THE TRIALS OF SWIN
They passed through an inner door and found themselves in a damp cold vestibule. There were more columns and passages. The floor was smooth cold squares of black and white marble. Immediately before the Punchkins a grey-robed figure sat writing busily at a very large table. The table was covered with papers, pens, sealing-wax, seals, rolls and black boxes, some tied up with red tape, some with green; the legal stationery had an intimidating look, as if belonging to wizardry. The writer’s pen squeaked and scratched as the Punchkins quietly approached. The only heat in the room came from a large fireplace where a few wisps of smoke rose up from a pile of ashes.
‘Excuse us,’ said Mr. Proudfoot when all four were facing the table in a row. ‘Ah, madam,’ he continued smoothly, seeing the bun of grey hair and the severe thin-lipped face, ‘are you the Lady Magistrate of this City?’
‘No, I’m an Usher of the Court,’ she replied briefly. ‘And you are the Punchkins, I see. Kindly enter your names here.’
Mr. Proudfoot and Fortinbras and Aldred entered their names, and then Tim made his mark, and Fortinbras endorsed it. The Usher directed the Punchkins into one of the side-rooms. She rose, followed them and closed the heavy black door.
‘Now, Mistress Usher,’ said Mr. Proudfoot very firmly, ‘tell us what has happened. Our friend has done no murder. Of that I am sure.’
The Woman looked down at the four anxious faces under their row of absurd hats. Her expression became slightly more compassionate. She then stated:
‘The man Gumasson is charged with murder. As a subject of the Queen of Doroech his standing under our law is debatable. This matter is one of those to be resolved at the hearing, which will take place within the hour. You asked me what’s happened. I am told that he entered a city guard-house today with one of the King’s subjects. This man, Melda, was being illegally deprived of liberty by the accused. Melda formally accused Gumasson, together with accomplices, of murdering eleven people. The identities of the alleged victims are not yet confirmed. Gumasson was invited to respond to the statement of Melda. In the presence of the Officer of the Watch and four subordinates he confessed to all the crimes of which he had been accused. He thus incriminated himself, so that it was necessary to charge him. The Officer commanded him to surrender his weapons and submit to bonds. He drew his sword and threatened the men who moved to arrest him. He damaged their weapons. He also destroyed a table and a set of stocks. He continued verbally to menace the guards. He thus incurred additional charges of Wasting Guards’ Time, Destroying Crown Property and Uttering Menaces against Officers of the Guard.’
Listening to this, the Punchkins felt that they were being engulfed in some extraordinary nightmare. It was Aldred who, having kept hold of the thread of the sequence of events perhaps better than the others, was able to ask: ‘And what happened next?’
The Usher sighed. ‘As Gumasson still refused to surrender his weapons and there seemed to be no safe way of disarming him, the Guard sent a message over here to ask for advice. I was able to arrange for the case to be referred straight away. Your friend’s been lucky. He was allowed to come over here under a special guard, with all his weapons on him; and he has been assigned a special advocate.’
‘Lucky?’ asked Aldred. ‘Didn’t he tell you he’s here for the wedding? of Lord Ostendil’s son?’
‘There was something said about that, yes. But he could produce no evidence, and my lords Ostendil and Melohtar are away from town at the moment. Nevertheless I felt it might be advisable to get the muddle sorted out sooner than later. Your friend’s advocate will come in to see you shortly.’
With that she left them. This room, the waiting-room, was absolutely bare, with two narrow, tall and dirty windows, and two narrow hard benches along the sides of the narrow room. The Punchkins sat down. In low tones they discussed Swin’s plight. After a short while they heard footsteps. The Advocate entered: a stooping elderly Man with a sallow face, lined and tired. His robe was black, with a white fur trim to the hood, and a narrow stole of fur.
‘High,’ he said.
