The Swordsman's Oath Page 5

  Temar opened his mouth to reply in kind in the usual fashion of D’Alsennin family discourse, but something in his grandfather’s face halted him. Abiding grief underlay the wrath in the old man’s eyes and prolonging the fight seemed suddenly pointless.

  “I did not mean to insult you, Grandpa; I didn’t mean it, not the way it sounded. I know full well our House would be ashes blown on the wind many years since, if it were not for you.”

  Whatever the old man would have said was lost in a paroxysm of coughing and Temar looked around hastily for water or wine.

  “Leave it.” The Sieur produced a handbell from the folds of his mantle and its silvery jingle brought the chamberlain scurrying in.

  “I will consider your petition, Esquire.” The old man managed to control his coughing and looked up at Temar, high color masquerading as a brief pretense of good health. “I have other affairs to see to. You may attend me in my study before we dine.”

  He got to his feet with some difficulty but waved away the hovering chamberlain with irritability and stalked out of the salon, head unbowed.

  Temar watched him go and could not decide if he were more worried or annoyed by the old man’s behavior. What other business could he have to deal with? Most likely, he was just delaying a decision by going for a nap. Well, Temar wasn’t going to kick his heels in this cinder-shrine all afternoon, he decided with characteristic speed. He strode rapidly from the room and slammed the ponderous doors with an energy that drew a startled plume of smoke from the little fire.

  The nails in his boot heels snapped angrily on the stone treads as he made his way down the back stairs and into the kitchen.

  “Temar, my duckling, how lovely to see you.” A sparely framed woman in a clean if faded livery looked around a cupboard door, a half-full jar of spices in her hand.

  “Jetta! Well, I must say I’m glad to find you still here.” Temar tried for a light touch but his words fell flat. He slumped into a chair and stared moodily at the grain in the white-scrubbed tabletop, picking at it with a ragged nail. “I was starting to think everything and everyone had been sold off or sent packing.”

  “You reckon it’s all looking a bit bare above stairs, do you?” Jetta’s sardonic voice made Temar look up, startled.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’d had loan-broker’s men in!” he responded bitterly. “What’s the old fool been doing? Paying some alchemist for potions? Hoping to get him a doxy to bear him a better heir?”

  “He’s been keeping what’s left of the tenantry in shelter and food, young man.” Jetta’s eyes were bright and not only with passion. “The Sieur is always mindful of the obligations of the House.”

  “You think I’m not? Don’t you start blaming me,” Temar snapped. “I’ve been working from first light to last moon, both halves of summer, to keep what’s left of the estates producing some sort of income. I’d have an easier time milking pigs for cheese and probably have more to show for it! Why do you think I’ve not been back here for so long?”

  “Don’t you start ripping into me, just because you’re feeling guilty, young man. I put you over my knee when you wore soft shoes and I’ll do it now if need be.” Jetta’s smile belied her words and she put a plate of sweetcake in front of Temar.

  “Thank you.” He took a piece and felt unaccountably comforted.

  “Are you dining here?” Jetta closed the cupboard and moved to the hearth to swing a kettle over the fire.

  “It would seem so. Grandfather has ordered me to attend him in his study beforehand.” Temar’s sarcasm had somehow lost its edge.

  Jetta sniffed. “What have you been saying to upset him so badly, then?”

  “How do you know he’s upset?” Indignation colored the guilt in Temar’s face.

  “Why else would Master Othneil be ringing down for a bridesbell tisane?” Jetta pointed to the open door of the lackey-lift in the corner of the room.

  “Is he ill?” Temar tried to ignore the qualm in his belly at the thought.

  “No more than any man of his age but his winter cough has started early and he’s spending too much time in his study and not enough in his bed.”

  So much for imagining his grandfather had nothing to do with himself. Temar dragged the newly polished silver clasp out of his hair with an irritable gesture and could not think what to say.

  “So, how’s your mother?” Jetta busied herself with cups and hot water.

  “She’s very well, thank you.” A fond smile lightened Temar’s whole face. “She’s growing her hair for a wedding plait.”

