J. F. Bone, page 7
Pleasant or not, I was glad it would soon be over. For there were more important things to do. Sar Malthor had to be ready for the trials.
CHAPTER 12
“The trials this year will be held in Zamal, the chief city of this province,” I announced.
“I know,” Martha groaned. “I had the girls in for cakes and ale this morning. Alwys got a little high on the ale and spilled the news. They’re quite a show from what I have heard. I think I’ll enjoy seeing them.”
“I planned to leave you here where you’re safe. Zamal’s no place for a good-looking country girl.”
“Like hell you did! Just start unplanning right now!”
I grinned, and she looked relieved.
“We’ll leave in a week,” I said. “Sar Malthor is already selecting the fifty who will go, and your name is on the list.”
“It’s nice to have a friend at court,” Martha said. There was no cynicism in her voice, and that surprised me. Three months ago she wouldn’t have sounded so nice.
Zamal, chief city of Valthi Province, in which Lothain was located, was again selected by Sar Vostek, the Tarnas’s Lord Chamberlain, for the annual trials in the Southern Provinces. The choice was an honor to Zamal, but no honor to Sar Virra, the Provincal. To Sar Virra it was a damned expense and a creator of excitement and ferment, neither of which he liked. Sar Malthor said, with a note of contempt in his voice, that the trials probably interfered with certain of Sar Virra’s private amusements, which were not specified, and with his consultations with Lorn, his seneschal, on how to wring another tax out of his subjects.
“What he does with this wealth is beyond me,” Sar Malthor said. “Methinks he is a miser and hoards coin for the love of it. Certainly the treasure can do him no other good, for there is only so much a man can buy.”
“Not so,” I said. “Wealth can buy power. It can buy men. It can buy respect.”
“Not in Tharn. In other lands perhaps, but not here. Here such things are earned, and Sar Virra has earned them by the strength of his mind and arm.”
“But perhaps he does not buy Tharns. Perhaps he does not wish to remain Provincal, but looks to the Council, or at the Tarnas himself.”
“But how? The Tarnas is as young as Virra and he is of long-lived stock. Moreover he is sacrosanct unless deposed.”
“Have you ever heard of assassination?”
“Of the Tarnas? Nonsense!”
“That is a task for which men can be bought. Not Tharns perhaps, but…”
Sar Malthor’s face was a study in perplexed alarm. I had given him an unpleasantness to chew upon, one which he had apparently never considered. He was not devious, nor was he a plotter. He was honest, courageous, and loyal—the ideal man not to have in a position of great power. No wonder he had not advanced.
“I see that I am going to have to teach you the seamier side of politics,” I said grimly.
He shook his head. “I do not wish to learn.”
“But you must. You cannot become a great lord and not realize that most men are not as you.”
Sar Malthor shrugged. “Perhaps so, but if I do advance, I shall deal justly with all folk regardless of degree.”
“Then let me do the other work that must be done to keep you alive to do good.”
Sar Malthor smiled. “Agreed,” he said.
We traveled from Lothain to Zamal without incident. The weather was fair, the sun warm, the nights pleasant, and we had brought plenty of provisions. Our slow-moving jessets covered some fifteen harads a day and within a week the towers and roofs of Zamal were visible across the harbor as we rounded the promontory that marked the western boundary of Zamal Bay. The city, nestled behind its seawall, lay on a peninsula jutting into the bay and connected to the mainland by a narrow spit and a causeway. Before the city the spit widened to form a sandy plain covered with saltgrass. Near the walls the saltgrass gave way to cultivated fields. In the center of the city rose two rocky hills, the smaller covered by a round gray building some three stories high, and the larger topped with an immense stone fortress whose walls, towers, and battlements frowned grimly upon the town and the temples below.
I recognized it as Zamal Castle, the home of Sar Virra of Valthi, Provincal of Valthi and Lord of Zamal. In spite of myself I was impressed. This was no fairy castle, no fanciful amusement center. This was the real thing.