‘High,’ responded the Punchkins uncertainly, and waited for the civilised ritual of greetings, formal self-introduction, avowal of names, kindreds, homelands; but there was none. In Ruminas this one brief sound seemed to have replaced all courtesy.
‘I’m acting for your man. Is it really true that he’s here for the wedding?’
‘It is,’ said Mr. Proudfoot.
‘But there’s no written evidence? No invite?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Fortinbras coldly.
‘No invitation?’
‘No.’
The lawyer frowned. ‘Such a pity that Melohtar’s not here,’ he said. ‘But he should be back tomorrow or the day after. And yourselves, are you invited too?’
‘We’re an Embassy to the King,’ said Mr. Proudfoot tersely.
‘You mean a diplomatic mission? From the Demesne? You have letters?’
Mr. Proudfoot opened his satchel and handed a folded letter to the Advocate, who opened it and scanned it.
‘I see. Yes, that’s your Mayoral seal!’ He smiled for the first time. ‘And the Demesne’s legal language…and the red ink. Most interesting. Living history, if I may say so, meaning no offence.’
‘History?’ said Fortinbras, irritated. ‘We were there when it happened. If Swin’s a murderer, then so are we all. I shot four of the bastards myself.’
‘No doubt,’ said the Advocate. ‘However, the Decree of Kedral, which you may know of, has an important clause, by which Thandor formally repudiates all jurisdiction over the King’s Demesne. You may think that very far-sighted of him. Punchkins can be tried only by Punchkins, in the Demesne, no matter what they may do, anywhere in the King’s dominions. So, even if you weren’t on a diplomatic mission, you still couldn’t be charged with anything.’
‘But it still doesn’t make sense,’ Fortinbras persisted.
‘It’s the law. And it may prove useful as a line of defence for him. If he was with your party, travelling under your protection –’ ‘He was protecting us!’ ‘– then there’s a case to be made for him as an honorary Punchkin, entitled to the protection of your own laws. Failing that, there’s a case for regarding him as a subject of the Queen of Doroech, and so deporting him. Failing that, you can testify that he was acting in self-defence.’
‘Yes!’ said Mr. Proudfoot and Fortinbras together, astonished at the legal topsy-turvy.
‘Now I need to go over the facts with you,’ said the Advocate. He questioned the Punchkins closely for twenty minutes, making notes on a slate with a small lead pencil. ‘Very good,’ he said at the end. ‘Now I’d say that your friend ought to have a decent chance of being acquitted by one or other of the expedients I’ve outlined. Unfortunately for him, it’s the Lady Magistrate today, and she does tend to stick to the letter of the law. We’ll have to hope for the best.’
‘But, but,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, who had been struggling to find words to express his outrage and disbelief, ‘can this be true? Can it be true, my good sir, that the laws of a great kingdom of Midyard, that Kingdom which we of the Demesne have looked to ever as a bulwark of justice and shield of freedom, should so zealously uphold the rights of criminals who break them? I set aside the fact that we were on the King’s Highway, and so, there if anywhere, entitled to the security of law-abiding subjects! How comes it, sir, such policy? Of vindicating them who break the law? Of penalising the innocent? What, sir, is the Kingdom coming to?’
The lawyer gave Mr. Proudfoot a look of mingled respect and irony, with a little breath indrawn through almost-closed lips. ‘Thandor,’ he answered as he stood up, ‘recognises the rights of all its subjects, small and great, high and low. Thandor benignly supposes that though those men may have robbed and assaulted travellers, they did not deserve to be killed for such deeds. Those were lost violent souls, unhappy outcasts who might one day perhaps have found their path, their means to rejoin society with honour. And now they’re most of ’em dead. What a shame, eh? Why, if every common burglar or bandit or footpad were to be slain out-of-hand, as you did to these –’
He paused.
‘Yes?’ asked Fortinbras.
‘Then we’d all be able to travel safely and sleep safe in our beds. Does that content you? Now, come along.’
