leave. Things got a bit more difficult in town than I’d been expecting. I came back the long way round.’
‘Difficult? You might call it that.’ Werra turned grim. ‘All of our lasses are here and safe, now that you’ve turned up, but two of the men from King’s are dead.’
‘Dead?’ Alyssa caught her breath with a gasp.
‘And one of them noble-born, at that,’ Graella said. ‘Young Lord Grif, and him but fifteen summers old. The other was the Dyers’ Guild Own Scholar, Procyr of Abernaudd. Their fathers will have a few harsh words for the gwerbret once they get the news, and the guildmaster will, too.’
‘More than words, my lady. Griffydd of the Bear is Gwerbret Standyc’s son. I doubt me if he’ll settle his feud with our Ladoic all peaceful-like now.’
The two chaperones nodded their agreement. Graella sighed with a shake of her head.
‘Some of the townsfolk were badly hurt,’ Werra said. ‘And there’s another man dead among them. They say one woman lost an eye from being whipped. She’ll be suing in the court for that, I wager!’
‘Huh!’ Alyssa said. ‘As if His Grace will listen! They can take a suit to the law court, but who’s going to be judging it? His cousin by right of birth! He won’t be able to dismiss Standyc’s complaint so easily, though.’
Werra was about to speak when distant noises reached them – angry shouts, a scream of rage, and then the clang of the iron gates slamming shut. Alyssa heard a strange low-pitched throb and finally identified it.
‘Someone’s shaking the gates,’ she said, ‘but those locks are made of dwarven steel. They’ll not break so easily.’
The two older women agreed with small smiles. Alyssa curtsied to them both, then followed them inside to the women’s great hall. In the big round room a scatter of old, scarred tables and benches stood on the floor, covered with woven rush mats for want of money for carpets. Opposite the door stood the stone hearth where a peat fire smouldered against the springtime damp. At intervals around the stone walls hung candle lanterns, flickering in the drafts with the rot-touched smell of tallow. Off to both sides rose spiral iron staircases, splendid examples of dwarven blacksmith work and a gift from the rulers of Dwarveholt, that led to the upper floor and the access doors to the side brochs of the hive.
The head of the collegium, gray-haired Lady Taclynniva, or Lady Tay as she preferred to be known, sat in the chair of honor at the one new table. As always, she sat bolt upright, her head held high, her slender hands at rest together in her lap. The two chaperones took their chairs on either side of her. Both Werra and Graella kept their improvised weapons in their laps, just in case, Alyssa supposed, some enemy rushed in. They were sisters, who years before had fled unsuitable marriages and taken refuge with Lady Tay. Both of them had strong jaws, wide foreheads, and dark hair just beginning to show gray.
All around them the young women, with their loose red scholars’ surcoats over their tunics and long skirts, stood or sat on the floor, some weeping, some narrow-eyed with fury, all of them with their hair down and disheveled as a sign of mourning for Cradoc, their teacher of rhetoric. As Alyssa approached, Mavva hurried over to greet her. She had one hand on her tunic and clutched her silver betrothal brooch as if she feared it might be torn off. In the riot, of course, it might have been.
‘There you are!’ Mavva said. ‘Thanks be to the Goddess! Rhys and I are both safe, but I’ve feared the worst ever since I lost you in the mob.’
‘I was lucky to get out of it, truly. Ah, ye gods, what a horrible day this is for Aberwyn, to lose Cradoc so!’
Mavva nodded, finally let go of the brooch, and wiped tears from her eyes. Alyssa turned to Lady Tay’s chair and curtsied.
‘Good, you’re the last of our strays,’ Lady Tay said.
‘I lingered in town till the streets were clear, my lady.’ Alyssa decided it would be politic to shift the conversation before she was forced to mention Cavan. ‘That mob at our gates? I overheard someone mention Dovina.’
‘No doubt you did, because she’s the prey they’re after. We all suspect that the gwerbret wants her back in his dun so he can marry her off. The riot tonight will be his excuse, or so Dovina thinks.’ She nodded at the woman who sat at the far end of the honor table.
Alyssa turned to Lady Dovina, who gave her a sickly sort of smile. ‘I fear me our lady is right,’ Dovina said. ‘I wonder what starveling courtier he’s found for me this time?’
