XVIII
Some weeks now passed, and as the new year approached, all of Pearmol was soon abustle—Karvalo was not known to dine in halves, and the spring festival was never any different. On the very last night of the year, when Thalo lay aloof on his bench, into the house came a young woman of sprightly demeanour. She was Ormana, Yorlayvo’s daughter.
Yorlayvo’s extraction has already been told. His wife, Ormana’s mother, was a woman called Esleyna. She was fair of hair and face alike, but though she was not terribly old, she wore her age poorly, having weathered in her life many hardships, and just as many bereavements. For one, her mother, Ewssea, died during the birth of her younger brother, who himself did not survive long enough to be named. Then Esleyna’s father, Ossyelo, drowned a few years later while he was swimming, dragged out to sea by a strong current he had not the strength to overcome. Her elder brother, the eternally charming Fenlovo, was killed fighting in the north and flung into a hasty grave with thirty others. And lastly, her younger sister, Allea, left Pearmol as a young woman, seeking a wealthy spouse from some other lordly hall, only to be waylaid by reavers on the day she left. Although Allea escaped her attackers, she fled in such a panic that she got trapped in a bog, and there she died.
Despite her many sorrows, it should be mentioned that Esleyna had also known her fair share of joys. Yorlayvo had previously been among the many young men of Pearmol who went to fight in the north, and he was one of those fortunate enough to come home mostly intact. Shortly after his return, he and Esleyna married, and they had two children together. Ormana was the elder of the pair, and the younger was an unimportant lad called Kolmago.
Though Ormana had ever been of buoyant disposition, her words were often so poorly chosen, and often so clumsily spoken, that many perceived her to be dreadfully awkward, or bothersome, or otherwise ungracious and queer, and sometimes even outright discourteous. Thus, when she and Thalo first met, she flung back her shoulders, broadened her smile, and greeted him slowly, and clearly, and ever so politely.
‘How do you do?’ she said with a bow. ‘I do not believe we have met.’
‘We have not,’ said Thalo, and nothing more.
Ormana then continued the conversation alone, speaking of many dull and trivial things, until Thalo offered a polite farewell and walked away. Much the same happened the next day, and the next, and so on. Soon enough, Thalo had grown very fond of Ormana’s idle chatter, and she of his steady quiet, and they thusly found in each other an easy friend.
So it was that Ormana came to Thalo on the night of the winter lights, set upon dragging him from his bench and out into the yard to join the celebration. But Thalo had no intention of rising until dawn demanded it.
‘Slothful git!’ said Ormana. ‘Get up and get out.’
Thalo greeted her with half a smile and no words.
‘Did you hear me, man?’ She seized Thalo’s arm and tried to haul him to his feet, but he would not be moved.
‘I am trying to rest,’ he said.
‘You will have plenty of time to rest soon enough.’ Ormana took her knife from her belt and pointed it at his face. ‘I am threatening you.’
‘Not nearly enough.’
‘Phooey! You must come out. It is important to fulfil your obligations as a man of Pearmol, after all.’
‘Perhaps, but what obligation do I have to waddle out in the middle of the night and shiver? None.’
‘You have an obligation to uphold the harmony of the house, and I yet hold a knife. I am threatening you.’
Thalo meant to protest further, Ormana’s smile lessened as she spoke, and he agreed to accompany her.
They went out into the yard together, where a great throng had gathered beneath the waning moon, all chatting to one another while the low hum of song drifted up from the town. Ormana brought Thalo among her kinsfolk—close to the doors of the hall, for they were people of dignity—and took from her belt-bag two small candlesticks. She lit them both, then handed one to Thalo and kept the other for herself.
Once everyone was assembled, Karvalo emerged from the hall, and atop the steps, he rang his bell with verve. A quiet fell upon the yard, and as Karvalo stepped aside, a woman came out behind him. She was Seyglena, his wife, and a daughter of a prominent family from Lagovol. She was born blind, and her family had therefore bestowed upon her a priestly education.