They followed his sweeping black gown along a gloomy passageway. He opened another black door and showed them into an auditorium, large but stuffy: it seemed that quite a number of people must have eaten their lunch here, and their tea too, for the drugget was scattered with nutshells and crumbs and bits of peel. Still, the room was not unimpressive. The rays of the declining sun came in through many windows of stained glass, bejewelling the richly-carved panels of the walls and central stage. Arranged on this were a number of fixtures and pieces of furniture – desks, steps, rails, a lectern – all of the same age and style (Olosturian) as the panelling. A score of tiers of wooden benches, furnished with hard threadbare cushions, rose up to the back of the auditorium; likewise a balcony came down from above. Raised on a platform above the level of the stage was the judge’s seat, and behind this the wall was covered in its entirety by a black backcloth, on which was worked, in shining wires of gold, the image of a mighty eagle: not standing, like the small statue in front of the guard-house, but flying or stooping with claws and wings outspread. A small table in front of the high seat was covered with a white tablecloth, on which reposed a light silver crown. Men-at-arms in grey uniforms stood keeping guard in the corners of the room. As well as stale food, it smelt of oil, candles and wood-polish.
The Advocate led the Punchkins over to another offical, this one dressed in a plain cassock: he was the Clerk of the Court. Their presence was explained and they were directed to join the audience, the thin sprinkling of folk who were already sitting on the benches. ‘Can all come? Can anyone just come in?’ Aldred whispered, in curiosity, to the Advocate. ‘Why, yes,’ was the answer. ‘Open justice!’
He went and sat behind his own small desk. Another man wearing similar garb entered, and the two had a short muttered conversation. The clerk took up a knife and began to cut some quills. Time passed, and then the chiming of a bell was heard. The Clerk stood up and shouted:
‘Uncover before Thandor!’
Someone loudly knocked three times on the main side-entrance. Then it opened and the Usher came in, carrying a silver wand. She was followed by the Magistrate, a slender figure, perhaps a little under medium height, robed in black and grey. The audience had all knelt down and doffed their hats, so the Punchkins hurriedly did the same. Everyone except the men-at-arms was now kneeling to the ladies. Behind the Magistrate came a train-bearer dressed all in white, who took her stand behind the seat of justice and played no further part in any of the proceedings. Magistrate and Usher bowed solemnly to each other, and then the latter proceeded out of the door. The Clerk rose, bowed to the Magistrate, turned and called out: ‘The Court may be seated.’
So all sat down again. At once another door was opened, and in came five more armed Men. Swin, with his shield and shining helmet, was conspicuous in their midst. A moment later he stood alone at one end of the stage, with the four guards ranged behind him.
The Clerk of the Court had only just begun to read out the charges against the prisoner when the Magistrate stopped his speech by the ringing of a small hand-bell.
‘Why is this man armed?’ she asked. Her voice was clear and young. She leant forward a little, happening to come into the same shaft of sunlight that fell on Swin; and the Punchkins, beholding her pale face and bright eyes, realised that she was indeed very young: to them, ridiculously young: under thirty. She was perhaps the youngest person present in the court-room.
‘He declines to give up his weapons, Your Ladyship,’ said the Clerk.
‘But this is unlawful. Alien weapons are not permitted in this Court. They are also forbidden to be brought near our person. Disarm him,’ she said.
Swin’s advocate was at once on his feet. ‘May it please Your Ladyship. By the terms of the Original Decree of Kedral, statute five, clauses one to seven, we will show that the conduct of the Accused falls under the ordinances and customary law of the Demesne, and not under the jurisdiction of this Crown. He bears arms therefore by leave of the Punchkins who are present.’
A wrinkle briefly appeared in the Magistrate’s smooth brow. ‘Continue,’ she said.
The Advocate expounded his point; the other advocate began to speak; an abstruse argument developed. Mr. Proudfoot was summoned as a witness; he went forward and was cross-questioned, an experience he seemed to enjoy; his answers became more assured, his periods more rounded. The Magistrate listened closely and with controlled but increasing impatience. She tinkled her bell again.
