The Dowry Blade (38 page)

‘I owe you nothing,’ Tegan said softly, pulling Brede’s hand away from her face.

‘You can’t help me,’ Brede said, subsiding back into the chair and reaching for the empty mug, twirling it between her hands, first one way, then the other.

‘You can’t stay here, it wouldn’t be safe, for you, nor for me.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Lorcan’s a dangerous enemy. Whatever you have or haven’t done, you’re a threat to him, and you don’t have Sorcha to protect you now, not that Lorcan has much respect for Songspinners.’

‘Mightn’t that be because he has killed the greatest of them?’ Brede asked, feeling burdened with her knowledge. How could the Songspinners not know?

‘I don’t know, Brede,’ Tegan said anxiously. ‘You must not speak of it.’

‘I must.’

‘Not here,’ Tegan said tersely, spurred to anger by the guilty fear that anything she once said might have caused Sorcha’s death, and fear of Lorcan, should Brede be traced here.

‘That’s how it is, then?’ Brede asked, her anger easing through her misery, and Tegan an easy target. ‘Would you rather I had stayed conveniently dead?’

‘Brede,’ Tegan protested.

Brede shook her head abruptly.

‘No, I think not. I’ll not bring risk to you, Tegan. I’ll not stay where I can’t trust my welcome. Be strong.’

Brede struggled to her feet, her will to be away overcoming the numbing stiffness and pain.

‘Brede,’ Tegan said again, regretting her fear. ‘Stay.’

‘No.’

Tegan hesitated. The Brede she remembered would know she was being ridiculous and unbend, given a silence to do it in. Brede fumbled with the hat she had been wearing. Corla’s hat, Tegan noticed for the first time. The hands that tried to untangle the band about the crown were shaking. Brede wasn’t going to laugh at herself this time, wasn’t going to forgive.

‘Well if you won’t, let me tell you something at least.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘If you hope to leave the city, do so at once. Corla says there is an army massing to the west, and that Lorcan rides out in the next few days to confront them. The gates will be barred behind the army, and you’ll be trapped here.’

‘And where would I go?’ Brede asked angrily.

Tegan ignored her words, intent on passing on her information.

‘Another thing, Brede; listen to me, for pity’s sake. You must understand that it isn’t safe for you with me. Lorcan has always had an eye for my movements. I’m barely tolerated, for the sake of Maeve’s protection, and only if I keep my head low. And he’s not forgotten you, nor that sword. I’ve had people here asking questions recently, even after all this time – asking about you, about the sword; and here you are, back with the –
blasted
Dowry blade in your hand. I’ve heard rumour that there has been a witch in the city for a while now, up in the tower somewhere. Goddess knows why, but it might be something to do with that blade, there are too many coincidences to be ignored. Get rid of it, if you value your life.’

‘The Songspinners don’t care about the Dowry blade, Tegan. They aren’t interested in what the rest of the world does, unless it affects them – or people they love.’ Brede laughed. ‘Can Lorcan inspire that kind of love?’

‘He’d try, for something he wants as badly as he wants that sword, yes, he’d try. You’ve always underestimated the significance of that thing.’

‘I wouldn’t expect any Songspinner to indulge him.’

‘So why did Sorcha help Grainne?’

‘Sorcha loved Grainne. She knew how to love.’ Brede said defiantly.

Tegan met Brede’s eyes, and then she turned away.

‘I grieve for your loss,’ Tegan said, belatedly.

Brede took a breath, testing herself, seeing if she could respond with civility.

‘Goodbye, Tegan,’ she said quietly; it was as much as she could manage.

Brede stumbled out to the stables to collect her horse. No rotting thatch here now, no bondservants. Tegan had a firm grip on her new trade. Brede glanced upward – new shutters at that low window, firmly latched, painted soft ochre. Well, she was right at the gate; she might as well make use of it. She scrambled onto the horse’s back, and rode out onto the narrow street.

To her surprise, she was challenged at once. Brede peered up at the woman who stood on the wall, her bow at the ready.

‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked mildly.

‘We’ve orders to confiscate all horses leaving the city.’

Brede continued to twist her neck awkwardly, trying to meet the woman’s eyes, hindered by the concealing hat. She considered the horse. If it had been Plains bred, she could have made a run for it.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘But I do, this horse is the only valuable belonging I have. If you’re going to beggar me, you might at least explain your reasons.’

The woman smiled thinly.

‘My reasons are that I have orders. You’re free to leave the city, if that is your intention, but the horse stays. You’ll be recompensed for the value.’

