Juliet McKenna - The Swordsman's Oath

Temar rose to his feet and grimaced as he rubbed his knees. He went to sit on the step of the dais as he had done so often as a child, when the hall was thronged with tenants and clients, his uncles circulating as the Sieur dealt with the suppliants. Temar made himself comfortable and looked up at his grandfather.

“I really want to do this, Grandpa. I’m never going to be any good capering at court, ferreting out gossip and trying to turn it into advantage and gold. You know me; I’m used to speaking my mind, as you taught me yourself. I’m tired of trying to salvage coin and dignity from every tide of disasters and knowing all the while that the next time the Emperor nails his own foot to the floor, I’ll be back up to my neck in a flood of ripe gurry.”

The old man rubbed a hand over his face; his eyes dimmed with momentary despair. “Better that than drowning in the deep of the ocean, surely? How many ships set sail with Nemith the Seafarer and never returned?”

“Messire Den Fellaemion returned, Grandpa, and he has made the crossing a handful of times since. I trust him.” Temar tried to keep any rebuke out of his voice. He failed.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The old fire flared in the Sieur’s eyes. “You trust him? You see a better future riding as his postilion, do you, rather than as master of your own team? You’re planning to abandon your own name and take his, perhaps?”

Temar stood abruptly, shedding his efforts at unaccustomed humility. “My concerns are for the future of my name, Messire. I intend that my sons and grandsons will revere my ashes and bless the inheritance I bequeath them.” He clenched his fists unconsciously and felt the band of his father’s ring press into his flesh.

“So what will you be doing with my funeral urn, then? Using it as a doorstop? Ungrateful hound!” The Sieur raised one twisted hand and very nearly struck out at Temar. “Am I to blame that first the Crusted Pox stole away the sons of my House and then a pox-rotted whoremonger has pissed away our lands through chasing his deluded ambitions?”

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.”