  “Is she now?” Jetta halted, smiling herself, herb canister in hand. “So who’s going to be cutting that to lay on Drianon’s altar?”

  “He’s Rian For Alder; do you know the name?”

  Jetta frowned momentarily. “He deals in wool, doesn’t he? The family run sheep in the mountains on the Bremilayne road?”

  “That’s him.” Temar nodded. “They’ve been friends for a couple of years now and he’s finally persuaded her to marry him. I’m so pleased, for him as well as her. He’s a good man and I know he’ll make her happy.”

  “I’ll tie a ribbon to Drianon’s door to wish her well. She certainly deserves some happiness!” Jetta remembered what she was doing, and tied sharply fragrant herbs into a scrap of muslin. She dropped the bundle into a cup of hot water. “Have you told the Sieur?”

  “Not yet.” Temar poked at his tisane with a silver spoon. “I think it would be best if she told him herself but she’s always been so nervous of him. She thinks he’ll feel she’s betraying Father’s memory and the D’Alsennin name.”

  “Nonsense!” Jetta shook her head emphatically. “He’ll be delighted for her and I know your father would never have wanted her to spend so long as a widow, not once her year’s-mind was spent in the Sieur’s care.”

  Temar fished the steeped herbs out of his cup and sipped the steaming drink carefully. “That’s what I told her.” He stared unseeing, into the fire. “I wish I knew what advice he’d give me, Father I mean.”

  “What about?” Jetta covered one of his hands with her own.

  “I want to join Messire Den Fellaemion’s colony.”

  Jetta stared at him. “Is that what you came to tell your grandfather?”

  Temar nodded. “I have to do something, Jetta, or I’ll go mad from frustration. Things are going from bad to worse and I’ll be cursed if I join the rest of the scavengers picking at the stinking carrion that’s left of the Empire.”

  “You sound more like your Uncle Arvil than your father.” Jetta blinked away an unbidden memory.

  “What do you think my father would have done?” Temar held her with his pale gaze.

  “He’d have done what he felt was best for the House.” Jetta gripped Temar’s hand. “But he’d have been honest enough to know that it had to be something he felt was right for himself as well.”

  “I’m fairly sure that’s what I’m doing,” sighed Temar. “But I do sometimes wonder if I’m just looking for somewhere to run off to, some way of getting out from under all the duty and obligation.”

  “It’s hard being the only one left to carry the Name,” Jetta comforted him. “You know, when your grandfather crosses to the Otherworld, it’s not Saedrin who’ll be asking the questions before he opens the doors. The Sieur is going to want some answers about just what that cursed plague was supposed to be for. They’re going to have to be good ones!”

  Temar smiled. “Do you suppose the old man will demand free passage from Poldrion as well? On account of his ferry having so much trade from our House already?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him!” laughed Jetta. “Now, if you’re staying for dinner, you can make yourself useful. Go and get some sea-coal in from the yard and then you can make a start on the vegetables.”

  Temar made her a mocking bow. “At once, Mistress.”

  Doing something both useful and undemanding helped Temar to relax. He had very nearly managed to put a
side all thoughts of the future, duty and conflict by the time he was concentrating on washing the earth out of the last greens of the autumn. The jangle of a bell high up in the house startled him and he looked ruefully at Jetta.

  “I think that’s my summons.”

  She came around the table and wiped his hands on a cloth as if he were still a child. “Try not to let him get you cross; you know what he’s like. If you’re sure of what you want, he’s going to have to accept it eventually.”

  That was easy enough for Jetta to say, Temar thought, without heat, as he climbed the narrow stairs back to the formal rooms of the house. How often did any man called D’Alsennin give in gracefully? About as often as a bitch whelped kittens, he’d say.

  He remembered to pull the clasp from his pocket and clip back his hair before he reached his grandfather’s study. He paused for a moment and looked at the gleaming silver, remembering how long it had taken to get the tarnish out of the deeply carved leaves. Temar sighed, remembering how the candlelight had used to catch at it when his father turned back to the door after coming to check on the children last thing at night. Well, he couldn’t ask his father’s advice, so all he could do was be true to himself and his Name.

  He knocked on the black door and braced himself.