We fell in behind a column dressed in blue and yellow livery that contrasted garishly with our red and white. There were the usual friendly insults, and the two manorial lords saluted each other with dignified gestures.
“Think thou to try again, Sar Malthor?” the gold-and-blue-dressed warrior asked.
“Aye,” Sar Malthor said. He leaned toward me. “That’s Sar Fernad of Alora. He’s up for his second trial if he decides to go. He’s a nice lad; a bit weak on the backstroke with the sword, but a fairly good hand with axe and halberd. He’s not worth a damn with the mace. If he passes the mental exams he’ll probably fail combat. He swings the ball like a peasant swings a flail, plenty of power, but no finesse. Fortunately for him, it is the sword with which these lower trials are fought, and he can hack well enough.”
“How many demesnes in Valthi?”
“Twenty-four. But not all the manors will field their lord. Many are three-time losers. Others do not wish to try, but come only to give their youths and men-at-arms a chance for advancement.”
“Twelve hundred people from this province alone,” I murmured.
“And there are four provinces in the southern sector,” Sar Malthor pointed out.
“Close to five thousand people, counting the women. That town can’t hold them.”
“It will be crowded, but Zamal can accommodate us if Sar Virra has made proper preparations.”
“You haven’t told me much about your regional boss.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Sar Malthor said. “He took the trials six years ago. He was smart enough to pass knowledge, level-headed enough to pass judgement, and so stark a swordsman that he fought clear from the lowest bracket of the passing group to the sole survivor. He killed two men in the process—something he did not need to do—and literally butchered Sar Samdi, the old Lord of Valthi.”
“Is he a good Lord?”
“He could be worse. He is overly fond of taxes and women, and he delights in inflicting pain.” Sar Malthor’s lips closed firmly and he said no more.
It wasn’t like Malthor to run a man down, I thought, as I studied the grim face of the Lord of Lothain. This Sar Virra must be a grade-one stinker.
We camped that night about five harads from town, and the next morning moved up to the walls of Zamal. Men-at-arms wearing the gold and white livery of Valthi guided us to a camp site where tents were pitched and fires built in the pits dug to hold them. The serving women of the train set about the housekeeping chores of the camp under the eye of Vida, Fanser’s wife, while Sar Malthor and Alwys, his favorite wife, myself and Martha mounted jessets and rode to the main gate of Zamal.
The feet of our mounts echoed hollowly on the hewn timbers of the drawbridge spanning the moat surrounding the town as we approached the squad of gold and white guardsmen at the gate.
“Halt!” the commander of the guard snapped. ‘“Who comes?”
“Sar Malthor of Lothain, my wife, a friend and his wife.”
The guardsman checked a list. “Who’s the friend?” he asked. “You are down for only two spaces.”
“His name is Warn Rossaw.”
I smiled. Sar Malthor could never pronounce my name.
“And his woman’s name?”
“Martha,” I answered.
“They will have to find lodgings. We have allotted no room.”
“I have a friend who owns the Blue Kazlik Inn—Garn Hobaday. He will give them lodging.”
“I note it for my relief,” the guard said. “Pass on.”
We rode into the town.
“Whew! This place is ripe,” Martha said in a pained tone. “Why doesn’t someone do something about sewers?”
“Probably never heard of them,” I said.
“I’m not so sure I can take this.”
“It could be worse.”
“How?”
I grinned. “You’ve got me there,” I said.
We rode through narrow twisting streets, past dark orifices of shops covered with striped awnings, past half-naked children, past scattered groups of townsfolk and a trickle of gaudily liveried men-at-arms. The houses lining the streets leaned outwards from the curb, their overhanging balconies jutting overhead, nearly meeting above the center of the narrow street. It was like riding through a tunnel, the thin rays of evening sunlight above us intensifying rather than relieving the gloomy half-light surrounding us.
The street opened abruptly upon a small square with a fountain in its middle.
“Air, thank heaven!” Martha breathed. “I felt buried alive back there.”
“Ware slops!” the cry floated down from overhead.
“Spur!” Sar Malthor shouted.