‘This is all beside the point,’ she declared. ‘If he has the right to bear weapons here, he cannot be judged by our law. Yet it plainly appears that he is being judged by our law. Therefore he will surrender his weapons.’
A difficult silence ensued. The clerk looked up from his notes. ‘It appears that he so impressed the men at the guard-house that none dared to seize him. Besides which, he claims some kind of kinship with the Lord Melohtar.’
‘Nothing to our purpose,’ she replied. ‘Disarm him now.’
‘May I say a word, Your Ladyship?’ asked Swin.
‘No,’ she answered, with glacial coldness. It was at this point that Aldred first noticed what many others have also observed, a certain flaw in the appearance of this beautiful young woman. The white of her left eye was pink, the eye a little bloodshot.
‘Captain-at-arms!’ shouted the Clerk.
One of the four Men guarding Swin, who all had uncovered blades, took up a position immediately before him and held out a hand, palm upward, to receive Swin’s sword.
Swin made no move.
For a moment, which seemed to the Punchkins a long and terrible pause, the scene was a tableau. They vividly remembered Swin attacking the robbers, his blade suddenly red and his forearm red to the elbow. The Men who stood impassively round him were large and tough, experienced soldiers. They might, or possibly they might not be a match for Swin’s speed; but either possibility was appalling to think of. The Punchkins saw Swin go tense, and then, in the nick of time, Mr. Proudfoot gained enough presence of mind to call to him:
‘Eofor, my friend, don’t fight! Show steadfastness!’
Swin closed his eyes. He blushed fiery red. Then he deliberately drew his sword. Holding it by the blade, he laid the hilts in the captain’s hand.
‘This is Heathogrim,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Keep it well.’
‘Shield,’ said the captain.
‘This is the white knife and green field of my country,’ he said. ‘Keep it well also.’
‘Helmet.’
‘This is Boarcrest, my namesake,’ said Swin, now scarlet, his red hair shining all the redder in a patch of light that had streamed in through a panel of crimson glass. The captain took the helmet: and then seemed to hesitate.
He turned the helmet over and the little boar-image sparkled in the red light. He glanced at Swin.
‘I’ll keep ’em well, sir,’ he said.
Now what was this?
What on earth was this?
Something quite new – a deeper, tenser stillness, mixed with sudden excitement – had come over the whole assembly. It was not the same as the Punchkins’ passing fear that Swin might turn on the guards. It was something they felt without understanding – something that arose from knowledge shared by all the Thandorian folk. The audience were sitting upright, gazing at Swin with startled eagerness. The soldiers were even more alert than before, yet their sword-points had been lowered unwittingly. The court officers were variously frozen in mid-movement, and the Magistrate had sunk back in her great chair, her small hand grasping her chin, her brow deeply cleft.
The red light slowly faded; and everyone breathed again.
‘Very well,’ said the Magistrate, as if in answer to some question. ‘Captain, bring us the prisoner’s sword.’
The captain mounted the higher platform, came up to her and then went down on one knee, holding the blade carefully with two hands, offering the hilts for her inspection. She looked at the twined patterns and touched the edge, delicately, with one finger.
‘So this is the elvish sword, fellow?’ she asked, addressing Swin directly.
‘No, Your Ladyship.’
‘No? But you mentioned its name?’
‘Heathogrim. Made by the Dwarves of Tingrod, Your Ladyship.’
‘A Dwarvish blade. Well then, red as you are, you can’t be a Red Boar!’ She snapped her fingers in dismissal. The captain stood up, bowed and retreated. The Court laughed uncertainly, and there was a sycophantic note in the laughter. The Punchkins wondered if some kind of witticism had been attempted. ‘Continue!’ She rang her bell again. ‘We’re wasting time.’