  “Enter.” His grandfather’s voice was firm and Temar saw that his face was determined but more at peace with himself.

  Temar closed the door and took a seat across from the old man, keeping his face impassive as he wondered what part all the ledgers and rolls on the table were going to play in their discussion.

  “I have been considering your petition,” the Sieur began formally. “While you are the sole heir of this House, safe-guarding the future of the Name must be my first consideration. However I realize I must also do justice to your own wishes and needs.”

  He paused. Temar sat silent, trying to look attentive and deferential.

  “I cannot see any benefit to you joining Den Fellaemion and crossing the ocean on your own.” There was a challenge in the old man’s eyes as he took a sip of wine but Temar refused to take the bait, remaining still and quiet.

  The Sieur snorted and replaced his glass in its silver holder. “However, it is certainly possible that these lands overseas could offer us estates and position to replace what we have lost in recent years. I cannot ignore that. I have decided to allow you to join this endeavour on certain conditions. Provided you agree to my terms, you may go with my blessing.”

  “What are your terms, Messire?” Temar asked politely, fighting to keep the relief and exultation out of his face.

  “We have many dispossessed tenants and those that remain on our lands are suffering in the present tensions.” The old man began laying parchments before Temar. “You need to see the figures to see the whole tapestry.”

  Temar clamped his teeth on an impulse to remind his grandfather he was the one who’d provided most of the ledgers and records and looked where the old man was pointing.

  “You see, here and here? Compare the figures with as recently as last year.” The Sieur sat back in his chair. “These are good people, suffering through no fault of their own and if you are to go any way toward fulfilling your obligations to your tenantry, you should offer them the chance to join you in this quest.”

  Temar stared at his grandfather, eyes wide; whatever he might have expected the old man to come up with, this was not it.

  “We can raise the capital to purchase a couple of ships and, with a little ingenuity, we can fit them out with goods from our own properties.” The Sieur produced a freshly drawn-up list. “I want you to look at this and see if you can see anything I’ve missed.”

  Temar took the parchment dumbly and then grinned, as much at himself as anything.

  An answering smile took a generation off the old man and there was a wicked glint in his eye.

  “Nothing to say for yourself, my boy? That’s unlike you, I must say.”

  Temar looked up from the list. “You are suggesting we take a major role in this project. How’s that supposed to sit with Den Rannion and Den Fellaemion?”

  “That’s your problem, my boy. If you want to do this, you’re going to do it in a way that benefits your House, or not at all.”

  Temar tried to run a hand through his hair, forgetting the clasp and wincing as it tugged at his scalp.

  “I accept your terms,” he said finally, wondering with a qualm just what he was committing himself to.

  “Good lad. I knew you’d see sense.” The Sieur rose and poured them both some wine. Temar sipped absently, still trying to make sense of this new situation. He stopped and looked more carefully at his glass.

  “This is the Califerian vintage, isn’t it?”

  “The last year before the Crusted Pox struck.” His grandfather nodded and savored the glowing ruby liquid. “It’s the last carafe; it seemed appropriate.”

  Temar could not think what to say, so he drank his wine instead.

  “I have something else that I think it’s time you received.” The old man put down his glass and walked swiftly to a long chest. He removed a ring of small keys from a chain around his neck and unlocked it. Carrying a long linen-wrapped bundle, he swept documents to the floor to make space for it on the table.

  “This is the sword that I had made for your Uncle Arvil; I always thought he would the next Sieur D’Alsennin, when it was time for me to step aside.” The old man untied the linen bands with stiff fingers but waved away Temar’s offer of help. “I can manage.”

  He drew aside the cloths to reveal a dark green scabbard; the sword’s guard was intricately carved but the handle was well fitted and workmanlike. This was no mere dress-sword. When he drew the blade, it gleamed, bright and unspotted, a tracery of leaves coiling down its length.

  “Here.”

  Temar took the sword and weighed its superb balance, mouth open in delighted admiration. “This is marvelous, Grandfather,” he breathed as he made a few careful passes with it.

  “It should be, given the coin it cost me,” the old man snorted gruffly. “Just don’t go using it to chop wood in these foreign forests or some such.”