Instinctively Martha kicked my beast which leaped nimbly ahead, carrying us barely clear of a stream of liquid filth that cascaded down from an overhanging balcony and splattered against the cobblestones of the streets.
“Keep an eye overhead!” Sar Malthor said. “You never can tell what might be coming down.”
Martha gagged at the odor. “If that had hit me, I’d never feel clean again,” she said.
“Just keep your eyes open and stay in the middle of the street. It’s safer there,” I suggested.
We rode across the square and into another tunnel-like street.
“It isn’t far now,” Sar Malthor said.
“I hope not,” Martha murmured, drawing a shocked glance from Alwys. Women weren’t supposed to intrude on a man’s conversation.
“That’s good,” I said smoothly, to relieve the tension. “We could stand a roof over our heads.”
“It’s just around this bend, fronting on the Square of the Carpenters,” Sar Malthor swung his jesset around the corner and entered a square somewhat larger than the one we had passed. It boasted a small fountain and a peripheral border of hitching rails to which some twenty jessets were tied. A tall multi-storied building with odd jutting windows and a peaked roof faced us.
Garn Hobaday met us at the door. He was a plump moon-faced man in a white smock. His face wore a worried expression, but his eyes lighted at the sight of Sar Malthor. “My friend of Lothain. You have returned. Are you come for the trials?”
Sar Malthor nodded. “I have two here who need lodging.”
“But I have no rooms, even for friends of my Lord of Lothain,” the innkeeper insisted. “Sar Virra has requisitioned all available—no—one moment. There is my room. They can have that. Since my wife died I have no need for large quarters.”
“Ever a hand for business, eh, Garn?” Sar Malthor chuckled. ” ‘Tis not profitable to let rooms lie untenanted.”
“It is the taxes,” Hobaday growled. “Sar Virra leaves us scarce our lives. His exactions grow more oppressive each year. Were it left to the folk of Zamal, he would have been cast out long since, but he leaves the country demesnes unharmed, and we are not a majority in this region.” .
“A good warrior can often be a bad lord,” Sar Malthor said noncommittally. “And the demesnes are not left untouched.”
Garn nodded and turned to face me. “An you desire, sir, you and your lady can have my room. ‘Tis not much but you will find naught else in Zamal this fortnight.”
“It will be fine, whatever it is,” I said. “My wife is tired and needs a bed.”
“They are strangers, Garn, from a far-off land,” Sar Malthor explained.
“We’re from the far South.”
“From the South, eh?” Garn asked. “I have heard their seasons are the reverse of ours, though Tharn knows why.”
“Where did you hear that?” Sar Malthor asked.
“From a sailor who has been there. Many and wonderful were the tales he told of strange races dressed in furs, and of the soft cold feathers of solid water that floated down from the sky and whole sheets and mountains of solid water as clear as glass and glowing curtains of fire hanging in the sky at night.”
“Forgive me for misjudging you, Rossaw,” Sar Malthor said. “Those tales you told me. I thought them but fancies.”
“They were hard to believe, living as you do in this soft land,” I smiled.
“The room,” Martha murmured.
“This way,” the innkeeper said briskly. He led the way past the stables where three barefoot youngsters took the jessets. We went through the heavy front door, into the common room, past the great fireplace, up the stairs, down a dark hall and into a large light room meticulously clean and neat.
“Wonderful!” Martha exclaimed. “A bed! A real bed!”
“With feather quilt and mattress,” Garn added. “A bed fit for a queen.”
“And the price?” I asked.
“One crown, two shields a day.”
“Done, and here’s your rent for a fortnight.” I dropped a half dozen broad copper coins into the innkeepers hand.
Sar Malthor smiled. “We go now, my wife and I, to the castle to pay our respects to Sar Virra. I shall see you anon.”
“Make it very late,” Martha sighed. “I can sleep for a week.”
Sar Malthor and the innkeeper left, and Martha nodded at the door. “Close it and lock it if there is a bar,” she requested.
I closed the heavy door and dropped the bar into place.