With a sigh Alyssa sat down on the bench. As usual, Dovina had an open book in front of her and a candle lantern set nearby. A pretty lass, some twenty summers old, the same age as Alyssa, Dovina had thick pale hair that all the scholars envied and large blue eyes, which, however beautiful, tended to water. She held a reading-glass in one hand – a rectangular lens in a silver frame with a handle like a small mirror. Beauty and her high estate hadn’t prevented her from having weak eyesight.
‘Perhaps,’ Lady Tay said, ‘it will be a worthy man this time.’
Dovina made a most unladylike snorting sound. ‘I don’t care, my lady,’ she said. ‘We all know that I was born for the scholar’s life. All I want is what I have already, tending our bookhoard.’
‘Nicely put,’ Lady Tay said. ‘If only you can convince your father.’
‘Indeed.’ Dovina turned to Alyssa. ‘Lyss, it gladdens my heart to see you safe. I was truly worried. And I need to ask you summat. I’ve been hearing reports that my father gave that order, when the riders charged the crowd, I mean. I can’t believe it of him.’
‘He didn’t. It was your brother, the younger one, at the head of his men. Not that he exactly gave an order.’
‘Gwarl?’
‘It was. He called us all rabble and ordered us to disperse. Someone – I couldn’t see who – threw a rock and hit his horse.’ She paused to get the images clear in her mind. ‘He didn’t give any sort of order. The warband broke on their own. I’d guess it’s the honor of the thing, someone attacking their lord.’
‘No doubt it was just that. My thanks. That’s a great relief. My father can be difficult, the gods all know, when he blusters and yells at everyone, but I’ve never known him to do anything vicious. Gwarl, on the other hand, is a dolt. Always swaggering around and sneering. Rabble. Huh!’
Alyssa listened in sincere admiration. Dovina held the highest rank of any scholar in Lady Rhodda Hall. Her father, Ladoic, ruled Aberwyn and the surrounding territory as gwerbret, the highest rank of nobility in the kingdom, just barely below the royal princes. Dovina said exactly what she wanted about her exalted clan and kin, words that none of the rest of them would have dared voice. Her brothers in particular – to Dovina, the ‘lout’ was the gwerbretal heir, and the ‘dolt’ the younger son. Rank or not, however, Dovina recognized Lady Tay as the leader of their collegium. She rose from her chair.
‘My lady.’ Dovina paused to curtsy. ‘Has there been a message from the dun yet? About returning Cradoc’s body to us? Mavva saw some servants carry it inside the dun.’
‘No message yet,’ Lady Tay said. ‘The Bardic Consortium also has a claim. I did send them a message straightaway when I heard that he was gone.’
Dovina curtsied again and sat back down. She turned to Alyssa and smiled, a bitter little twist of her mouth.
‘So, what’s our next move in this game of carnoic?’ Dovina said. ‘Will you still be speaking on the morrow?’
‘I will indeed. There’s more need for it than ever.’ Alyssa felt tears rising behind her eyes. ‘With Cradoc gone.’
The listening women keened, a soft moan, a whispered wail, and swayed. In the candlelight their scarlet surcoats seemed to flicker like the flames.
‘It’s a hard thing to bear,’ Dovina said. ‘But we mustn’t let him die in vain. Our cause is just, and even a stubborn dog like Father will see that sooner or later.’
Alyssa could only hope so. For some years now the people of Eldidd had been begging for a change in the law codes. As things stood, the judges in the law courts all came from the hereditary nobility. Fathers handed the positions down to sons, and some of the sons barely knew one law from another. The best anyone could hope for was a judge who’d listen to the advice of the priests of Bel. Not all priests, however, were more interested in deciding lawsuits fairly and criminal cases justly than in getting land and favors for their temples. More often than not, if a commoner brought a grievance against one of the noble-born, the commoner would get short shrift in court.
The kingdom’s one free city had already forced through changes thanks to obscure legal precedents. In Cerrmor, the heads of the various guilds had equal say with the mayor when it came to picking judges. They’d banded together to found a collegium for the studying of law after the model of the Bardekian law schools across the Southern Sea. Advocates and judges both had to complete the course of study in order to appear in a Cerrmor court. The fairness of the city’s justice system had become known and admired all across Deverry.