Mr. Proudfoot was sent back to his place. Two other witnesses followed him: Melda the informer and the officer of the watch. Melda’s performance was as odious as might have been expected. In a whining high-pitched voice he gave an account of the fight, improved here and there with subtle exaggerations; but the truth really needed little improving-on. He leered and smirked triumphantly at his enemies when not addressing the advocates. The guard then told of the scene in the guard-house, confirming that Swin had made no attempt to deny Melda’s statement. Then the advocates went into further questions about Swin’s status, and the plea of self-defence; but their manner was somewhat half-hearted, as if these had become irrelevant. The Magistrate cut them short for the last time.
‘Sirs, have done with this. We need hear no more. Our verdict shall at once be announced.’
Taking his cue, the Clerk ordered: ‘The Court will rise!’
‘Hear the conclusion,’ recited the Magistrate, ‘of the Crown Court of Ruminas, determined by us on the thirteenth day of March, in the six hundred and thirteenth year of the present age, in the case of Eofor known as Swin Gumasson. Let the justice of Mindir and the wisdom of Dru be embodied in our verdict. The accused is found guilty of the impulsive murder of four persons and the deliberate murder of three persons, all seven being subjects of His Majesty the King. For which crimes convicted, he shall serve five years in prison with chains and hard labour. Additional charges are dismissed. The prisoner shall at once be taken into the place of confinement. Thus have we judged.’
All the Thandorians except the guards then bowed to her reverently. Swin and the Punchkins stood stiff with shock. Thus they saw the small smile of unmistakeable vicious satisfaction that accompanied her last words, and Aldred noted again the bloodshot eye. The Usher reappeared and led the procession out again. As it left, Mr. Proudfoot burst into loud expostulations, but Swin’s advocate turned with a shake of his head, laying his finger to his lips. Mr. Proudfoot fell silent. The guards closed round Swin and marched him out of the other door.
‘Let us at least take these and guard them for him,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, striding forward to the Clerk’s desk, on which Swin’s arms lay.
‘Those are forfeit to the City.’ The Clerk’s eyes were stony. ‘Now be off with you.’
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said the Advocate quietly. He led them out. Passing along the corridor and out through the vestibule they were vaguely aware of him talking about rights of appeal and rights of visiting, but they were not able to absorb any of the information. They told him where they were staying. Then, standing on the black and white squares, they became aware of a new message: ‘…will be three gold pieces.’
‘Excuse me: what will?’ asked Fortinbras stupidly.
‘My fee. To be paid by you, as agreed with my client, on his behalf.’
‘Oh. How much?’
‘Three gold pieces, as I said.’
Fortinbras carried the purse. At a nod from Mr. Proudfoot he reluctantly drew it out from inside his tunic. The heavy sovereign coins clinked from hand to hand. The Advocate’s dark gown ruffled up as he slipped them into his trouser pocket. The Punchkins said Goodbye to him, and stepped out into the lamps and the twilight of the square.
Aldred must now pass on to events which he did not witness, but which were later narrated to him: first, briefly, by Swin himself, before he set out on his last journey; second, at much greater length, as told to Lord Melohtar by Swin, and then by him relayed to Aldred. The Punchkins went back to the inn, and made no attempt to achieve any further task that day. But the story of Swin’s day, already close-packed and stuffed with strange new experiences, was far from over.
He was kept in a basement cell for half an hour. He was fettered and manacled. He did not afterwards dwell on that unpleasant experience, nor on being escorted, under strong guard and the eyes of the public, to the guard-house. There a grey-bearded jailer pushed him into a small and stinking cell. The only light in the cell was what came, by way of a barred aperture in the heavy door, from a smoky lamp outside. It sufficed to show that there was really nothing worth looking at. Swin had a brief frenzy. He grabbed the door-bars and rattled the door on its hinges, yelling with the full strength of his lungs. There was a chorus of angry groans and protests from the occupants of the other cells. The jailer came back. Angrily, and with threats, he commanded Swin to hold his tongue.