‘I can’t leave the city without my horse,’ Brede said softly, fondling the animal’s ear.

There was no use in arguing. She was in no position to win her point. Brede glared at the boy who sidled up to take the rein from her. She shrugged helplessly, and took her time getting down from the horse, making sure her weight was mostly on her sound leg as her feet hit the cobbles. Even so, light-headed from alcohol and anger and lack of sleep, she couldn’t control the landing and staggered. The boy’s hand was under her elbow before she had a chance to adjust her balance. She turned and found his face too close to hers for comfort.

‘Leave me be,’ Brede said, snatching the sword from the makeshift carrying sling and leaning heavily on it. The boy backed away.

‘Are you taking this animal or not?’ she called after him.

The woman above dropped from the wall and took the reins.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I have to follow my orders.’

Brede nodded, wanting to cry for the loss of the horse, but knowing the horse had nothing to do with the feeling of utter powerlessness that swamped her. She couldn’t leave the city on foot; she couldn’t walk far enough to make it even worth considering the effort.

The guard offered Brede a slip of paper.

‘What is that?’ Brede asked.

‘If you take it to the barracks they’ll give you money for your horse.’

‘How much?’

‘What it’s worth.’

Brede sighed. She couldn’t risk another visit to the barracks, and the horse was worth very little in money terms, but she took the piece of paper and tucked it away. She reviewed the half thought out plans she had made, before Tegan told her of the imminent closure of the city. Once she had thought to find work here in the horse market, but if horses were so scarce her ploughing beast was confiscated, the market would be merely another windswept meaningless open space by the river.

‘Do you have any suggestions as to what I might do now?’ she asked the woman. Her question was met by awkward silence. ‘No,’ Brede answered herself. ‘Go and join the other beggars in one of the squares.’

For a moment she considered going back into the inn, asking Tegan for shelter; but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, Tegan was terrified to have her under her roof. Her heart sank – how could Tegan, of all people, be afraid? West Gate Inn was no place to find help.

Brede turned her back on the open, beckoning gate. Most of the traffic at the gate was inward, refugees fleeing the uncertainty of open ground for the safety of those walls. Soon the city would be closed, preparing for siege, and the hunger would begin. Brede refused to look up at the stone, and limped away into the city, one rootless, dispossessed stranger among thousands, caught up in Lorcan’s battles.

Brede chose her spot with care: she could remember the first time she saw beggars and what a shock it had been. Now she saw them again as though for the first time, considered herself as one among them, thought about the techniques that had rung coins from her in the past. She chose a sheltered spot near a food stall at the foot of a bridge, where people were likely to notice her, as they were putting their money away, as they were about to satisfy their own hunger.

There were many more beggars than there had been – refugees from outlying settlements, ex-soldiers incapacitated by wounds. A great many beggars, and far too few people with money in their pockets. Brede sat for days, her face covered, unable to think of looking at passers-by, and not wanting to risk being recognised. A few coins came her way, and she learnt to fight her fellow beggars for scraps from the food stall. It was miserably cold, even in the sheltered spot she had chosen, and she dared not leave her post for long, lest she lose it to some other desperate vagrant. But, she gradually found, she recognised faces among the crowd of increasingly ragged and hungry beggars. And recognition led to something more. A group of children stoning pigeons drew her away from her bridge, to show them how to use a strip of cloth as a sling, and the gangly nine year old who first brought one down, smiled at her. That smile kept her warm a whole hour, and later, as she struggled with sleeplessness, in the ancient abandoned stables where many of them spent the night in careful, rigidly maintained but imaginary privacy, the boy’s mother brought her a sliver of the pigeon, cooked, and half a loaf, stale, but still. The woman smiled at her, and whispered ‘You have a sword. Can you use it?’

Brede nodded.

‘The respectable folk who live near have been making complaints, the town guard –’

Brede shook her head impatiently.

‘Why would the town guard care about us?’

‘We’re trespassing.’

Brede shook her head again. She didn’t want to draw the attention of the town guard. She thought briefly of that lesson in stone and sling – skills that could draw attention her way also. Reluctantly she rejected a source of food. Too dangerous.

The woman frowned, shrugged, and went back to her little knot of family. Brede watched them, then fell to gnawing the bread. She slept more easily with food in her stomach.