The news of these and other doings reached Aberwyn by barge and mail coach, but His Grace Ladoic, Gwerbret Aberwyn, would have none of these new ways. He was prone to announce – or bellow, as Dovina put it – that he stood firm on and for tradition. The old ways, he often said, were good enough for him.
‘And what’s good enough for him,’ Dovina said, ‘is supposedly good enough for all of us.’ She snorted again.
‘There are other precedents,’ Alyssa said. ‘The Justiciars of the Northern Border are the best one. They’ve been handling the courts in Cerrgonney for what? About three hundred years now.’
‘Too recent for my dear father, or so he says.’
‘It’s too bad that there isn’t some older precedent we could refer to. His councillors talk about tradition all the time, but what if things weren’t so traditional? That would take a few of their stones off the game board.’
‘If his councillors have any stones.’ Dovina flashed a wicked smile. ‘Of the other sort.’
Everyone with earshot laughed, even Lady Tay, though she cut her laugh short.
‘Now hush!’ Lady Tay said. ‘Such coarse words are most unbecoming! I’m sure all of you have studies to attend to. I suggest you go do so.’
Whispering together, the scholars rose from where they’d been sitting, grabbed lanterns, and headed for the staircases. Clutching her book and reading-glass, Dovina fell into step beside Alyssa and Mavva.
‘You know, Alyssa,’ Dovina said. ‘Your thought was a fine one, about the older precedent, I mean. I remember summat about such a thing in a book I read. It’s too late now, but tomorrow when the sun’s up, I’ll look for it.’
‘My thanks,’ Alyssa said. ‘It would be splendid to have a citation.’
‘Will you be able to stay here long enough to find it?’ Mavva said to Dovina. ‘Or will your father drag you away?’
‘If he comes and throws a direct order into my face, I shall have to obey him. Unless of course I can work him round.’ Dovina considered briefly. ‘It would be best that I never hear that he’s at the gates. If he does come, tell everyone that I’ve got such a terrible pain in my head that I simply can’t be disturbed.’ She laid a pale hand on her forehead and grinned. ‘My weak eyes, you know. Such a trial!’
‘I’ll spread the word,’ Mavva said. ‘Lyss, you’re not really going to go speak in the marketplace, are you? I know we planned it, but things have gotten so dangerous.’
‘Curse the danger!’ Alyssa said. ‘I said I’d speak, and I will, because now it’ll be a praise piece for Cradoc.’ She forced her voice steady. ‘And for Lord Grif and Procyr, too. Do you know the name of the dead townsman?’
‘I don’t.’ Mavva thought for a moment. ‘But I’ll find it out for you.’
Alyssa spent most of that night in the hive’s bookchamber. With her good eyesight, she could read by candlelight. She had a reading candle as thick as her wrist and a good two feet high. The priests of Wmm had gifted the hive with a wooden crate of these candles when the scholars had visited the Holy Island to view the bookhoard owned by the temples. Alyssa read gwerchanau, the famous death-songs of the past, and stored up fragments of poetry in her mind to add to her speech. All of the scholars depended on memory far more than writing. While Bardekian pabrus had become far more common than parchment, and most certainly much cheaper, wasting even scraps of it upon notes and rough drafts lay beyond the women’s collegium’s finances.
Finally, when the hourglass on her lectern ran dry from the fifth turnover, she closed her books and stumbled off to bed in the sleeping room she shared with six other women. As senior students, each of them had a narrow cot of her own, rather than sharing a mattress as the first-year lasses did. Moving carefully in the dark, Alyssa took off her skirt and tunic, folded them on top of the carved chest that sat at the foot of her cot, then lay down in her underdress and fell straight asleep.
She dreamt of Cradoc, not the skeletal person she’d seen at the end, but as he’d looked in the prime of life, tall and slender, with a mane of silvery hair that he wore combed straight back from his high forehead. They stood together in a landscape of mist and old stone walls, the collegium, perhaps, when the winter fogs rolled thick over Aberwyn.
‘Mourn me,’ Cradoc said, ‘but don’t wallow in grief. You have work to be done. You were my best student, and the work will be yours to do.’
‘Am I truly worthy?’ Alyssa said. ‘I wish you were still here with us.’
‘So do I.’ He smiled with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘I deem you worthy. Take risks, Alyssa, but judge them carefully. Don’t throw yourself away by starving like I did. You have a wyrd to fulfill.’
‘What is that wyrd?’