Swin made a great effort to gather his wits, which seemed to be scattering in all directions like a pile of windblown leaves. The intense mad fear of imprisonment seemed to retreat, to go a little way off. Into its place came a feeling of tiredness – of exhaustion. He lay down on the hard and filthy bed. He went to sleep.
A couple of hours later, say at half past nine, he was awakened by the scrape of a key in the lock, and by a brighter light shining beyond the door. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The door was opened by a dark, veiled figure. The figure held a candlestick with a clear flame. Swin was aware of being scrutinised. He was asked for his name, and gave it. The door was opened wide. He walked out. The person who had released him – this, in a dreamlike way, seemed natural, unsurprising – had the graceful figure of a young Woman. He wondered whether she might be the Lady Magistrate herself. She shut the cell door, then led him up the stairs. In the ward-room two guards were dozing in chairs in front of the fire, while the old jailer gnawed at the bones of supper. Swin had eaten nothing since breakfast, and he suddenly felt very hungry. The jailer did not look up from his meal, even when the woman stole up to him and put the keys by his elbow.
The guard-house door stood open. The light of a flickering torch played on the figure of the eagle. The torch was held by a groom or postilion, another obscure figure in dark clothes. There was a closed carriage, with two big horses and a driver seated on the outside box. Swin was invited to enter the carriage; he hardly thought of refusing. His liberator followed him in. She spoke to the driver, and they drove away, into dark unknown ways.
The young woman put up her veil. Her face, as far as he could make it out by the intermittent faint gleams of the few steet-lamps, was friendly and ordinary. He began to question her, but no answers would she give. Presently she leaned forward and clasped his hands in hers. ‘Wait,’ she said.
After many corners and bends the road widened into an avenue with terraces of ornate house-fronts set continuously together along both sides. The air was chilly, the neighbourhood quiet and mysterious. Two flambeaux were burning above the door of one of the houses. ‘Please, this is where we get out,’ said the girl. The carriage clattered to a halt. She took his hand and led him from the carriage-steps, not to the front door but into a side-passage – where Swin grabbed her, pushed her up against the wall and kissed her vigorously.
He was at once surprised to find her struggling in his arms. ‘Let me go!’ she whispered furiously.
He promptly released her and stepped back, frowning at her below the vault of the narrow passage. Dim light came from a doorway at its farther end.
‘You fool!’ she said in a low but forceful voice. ‘Do you want to ruin it all for yourself?’ Swin said nothing. Her manner, though angry and agitated, was far from hostile. She put up her hand and brushed a dishevelled lock back from her face. ‘Aren’t you grateful?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you so mistreat me?’
‘Now, lass, I haven’t mistreated you,’ Swin began indignantly.
‘Ssssh! Keep your voice down!’
‘I have not mistreated you. If you openly offer yourself to me, why do you blame me for taking you up on the offer?’
‘Openly, when? How?’
‘Riding alone with me. Smiling at me. Leading me with your bare hand.’
‘Oh. Well, come on.’
He followed her to the other door, around a turning and into a large warm kitchen, where another young woman was washing dishes. ‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ Swin responded, now having had a little practice.
‘Swin. Feima,’ said the first girl briskly. Feima dried her hands and offered one to him. He took it and kept hold of it.
‘I’m called Swin Gumasson. I’m from the Kingdom of the Knife. I’m a barbarian warrior, but I’ve lost my sword, alas. Tell me of yourself!’
She giggled shyly. ‘I’m called Feima. Just Feima. We don’t use surnames below stairs. I’m a servant of the lady who owns this house.’
‘And who is she?’
‘Lady Arloth,’ said the first girl.
‘And who are you, while I’m asking?’
‘Ristila. Let go of her hand, you oaf!’