From her vantage point by the bridge, Brede saw the army leave, early next morning. She watched the barricade drawn back, saw them march past, the few horses reserved for officers. She recognised a few warriors, but none that she could put a name to. Watching the slow shuffling of the foot soldiers, the grim-faced riders, Brede wondered, for the first time, why there were so few horses that her plough horse was of use to the army. These horses were well trained, fit; they didn’t look like the beast that was taken from her. Slowly her mind ground the information and she remembered that Muirne had told her that the Clans were not selling horses to Grainne, or Lorcan. That situation must still hold. Perhaps those stolen horses were held in reserve, against a time when there were no trained beasts left. Perhaps, Brede reflected grimly, they were being held against the siege lasting to the extent that the horses were needed as food for the starving.

Chapter Forty-Two

The army returned from battle well before sundown, too soon for the outcome to have been successful. There was disarray among the troops crowding the streets, much shouting from the officers; a lack of control. Brede shrank against the bridge footings to avoid being trampled. The numbers were noticeably depleted and she had a fleeting impression of a face she recognised among those crowding across the bridge. Maeve, looking as angry and wild of eye as Brede had ever seen her. Brede followed her difficult progress, furtively, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Keeping Maeve in view, she managed to recognise Corla also, slightly behind her, tears pouring freely down her face, her green tunic dark with blood. Brede made an involuntary movement that drew Corla’s eye. Scarcely more than a glance, and no way to push through to where she was, but Corla had marked her out.

Brede guessed at defeat, but the gossip by the bridge was swift to correct that impression, replacing it with far worse. Given the opportunity to be beyond the gates of the city, many of the warriors had slunk away, some few to join the rebels, but many more had run for home – thinking on land abandoned in drought, which was now recovered, thinking on planting crops, on survival. With the choice between that, and a long starvation in a besieged city, or death on the battlefield, Lorcan’s charismatic control of his army had unravelled.

So said the gossips by the bridge, as they chewed their sweet pancakes, oblivious to the beggars. Another rumour was slower in its circulation, but that very laggardliness burdened it with a smell of truth: the rebels had captured Lorcan. Desperate to instil his warriors with some pride in themselves, some sense of commitment to his cause, he had led a raid deep into the enemy lines. And lost his gamble.

A rumour it remained, no official confirmation was given, but before it was dark, Corla was back, standing over Brede pretending an interest in the murky depths of the river. Brede glanced sideways and upward at the blood spattered green cloak.

‘Alms for an old soldier?’ she whispered.

Corla pretended to notice her for the first time.

‘You should’ve got rid of the hat, that’s what I recognised.’

‘Have you said anything to Maeve?’

Corla shook her head, and narrowed her eyes at Brede.

‘Should’ve got rid of the sword too. No one’s going to give money to someone with something of value they’ve not sold yet.’

Brede shifted the blade against her shoulder, protective.

‘I might need it.’

‘Can you still use it?’

‘If I have to.’

Brede flicked the edge of Corla’s cloak,

‘Whose blood?’ she asked.

‘Riordan.’

‘Bad?’

‘Dead.’

Brede winced and wound her hand into the cloak, forcing Corla closer. Corla shook her head, yanking the cloth free.

‘Don’t waste your breath. This is anger, and it will do fine to keep me from grieving for now. Maeve, though, she’s fit to kill.’

Brede nodded, remembering Maeve’s protectiveness of her young brother, and the temper with which she disguised her feelings.

‘How?’

‘Trying to protect that – bastard fool, Lorcan.’

‘Ah, it’s true then?’

‘Thought he could throw himself into the lion pit and get out again, and happy to take his own with him through the Gate.’

‘Is Lorcan dead then?’

‘No, more’s the pity. But the rebels have him prettily trussed.’ Corla smiled at that, but her heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’d kill him myself given half a chance,’ she whispered.

Brede nodded. ‘Grainne called Lorcan a viper.’

‘That he is; poisonous and slippery. It’s revenge I want now. Join me?’

Brede laughed weakly, remembering her one brief glance at that brash young man, so eager to prove his right to command. She thought of his awkwardly jutting jaw, his angry voice.

Revenge?
she wondered, and had no answer for Corla.

She had tried so hard not to think of Sorcha, but now she couldn’t shed the feeling of Sorcha’s hands against her skin, and that sensation of falling: she stood at the edge of a precipice, the howling wind trying to drag her down into the abyss. She leant her head into the wall, pressing her forehead against the rough stone of the bridge footing and cursed and sobbed, and wished that she were safely out of her mind, where she could not torment herself.

Corla listened in bewilderment. She gripped Brede’s shoulder briefly, and hurried away.

Brede didn’t notice she had gone; she stayed huddled against the wall until it was dark, then crept away to sleep in the rotting musty hay of the old stable.