I looked at her with mild puzzlement etched on my face. “All right, it’s locked. Now what’s bothering you. You’re not tired. You’re tougher than I am.”
Martha had gone over to the window and was peering through it from behind the curtain.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Come here; see that man in gold and white? He’s been following us ever since we left the town gate.”
“One of the gate guards?” I asked. “He wears Sar Virra’s livery.”
Martha shook her head. “I don’t think he’s a guard. He wears no indication of rank, but the way the men-at-arms at the gate treated him I’d say he held a position of power.”
“I didn’t notice him.”
“You weren’t meant to. But I did. He nearly looked a hole through me. I haven’t been undressed in public for quite a while, but I know that look.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I’d better have a talk with him.”
“No, don’t bother. See, he’s turning away. Probably he was just curious. Neither you nor I are quite the same as the natives and he probably noticed the difference.”
“Blue eyes, black hair and white skin aren’t ordinary in this part of the world. You are an outstanding color variant.”
“It’s mostly our eyes,” she said. “Now if we had russet hair and bronze or green eyes, we’d never stand out.”
“Frankly, I like you better as you are,” I said, “and I’ve never hesitated to admit I’m a stranger. But I don’t like the idea of someone following me.”
“Nor do I. The fellow was probably nothing more than curious, but I didn’t like his looks, and I don’t like being a curiosity.”
I chuckled. “If men didn’t eye you, you’d be offended. If they do, you’re worried. I wish you’d make up your mind.”
“I don’t know this society well enough to treat it with familiarity, and neither do you.”
I turned to the pack roll I had brought with me and began to undo its lashings.
“Now what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Go out and reconnoiter. One of us will have to know this city. You cannot, therefore I must. So you might as well get some rest.”
“I am tired,” Martha admitted. “That was quite a trip. I’m not as good a jesset rider as these natives.”
“You’re a darn sight prettier,” I joked as she removed her riding boots and skirt and substituted a pair of low-heeled shoes and a robe from the pack. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Be careful,” Martha warned. “Take no chances.”
“What makes you so strangely cautious?”
“I don’t know, but somehow this place frightens me. I don’t like it, and I wish I were away from it. It wasn’t so bad at Lothain, but here—there’s something wrong with this town. It doesn’t feel right.”
“All right. I’ll be careful. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Bar the door and rest. I’m sure Sar Malthor wouldn’t have placed us in any danger. This inn is safe enough.”
“I suppose so.” She followed me to the door and watched me walk down the hall, turn at the stairwell, wave, and vanish. She closed the door, and I heard the bolt click, and then she went to the window and watched me cross the square. The last thing I saw before I turned the corner was her face at the window.
CHAPTER 13
I walked slowly toward the center of the city, pausing at times to impress landmarks on my memory, turning every now and then to retrace my steps to make certain I knew the way back.
As I moved away from the walls surrounding the town, the crowds thickened until some streets were choked with people. Men-at-arms in liveries of many colors collected in small knots, talking and exchanging gossip about their various localities. Townsfolk moved past them intent on their own affairs. Soberly clad merchants stood in the doorways of their shops. There was a scattering of ragged beggars, a few sailors, a handful of blue-clad priests in robes and street masks, and a horde of roughly dressed laborers working on new buildings. Like the countryfolk, townsmen didn’t stop working when the sun went down. Until the last light vanished activity continued. A troop of cavalry mounted on white jessets picked their way single file through the street, and an occasional cart, its ungreased wooden wheels shrieking protest, rolled by piled high with bales and boxes. But nowhere on the streets did I see a woman walking. There were a few on jessets, and others in carts and sedan chairs, but none proceeded on foot. Virtually every person on the streets was male. As I moved ever inward from the periphery of the town, the streets widened and vehicular traffic thickened. And finally I came upon a broad avenue that ran ruler straight from the low hill crowned with the huge, windowless, circular structure I had seen from outside the town, to the second and higher hill whose crest was covered by the walls and battlements of Zamal Castle.