Ristila had by now trimmed, lighted and turned up a large lamp. The three young people faced each other in wary amusement. Both the girls were wearing dull brown work-dresses. Ristila, who seemed to be the older, had a good-humoured intelligent face, with well-modelled cheekbones and slightly slanting eyes. The flush of anger had not quite left her cheeks. Feima was the smaller and prettier.
Swin obeyed the order, ‘Even though,’ as he said, ‘by the usages of this country, as I learn from your behaviour to me, such acts mean nothing?’
‘But in yours it’s an invitation, right?’ replied Ristila. Feima blushed and turned away with a smile.
‘Yes. Was it Lady Arloth who ordered me to be released from prison? Why has she had me brought here?’
‘Doesn’t need a sword,’ Feima threw over her shoulder, ‘he’s so sharp.’
‘She wants to speak to you on a very important secret matter. At midnight. That’s in two hours.’ Ristila met his gaze as she said this. He took a few steps towards her. She stood her ground, still smiling, a little stern. Tiny golden sparks danced in her eyes. Swin felt his own cheeks begin to burn, his whole body to become aroused. ‘Now,’ said she, ‘will you be a good boy?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be a very good boy.’
‘Say sorry for jumping on me like that.’
He knelt before her, which she had not expected, and looked up. His eyes were bright. ‘Sorry.’
‘Get up, mate!’ She gave him her hands again, helped him to rise and kissed his cheek. ‘Now, you’re to have a bath and get scrubbed up, if that’s not a completely alien custom, and if it is we’ve got to help you, and Feima’s been cooking supper.’
She led him out of the kitchen, along another passage, up some stairs, down a wider corridor with a tiled floor, and then up broader stairs with a soft carpet. Feima quietly followed. They arrived in a dark room that was found to contain a large bath, hollowed out of a great block of white, pink-veined stone. A single bronze pipe, its spout shaped like a dragon’s head, gushed forth a flow of steaming water as Ristila turned a tap. Feima moved about the room, lighting small candles that burned in coloured glass vessels, red, green and blue. Ristila dipped her hand into a glass jar and took out a handful of liquid soap, which she threw into the bath, so that a mound of scented bubbles rose up. Then, without coyness, accepting his astonishment and delight, she took off all her garments except for a little apron tied in front. She was as beautiful as he could have desired. She picked up her discarded clothes, turned away and then bent down to fold and pile them in a corner; he caught his breath at the sight of the round haunches and the soft dark secret, the half-exposed cleft. A finger tapped his shoulder. Feima was behind him, likewise nude. Her breasts were smaller, her body slenderer. Ristila returned to him, and he found himself being undressed.
Their fingers worked busily at the buckles and toggles of his stiff, heavy things – the same ones, by the way, that he had been wearing throughout his journey. Feima wrinkled her nose at them, but Ristila’s manner was charmingly matter-of-fact as she informed him that there were clean ones to put on afterwards. His leather breeches came off, and his lousy woollen under-drawers. The girls saw the full size of his erect manhood and exchanged a startled glance. Then they grinned at him together. Each holding one of his hands, they stepped into the bath, drawing him forward and then down into the water with them.
Of all the strange happenings that had happened to him on his first day in the City of Ruminas, this one seemed the most fantastic and, at first, the most difficult to deal with. He understood that he was not to possess either of the young women, nor even to expect release from them; even here there was an alien code of behaviour that he must quickly learn and adapt to. He sat stiff and awkward for a few minutes, doubly stiff, but then as they allowed him to touch their bodies he gradually relaxed. As long as he refrained from violence and respected the boundary of their little loin-guards, it seemed that all would be well. And there being two of them soon helped to transmute the spirit of this encounter from fully-charged desire into a happy childlike intimacy. They played and splashed together in the foam; after a while the girls began to scrub his back, and to scrape and flannel and cleanse him from top to toes, with a quality of sensuous pleasure that went far beyond his limited experience. They trimmed his nails and hair, stepped out of the bath and dried themselves; Feima dressed and slipped away while Ristila sponged him down with clean warm water and enveloped him in fresh towels. Then, from an oaken chest, she brought out linen of creamy whiteness, a silken shirt, a suit of fine dark-grey cloth that fitted him well, and soft woollen stockings to go under the breeches. Then down to the kitchen once more, where the work of Feima’s hands was presented to him: a splendid steak-and-kidney pie, with the choice of beer or wine, to be followed by a pudding of mixed dried fruits and clotted cream. What with one thing and another, Swin felt very cheerful as he gave his lips a careful, final wipe with the napkin.