Corla hesitated at the foot of the bridge, trembling with rage and loss, and recognising the slender difference between how she felt and Brede’s anguish. It frightened her. She headed west, in need of friends, and balm for her heart.

As Corla stepped into the fire-lit smoke-filled warmth of the inn she glanced about for Tegan. The boy at the barrels spotted her and raised a hand in greeting.

‘Tegan not about?’ Corla asked lightly. The boy nodded.

‘Out the back, but she has a visitor.’ Corla crooked an eyebrow. ‘Maeve,’ the boy said. Corla crooked the other eyebrow, and shrugged.

‘I’ll have me some ale then, and wait.’

‘Food?’

Corla considered, and then shook her head. The boy’s eyes fell to the blood splattered across her cloak and nodded again. He handed her a filled tankard, and fished on a high shelf for a small leather bottle.

‘What’s this?’ Corla asked, pulling the stopper and sniffing.

‘Strong.’ He grinned. ‘On the house.’

‘I can’t decide whether you are a demon or blessing. Goddess knows where Tegan found you.’

‘The slave market.’ Corla froze, and gave a swift glance to the boy’s neck. He pulled his shirt loose. There was no bond-collar. Corla considered the boy’s features and sighed.

‘Jodis’ boy?’

He nodded. Corla shook her head slightly, and handed over the payment for the ale. She glanced about the inn. Quiet still. She felt a great disinclination to talk to Maeve. That could wait for midnight and the full weight of whatever was in that leather bottle to take effect. She chose a dark corner where she could watch the door to Tegan’s private quarters and took a slow sip of the ale. It wasn’t what her body wanted. She tried the bottle. Fire ran down her throat and spread tentacles through her stomach, unravelling the knot of silence and tension. She gasped. She sensed eyes on her and glanced at the boy. He nodded. Corla closed her eyes against his knowing look. A child that age ought not to understand how she was feeling, ought not to know how to deal with her hurts.

Corla had finished her ale and was a third of the way through the bottle by the time Maeve emerged. She leant further into the dark corner, and kept still, but Maeve had no eyes for what was going on about her. Tegan on the other hand, noticed her at once. She waited until Maeve had walked out into the darkness, then raised her hand towards Corla and waited.

Corla smiled weakly, gathered the bottle to her and followed Tegan through to her private rooms.

As soon as they were in the better light Tegan looked long and hard at Corla.

‘What have you to say that you couldn’t share with Maeve?’

Corla looked at Tegan. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the frown line between her brows was more pronounced than usual.

‘I didn’t think Maeve would come to you for comfort.’ Corla said, dropping into a seat.

‘I don’t know that she did.’ Tegan stirred the fire, and joined Corla at the table. ‘She came to tell me. I’ve known Riordan since he was a child. He was almost-kin.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Maeve never knows how to share anything, even grief.’

‘Yes. She’ll want it all for herself.’

Tegan sighed and smoothed the frown line with her thumb.

‘And you and I?’

Corla shrugged, and held out the leather bottle. Tegan smiled.

‘Juhel’s a clever lad, but be careful how much of that you drink, it could kill you.’

‘I should care?’

‘Corla, you might not, but I would.’

Corla nodded.

‘I know when to stop.’ She hesitated, not wanting to talk about Riordan yet. ‘I didn’t know you had taken on Eachan’s reclamation plans.’

‘Juhel, you mean? It’s not something I’m going to shout about.’

‘Have you found any more?’

Tegan shook her head.

‘He’s probably the only one old enough to know for himself who his mother was. Without that, there’s no certainty, and we have to be careful who and how we ask.’

‘It’s not Eachan you’re doing this for, is it?’

Tegan held Corla’s glance.

‘You know better than to ask.’

Corla took a slow swig from the bottle, watching Tegan over the top.

‘She’s still here.’

‘What?’

‘Brede. I saw her on the lower bridge.’

‘What in hell is she doing here still?’

‘Begging.’

Tegan made an incoherent noise of anger and despair, and put her head in her hands. She shook her head, her eyes still buried in her palms.

‘I don’t believe this. What is going on? Has everyone gone stark mad?’

Corla sat back, considering that question.

‘I think Brede may have. She’s not making sense.’

‘I told her to go. I warned her about the witch.’

‘The witch?’

‘She still has that sword.’

Corla sat up and put the bottle on the table. Her hands were shaking.

‘What sword?’ Corla asked carefully.

Tegan’s head jerked up. She said nothing. Corla pulled her hands sharply away from the surface of the table, to tie them in an uneasy knot out of sight of Tegan’s stricken expression.