After Karvalo helped her down the steps, she walked to the middle of the crowd while he remained by the doors, above everyone else, just as he liked it.
‘Hear me!’ said Seyglena. ‘Hear me and heed me!’
Then she knelt and sang. As she did so, two large men came whooping out of the hall and put themselves either side of Karvalo. One was draped in furs and animal skins, and he wore a marvellous mane on his head, and antlers on his back, and also had his face covered with a fearsome fanged mask. The other was decked in feathers, with a long-beaked mask, great wings extending from his shoulders, and an exquisite crest atop his head. Each carried a staff which they thumped upon the ground in time with Seyglena’s song, and the beastly fellow barked and woofed along while the feathered fellow hooted joyously, crowing as if he were under the spell of some crazed wizard-chicken.
When she had finished singing, Karvalo helped Seyglena back up the steps, where the beastly fellow dropped to his knees and presented her with a bowl of soil. She took a fistful and cast it through the door, onto the floor within. Then the feathered fellow dropped to his knees and presented her with a bowl of water. She cupped some in her hand and splashed it onto the floor likewise.
‘So have I been heard!’ she said. ‘So have I been heeded!’
Then she went inside. Karvalo rang his bell once more and followed her in, having not said a word, and then the two whoopers went in behind them.
That was the first time Thalo had borne witness to such a ritual. At Klagenn, he and Asfoa had marked the coming of each new year with only a song softly sung between themselves, and while the winter he spent at Gawslad had offered a more substantial celebration, it happened that he was celebrating elsewhere on the night of the winter lights. The whole affair was rather too loud and busy for his taste, but he was glad at least that Ormana was enjoying herself.
Karvalo hosted the spring feast on the following day, the first day of spring, and there was much to be enjoyed in that lordly house, songs and dances, music and merriment, good food and goodwill. Thalo went along at Ormana’s urging, but he was sulky about it and left early.
On the next day, Yorlayvo learnt that an infamous robber called Magnaga Much-maligned was abroad. She had been accused of doing many wicked things by many different farms, and even more would come forward to make posthumous allegations. Karvalo had already outlawed her in his domain, so heinous was her catalogue of crimes, as had all his neighbours, but now Yorlayvo determined so slippery a fiend should not be left to wander. Thalo volunteered himself to sort the matter.
‘I have yet to perform a killing in my lord’s name,’ he said, ‘and there can be no manfuller art.’
Yorlayvo granted him that, but he stipulated that a pair of big men were to go along for the ride and ensure nothing went awry—his faith in Thalo, though firmer than it had been, remained far less than absolute. Everyone agreed to this.
Just so the three departed, and they followed the sightings to a farm called Feanna, not very far from Pearmol itself. There they went inside and found the crook prying a baby from its mother’s nipple, surely intent upon doing some horrible thing. Thalo drew his sword, star-sheened Sleme, and sliced her open before she knew what was happening.
The baby’s mother said some of the goods in Magnaga’s possession were hers by right, and that the hoodlum had swiped them shortly before justice had arrived. Justice called her a liar and a chancer, returned her baby, and took the body away, all its ill-gotten goods claimed for Pearmol. Thalo and his fellows then rode out into the moors, stripped Magnaga’s body, and dumped the corpse to be defiled by whatever nasty thing sought to defile it, as was the custom for outlaws in those more barbarous days.
After a hard day’s graft, they were glad to be home before dinnertime. Thalo went straight to the hall to deliver the loot, eager to be dealt back his part. He put it before Karvalo, sitting at one of his benches.
Karvalo said, ‘I am told you have been hunting? I suppose this is my profit?’
Thalo said it was.
‘Then let us see what the scoundrel had to offer.’
Karvalo seized the bag from the table and opened it up, but his enthusiasm lessened as quickly as it had stirred.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘for a vagrant.’