  “Hardly!” Temar laughed. He stopped, his face suddenly solemn. “This is a prince’s gift, Messire. I cannot thank you enough.”

  “Make a success of this expedition, give our tenants a new life and our House a new future. That’s the thanks I require.” The old man fixed Temar with a burning eye. They stood for a tense moment, the weight of obligation and the uncertainty of the future hanging heavy in the air.

  A silvery bell sounded in the hallway and the spell was broken.

  “You’d better start thinking about begetting the next generation as well. Isn’t it about time you had your eye on some girl? You can’t afford your Uncle Sinel’s tastes, you know.”

  Temar laughed at his grandfather’s jest and followed him to the dining room.

  Hill Cote, Lord Adrin’s Fiefdom,

  Caladhria, 11th of Aft-Spring

  Waking early from unsatisfying sleep tainted with vague dreams of people arguing, I found a sense of dissatisfaction spilling over into the gray light filtering through the shutters. I decided there was no point lying in bed, questions chasing themselves around in my head like the rats I could hear scurrying in the thatch overhead. There was also no point in trying to get back to sleep with Shiv snoring like a basket of piglets.

  The morning air was damp where it had sneaked around the window frame. I shivered at the cold touch of linen on skin and pulled on breeches and jerkin hastily. Wondering in passing just how I’d managed to avoid smacking my head on the beams the night before, I grabbed my boots and moved quietly past the heap of motionless blankets that was Viltred.

  I was breakfasting in the tap-room, sitting in my stocking feet, when Shiv appeared and joined me.

  “I wish I’d thought of that, I hate putting on wet boots,” he said with feeling, nodding at my footgear upturned on the fire irons.


  “Any man at arms knows the importance of dry feet.” I shrugged as Shiv helped himself to bread and meat. “The other thing he needs is information. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Shiv.”

  “I don’t know much more than I’ve told you, I swear, not for certain.” Shiv sighed. “This was supposed to be a quick trip to find out if Viltred knew anything useful and to pick up any bits and pieces that Planir could set his scholars to work on.”

  I wondered what he meant by that but a jaw-cracking yawn distracted me.

  “Tired?” Shiv looked concerned.

  I nodded. “I don’t seem to have had a decent night’s sleep since Solstice.”

  “The goodwife’s got a well-stocked philtre-chest,” Shiv suggested a touch diffidently. “Viltred’s concocting something for himself.”

  “No,” I said curtly. “No, thank you.”

  I’d taken to chewing thassin after my sister died, to get something between me and that suffocating pain. Being young, arrogant and sure I could dose myself safely had landed me with a habit that had taken two seasons of night sweats and persistent thirst to shake off. I’m not about to risk developing a taste for anything like that again. Seeing some affront in Shiv’s eyes, I sought a more neutral topic.

  “Why does Viltred insist in calling you Shivvalan anyway?”

  He grimaced. “Saedrin only knows. The last person to do that was my mother and it still makes me feel as if I’m waiting to shave my first whiskers for Misaen’s altar. Which reminds me, my respected and venerable colleague was wanting hot water for his tisane.”

  I don’t know what Viltred put in his morning tisane but it must have been pretty potent because the old wizard was in the saddle a cursed sight sooner than I expected. The roads were better after a dry night and we rode briskly through the clearing mists of a bright morning.

  “This is where we should find Halice,” Shiv announced some while later as we rounded a wood-topped hillock. Stoutly built stone crofts, each with a patch of diligently tilled land, were loosely gathered around the market and the shrine. People were going about their business, barely sparing us a glance. Shiv led us down a side lane to a typical longhouse, thick walls four-square under mossy thatch. A sturdily built woman in a decent brown broadcloth dress over neat, unbleached linen was hauling water from a well and looked at us with a challenge in her eyes when we stopped. She rested well-muscled arms on her bucket and I noted the faint pattern of silvery scars around her knuckles and forearms. A farmwife would have the muscles, but I doubt many have swordwork scars. She was also the first woman I’d seen that day with an uncovered head, her dun-colored hair cropped short.