‘Now that I can’t tell you. No one can know another man’s wyrd, nor a woman’s either. Farewell.’ He took a step away into the mist, then turned back. ‘Oh, and do remember to breathe deeply and evenly while you speak.’
Overhead a raven cried out. She saw three of the carrion birds circling in the misty sky. When she looked for Cradoc, he’d disappeared, but another glance skyward showed her four ravens where three had been before.
Alyssa sat up in bed, awake and shivering in the morning light streaming through the windows near her bed. Had he come from the Otherlands one last time to speak with her? That bit of advice about breathing – it was so like him! She sometimes did run out of breath when she reached the peroration of a speech. She shivered again, but not from cold.
Chapter 2
Silver daggers occupied an odd position in Deverry. They were all proven fighters who’d made one bad mistake, either broken a law or incurred some sort of dishonor that had gotten them kicked out of a warband or exiled by their kinfolk. Although they were outright mercenary soldiers, they had more honor than most men of that sort and a name to protect as well. To become a silver dagger, a man had to find a member of the band, ride with him a while, and prove himself. Only then could they visit one of the rare silversmiths that knew the secrets to forging the alloy in the silver dagger itself. Thus merchants and lords alike trusted them more than your ordinary hired guard. Even so, they had a cold welcome everywhere they went in the kingdom.
Cavan of Lughcarn had found shelter of a sort down near the main harbor. He and his horse shared a smelly shed at the back of the sagging building that housed the tavern, the innkeep, his thin shrew of a wife, and their one servant, a potman of advanced age who moved more slowly than anyone Cavan had ever seen. Just crossing the round room to fetch a tankard of ale took him enough time for a man to die of thirst, as customers often remarked. It was, however, one of the few places in Aberwyn that would take a silver dagger’s coin. Blood money, most people called a mercenary’s hire.
The tavernman himself, Iolan by name, was as fat as his wife was bony. Unlike wife and potman, he enjoyed talking with his customers while he swilled down his own ale. That morning, while Cavan ate a bowl of cold porridge, Iolan sat himself down on the bench opposite.
‘So you had some excitement last night, did you now? I heard the noise of it, and that was enough for me.’
‘Too much for me, almost,’ Cavan said. ‘When the gwerbret’s riders charged into the crowd, I thought we were all done for.’
Iolan sucked his few remaining teeth and nodded.
‘Tell me summat,’ Cavan continued, ‘are the courts here as bad as all that? A cause worth dying for, I mean.’
‘Not to me, but there’s some like Cradoc, a good man he was, too, the voice of the people, just like they say a bard should be. The courts? Well, some are rotten, but not so much in Aberwyn. Abernaudd, now – the things you hear! But Aberwyn’s got its troubles, sure enough. A potter here in town, a man I know, some bastard-born servant of a lord cheated him out of a week’s work. Took the bowls away, never came back to pay. The lord refused to pay. The gwerbret told the lordling, you have the potter’s merchandise, so pay the man. But he never did come across with the coin. Nothing more Ladoic could do about it, either, without starting a war with his vassal. Potter had his day at the hearing. No way to make the noble-born pay after.’ Iolan paused to spit into the straw on the floor beside him. ‘Noble as my fat arse.’
‘Sounds like it, truly.’
‘Other towns, from what I’ve heard, they wouldn’t even have let a poor man into the chamber of justice.’ He spat again. ‘If you have the coin, you can buy off priest and lord both.’
‘And the bards have been speaking out about it?’
‘They have, for all the good it did that poor bastard last night.’
Cavan scraped the last spoonful of oats out of his bowl, laid the spoon down, and got up. He swung himself clear of the bench.
‘Which way is the old harbor?’
‘Just follow the street outside downhill.’
Cavan found his way to the marketplace just as the sun was reaching zenith. A rough square some hundred yards on a side, too small now to handle all the trade of the growing city, it lay close to Aberwyn’s Old Harbor, where the local fishing boats docked. Once that area had been a tribute to the power of new ideas. In the early 1300s, the fashion for square and rectangular houses and shops had arrived from Bardek. The last gwerbret of the Maelwaedd dynasty had given coin to lay the square out among the rows of the then brand-new buildings, which stood in solid rows like walls around the square. Two narrow alleys, one at the northwest corner, one opposite it at the southeast, gave access to the markets and to the houses themselves.