He then began rummaging through the bag to determine what he should deal back to his man, but he stopped when Solmodo the doorman came to his side and said a pair of women had come to visit on behalf of the Earl of Eylavol. Karvalo bade him bring them in and took to his chair, his goody bag yet in his lap and none the lighter. Thalo did not want to stay in the hall—he knew exactly what matter had brought friends of the Earl of Eylavol to Pearmol—but neither could he bring himself to leave, and thereby risk losing his share of Magnaga’s booty. He plopped himself in the back corner, hoping to melt into the shadows and be missed by Karvalo’s visitors. That hope was in vain.
Soon enough, Solmodo escorted the women inside. One was Godleda, the daughter of Beyla the Earl. Karvalo had met her once before, in her mother’s company, but he did not know her companion. It was Meola, and the moment she set foot in the hall, her eyes swept the room and settled upon Thalo in the corner, drawn to him as if by the will of treacherous fate itself. She served him the fiercest scowl she could manage but saved her words.
Karvalo stood to greet his guests.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Godleda,’ said Godleda, ‘daughter of Beyla, the Earl of Eylavol. My friend is Meola Ravonnan, though you may know better the name of her late husband, Gaylodho Ayrkenennan, the earl’s predecessor.’
Karvalo welcomed them by name and sat back down. ‘Speak, what brings you to my most esteemed hall?’
‘You have surely heard,’ said Meola, ‘that my husband was murdered.’
Karvalo had not heard this, though he should have.
‘It was a cowardly act performed by a cowardly man. The culprit fled before we could seek justice. To see so cruel a killing go unpunished has wrought in me no end of grief, but things seem to be turning in my favour at last. You see, Lord of Pearmol, you are harbouring the murderer.’
Karvalo nodded knowingly, looking not at either of his guests, but at Thalo in the corner. ‘And just who do you mean to accuse?’
But before either of them could answer, Thalo stood and said, ‘Thalo is his name.’ He would not be ruled by fate if he could help it. ‘That man died by my sword alone.’
‘So it is,’ said Meola. ‘The man himself admits it.’
Karvalo leant forward to peer at Meola before him. ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’
‘The man is a murderer. He slaughtered my husband and fled before justice could be sought. It was a vile crime, one for which he has been outlawed from his homeland, but that is not sufficient. He must be yielded to face the proper penalty.’
‘Perhaps. But let us hear both sides first.’ Karvalo summoned Thalo to his side with a wave. ‘Thalo, what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘The man was a pig,’ said Thalo. ‘I wish I could bring him back to life, that I could kill him again, and slower. He did not deserve to live.’
As Meola heard these words, such fury welled within her, a fury she could scarcely contain. ‘Lord of Pearmol, it is shameful that you would even hear his words, let alone heed them.’ She shifted her glare towards Thalo. ‘I want the murderer. Blood for blood, and nothing less. Fate wills it.’
Karvalo now took a moment to consider his options, but the matter seemed clear. Even if Thalo was nothing much more than a violent, temperamental little man, he was nonetheless Thennelo. That name, he thought, might yet prove to be valuable. If he dared yield not only one of his thanes for execution, but Thennelo, and so soon after acquiring him, and to the Earl of Eylavol of all people, the cost to his good name would be far greater than that of any feud with a rabble of mouthy northerners. He would not be so besmirched.
‘I see my man has done you harm,’ said Karvalo, ‘but I will not give you his life. Perhaps I can offer you some other compensation. What price would befit your husband’s standing?’
Meola said, ‘I have named the price.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Godleda, in her most judicial voice, ‘we can instead offer to reimburse you for your loss. What would you take in exchange for your man?’
‘Nothing. If you cannot agree to that, then we have no further business. I will not sell his life for any sum at all, as I would not sell that of any one of my thanes. Such is my duty as their gracious lord and protector.’
‘Gracious?’ said Meola. ‘Where is the grace in this dishonour? This man murdered my husband, unfathered my son, widowed me. Neither does he deny it, nor even pretend to have a just cause.’ She bent to her knees and spread her hands on the floor. ‘Where is your dignity? I beseech you, my hands upon your floor: do what is right and just!’
‘I will not discuss dignity with the groveller.’