‘Oh,’ she said lightly. ‘That sword.’ She dropped her eyes, gazing intently at the bottle. She pushed it jerkily towards Tegan, still not meeting her gaze. Corla felt burdened and panicky. Tegan took a large swallow from the bottle.

‘What will you do?’

Corla shook her head.

‘Corla, I have to know.’

‘Or what?’

Tegan frowned, her hand tightening on the bottle. Corla watched the hand metaphorically wringing her neck and sighed.

‘I wish you hadn’t told me.’

‘So do I. I thought she was gone, I thought she was safe.’

‘The witch hasn’t found her yet, and she does have a sword with her, I suppose it’s that one.’

Tegan shrugged.
What other?
Corla shook her head. The thought of Riordan stabbed through her fear; fierce, impossible to ignore.

Will it be like this forever?
she wondered, winding imaginary bandages about her hurt.
Will I be beating my head on walls and screaming in two years’ time?
She pulled the bandages tight; feeling the throb of pain stifled, but not cured, and doubted it.

‘I don’t care,’ she said calmly. ‘Brede can go to hell, and all the rest of them. I don’t care.’ She sighed. ‘But you do, don’t you, Tegan – so I will help.’

Tegan shunted the leather bottle from hand to hand, thinking. Corla waited impatiently, then snatched the bottle away. She moved it to the far side of the table.

‘Bring her here, protect her, take the risk?’ She moved the bottle to the other side. ‘Get her away from here, somehow?’

Tegan sat still, her hands flat on the table, staring at her fingers.

‘Well?’

‘Whichever I can persuade her to.’

Corla stood.

‘Fine, come on then.’

She led the way, the leather bottle cradled against her. Tegan grabbed up a coat and followed.

They walked the short distance to the bridge in silence. Corla strode slightly ahead, impatient, angry, wanting to be getting on with her grieving, not dealing with this. Tegan kept up, just; equally angry, but afraid, trembling with uncertainty. Corla reached the bridge; loped down the slope and reached for the shoulder of the huddled form in the turn of the stonework, and looked down into the startled, sleep confused eyes of a complete stranger. She swore sharply and stood back.

The beggar swore at her, and pulled his blanket more tightly about his shoulders, waiting for whatever abuse was about to come his way.

‘Where’s the woman who is usually here?’ Corla asked. He shook his head. Corla got a grip on the blanket and yanked at it. ‘The woman with the sword and the leather hat, where is she?’

Tegan loosened Corla’s grip and held out a coin. The beggar took it.

‘Don’t know. You’re not the first to ask, though.’

‘Who else?’ Another coin.

‘Pretty woman, lovely voice. She smelt good. Had an escort of soldiers.’

‘What did she say?’ Another coin.

‘“It’s been here recently, I can hear it.”’

‘Did they ask about the woman?’

‘Not exactly.’ Yet another coin.

‘What then?’

‘Something about a sword. Course, I knew who they meant. Isn’t anyone but she with a blade.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Didn’t tell them anything. They smelt of death.’

‘That’s quite a nose.’ Corla said hoarsely.

‘Can smell what you’ve been drinking. Can smell what you think, too.’ The beggar’s eyes gleamed palely. ‘Grief and fear and blood and anger.’

Corla backed away.

‘Come on,’ she said sharply.

Tegan followed reluctantly, back towards the West Gate.

‘If they haven’t found her already,’ Corla said softly, slowing her walk enough for Tegan to keep pace. ‘Our looking will draw them to us, and perhaps to Brede too.’

Tegan nodded, and held out her hand for the bottle of spirits. Corla handed it over and let her drink deep before demanding it back.

‘I’m going back now. Go see to your business, Tegan.’

‘What will you do?’

‘What I ought to be doing. Helping Maeve get through tonight, let Maeve help me get through it.’

Tegan looked thoughtfully at the bottle, then nodded.

‘There’s not enough left there to kill both of you, but don’t have too much more yourself. What about tomorrow?’

‘Whatever tomorrow offers, I won’t be out looking for beggars with swords. You shouldn’t either.’

Tegan nodded, then hugged Corla to her, her arms fierce with pent up anger.

Corla worked her way free and walked swiftly towards the barracks. Tegan walked as quickly back to the inn, flinging the door wide as she entered. She glanced about the drinkers crowding the room, then strode over to Juhel. He considered his employer, and reached down another leather bottle. He thrust it into her hand. Tegan looked from the bottle to the boy and frowned. Then she pushed her way through the door to her private rooms, turned, and bolted the door.