By Cavan’s time, the dwellings had decayed a fair bit. The stonework had turned black from years of cooking fires. The wooden buildings drooped and leaned against one another thanks to the settling of the ground. In back of each row of buildings, privies and chicken coops had replaced the once-elegant gardens. When Cavan walked along, looking for the entrance, he even passed the occasional milk cow, tethered out at her hay behind a house. The pungent atmosphere thickened further when he came into the square and realized without having to look that at least half the market stalls sold fish.
Still, he decided, a chance to see Alyssa again made the smell bearable. She was lovely, true, but also he’d never known a lass given to such clever ways of speaking. The combination intrigued him. The square was so crowded with marketers, servants, and town wives that he searched for some time before he spotted Alyssa standing on the south side of the square. She wore her flame-red surcoat over a plain linen tunic and a pair of brown skirts cut in an outmoded fashion, narrow around her slender hips, flaring at the knees to fall in folds at her ankles. She’d put her thick brown hair back in a silver clasp, her only real ornament. Her face was ornament enough, he decided, with her wide dark eyes and slender features.
A half-dozen of her fellow women students stood with her. Around them stood young men with orange surcoats and, in the outer ring, men wearing woad blue. Since Lughcarn had a King’s Collegium of its own, Cavan knew that the blue surcoats ranged from the dark color of the first years to the honorably faded light blue of those about to finish their course of studies. Over one shoulder the noble-born among them had pinned scarves in the tartan of their clans. Most of their surcoats bunched at the hip over half-hidden swords. Things could become exciting fast, Cavan thought. He took a quick look around and saw four town marshals, conspicuous in their red and brown vests and striped breeches, standing in the entrance to the southeast alley. They carried quarterstaffs, and one had a horsewhip tucked into his belt as well. Cavan glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, more marshals arrived to stand in the mouth of the northwest entrance.
The men with the orange surcoats dragged over wooden crates from a nearby vegetable stand and stacked them into a rough platform. Two of the men in the blue helped Alyssa climb onto them. The patrons and stall owners paid little attention at first, but when her clear voice rang out, those nearest all turned to listen. Her voice carried a good distance over the buzz and hum of the busy market
‘My fellow townsfolk!’ Alyssa called out. ‘Spare me a moment to share my mourning! Three good men died yesterday under the hooves of the gwerbret’s horses, all because of a bard who starved at his gates.’
She’d been well-trained, Cavan realized, and he was shocked to find a woman who’d been given a bardic education. Not even in Dun Deverry did you find such a thing! Noble-born women sometimes studied other subjects at the collegia there, but never public speaking. He made his way closer and fetched up next to a skinny fellow in a pair of striped breeches and a red and brown vest over a linen shirt. The man had his thumbs hooked into his belt and a sneer on his face.
‘Come to listen to the students?’ Cavan said.
‘Students, hah!’ the fellow said. ‘Bunch of whores, more like, paid to keep the lads out of trouble. What would females want with books and suchlike?’
Cavan crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands confined. His temper had gotten him into too much trouble already in his young life for him to want to indulge it again. Besides, he barely knew the young woman who spoke so eloquently. Why should he care about what some mangy dog of a stinking townsman thought of her?
‘You all know our cause,’ Alyssa was saying, ‘justice in the law courts! What we want would be such a small concession for the gwerbret to make. After all, is he not a busy man with many a serious undertaking weighing down his mind, many a burden that he alone can lift? Why should he not delegate some of the mundane tasks to others, such as the judgments in Aberwyn’s law courts?’
Here and there her listeners murmured a thoughtful agreement. Very clever of her, Cavan thought, to make the change seem to the gwerbret’s advantage.
‘And to us, it would mean so much, a chance at justice and fair dealing. The laws of the land would still hold. The priests of Bel would still be the true arbiters of what is law and what mere tradition. A small thing, truly, is what we ask, and yet Cradoc was willing to die for it! Where is the justice for the likes of us, if a great man dies in vain?’
Most of the townsfolk were nodding in approval. A few called out, ‘That’s right, lass!’
A pair of town marshals prised themselves off the guildhall wall and made their slow way toward the front of the crowd. Two of the noble-born students twitched their blue surcoats back and laid hands on their sword hilts. They stepped in front of the marshals and smiled.