Now Godleda came to help Meola to her feet, but her hand was refused. She stepped towards Karvalo instead. ‘See the weeping widow. See the hurting heart. And so, see sense. Justice must be done.’
But Karvalo had no interest in justice. ‘Get out of my hall, or your son will mourn his mother as well. I will say nothing more about this.’
Then he left the hall, his bag firmly in hand.
Yet upon her knees, Meola put her glare back on Thalo as he stood on the platform beside Karvalo’s chair.
‘Do not waste your days,’ she said, ‘for they will be few!’
Then she arose, spat at his feet, and left the hall. Godleda went with her.
Two more things must be said about this conversation. Firstly, although Thalo was pleased to see people arguing over him, that his life rested upon its outcome left him not the least bit rattled. This was, after all, the only one of his sixfold killings to have borne any apparent consequences. Secondly, he never got his share of Magnaga’s death-loot, for this matter put it far out of Karvalo’s mind.
That evening, Yorlayvo sat down to speak with Thalo. He had previously thought time and instruction alone would be enough to make him an upstanding young man. After all, it was one thing to be good with a spear—any half-fit fellow could kill a man—but it was mind and manners, dignity and discipline, which were most useful in their work. That was not Thalo having a tantrum in the hall, but he had hoped they could mould him into a worthier fellow. Yet as time passed and little changed, as Thalo remained aloof and disinterested, he wondered whether it would at all, or if it even could.
‘No,’ he had said to himself one day. ‘Nothing lasts forever. Things always change eventually. It is but the when and the how that come and go.’
But it was the when and the how that worried him. He knew Thalo no better after two months than he had after two days, and what little he had gathered did just as little to ease his doubts. Now Karvalo had told him of his meeting with Meola, of dark deeds brought to light, and the situation became untenable.
‘Thalo,’ he said, ‘tell me about this earl you murdered.’
‘I did not murder him,’ said Thalo. ‘He deserved to die.’
‘No one deserves to die.’
‘No one? Then what of this outlaw, Magnaga? You had me kill her just today. Did she not deserve it?’
‘No, but the folk she wronged thought otherwise, and they are the folk who keep us fed. We put the matter to rest, and Magnaga with it, but that does not mean she deserved it. It was a practical consideration.’
Thalo only scoffed.
‘Pay attention,’ said Yorlayvo. ‘You murdered an earl.’
‘I did not murder him.’
‘You murdered him, and you were outlawed for it. Do you deserve to die for that? No. Whatever you have done, you do not deserve to die. But we all still do. And again, you murdered an earl. Should the worst come about, I will do what I can to spare you, but I can only try. In the end, your life is your own to defend.’
‘Have you come to threaten me?’
‘I have come to ensure you know where we stand. If you are to stay with us, we need to trust you, and you need to trust us. We must be as one. Once more, you murdered an earl. We must be prepared for whatever may come of it, for such matters do not resolve themselves. Do you understand?’
Reluctantly, Thalo said, ‘I do.’
Yorlayvo said, ‘We each hope fate favours us,’ and then he went away.
Though Thalo heeded much of his wisdom, he remained unconvinced of Gaylodho’s undeserving. Yorlayvo did not know him as he knew him, nor could he, for he was justly dead and buried. Nothing would come of it, for what more justice needed doing?
‘None,’ said Thalo. ‘I need no absolution, for I have done no damnable deed. All is well. All will be well.’
And so Yorlayvo’s words all fell out of him as he readied for bed.
The spring games were held on the following day. Thalo did not take part. Solmodo won the barrel, and the chap who got the rag proved too forgettable to be remembered.
While everyone was out having their fun, Karvalo made some arrangements for himself. He picked from his retinue a reliable and trustworthy thane named Bane-of-the-Tongues—so called because they knew every sort of speech worth knowing, and all so fluently that they could claim any extraction they liked and be believed—and sent them off to Eylavol. They were to keep a close eye on things, notice whatever needed to be noticed, and send tight-lipped friends back with any important news. In this way did Karvalo begin putting his fingers where they did not belong.