No bell had been heard before, but now the three heard a deep chiming that resounded from some distant chamber. ‘There you go,’ said Ristila. ‘Put your boots on, and don’t forget your harp.’
Swin’s pack and boots were behind his chair. Some unknown hand had treated the boots skilfully: the leather was soft, supple and perfectly clean. And the harp: yes, there it was in its wrapping.
The strokes of the bell continued slowly to resound while Ristila led him swiftly through new passages. Swin saw dark panels, stone pillars and arches, glowing arrases and tapestries lit up by sparkling silver lamps. At last he stood before a great double door and heard the twelfth stroke die away. The bell or clock was within the room on the other side. Ristila pushed back the two iron knobs of the door-leaves, walked through and in a clear voice announced Swin’s name. Then she stepped back and smiled at him fleetingly. The doors were shut behind him as he advanced into the room.
It was large, nobly proportioned and surprisingly warm. A great pile of coals and faggots blazed in the massive grate. Half-a-dozen big pine-cones, just thown on, were casting out a bright flare of light. A half-circle of chairs and divans was arranged round the hearth. On the farthest one of these, a red couch, sat the lady of the house, bolt upright with her hands clasped in her lap. She wore a thin white shift that all but revealed the form of her upper body; her legs were draped in a long skirt. The skirt was of many shades of pink, from pearl to deepest rose, and it shimmered and dazzled, though the lady sat motionless, in the dancing firelight. Her face was proud and beautiful, with strongly-arched brows. To Swin her expression seemed sad. Above one ear, below the piled coils of her black hair, she wore a pink rose; and a great vase filled with enormous roses stood on a table at the far end of the room. Her bare arms had a warm glowing whiteness, and her hands had no adornment save one large-jewelled ring, which glittered with an irregular, tremulous spark. While he waited for her to speak, Swin took in a further impression of seats with cushions, and more tapestries and paintings on the walls, and the sweet scent of roses, mixed subtly with the odours of pine-resin and burning fuel.
Soon perceiving that she did not intend to speak until he did, that the initiative lay with him, he took a step forward onto a soft rug. ‘Hi, Your Ladyship,’ he said valiantly, and made a deep bow, flinging back an imaginary cloak and laying one hand on his harp. She smiled. He straightened up and launched himself, as seemed to be required, into an address:
‘If you be the Lady Arloth, the one to whom I owe my deliverance from most unjust confinement, I humbly beg the favour of kissing your hand, in token of heartfelt thanks. To repeat what you have surely been told, I am a poor wanderer from the South, who has everything to learn, concerning your own purposes and the ways of this most surprising City; yet all my powers, such as they are, are yours to command. Swin Gummasson at your service and your family’s.’
Her smile widened, just a little. She extended the hand with the flashing ring. He came up to her, through the heat and glare of the fire; he sank down on one knee, gently gathered the warm trembling fingers and touched them with his lips. He let her hand go, and it moved to indicate that he should seat himself in a wooden chair, next to her couch.
‘Welcome,’ she said at last. Her voice was sweet, but its tone was thin and tense, or strained. ‘I’m glad to see you. Did my servants make you comfortable, as I instructed them?’
‘They certainly did, Your Ladyship. And through their entertainment of me I seemed to catch a glimpse of your purpose in inviting me here, though of that they spoke not.’
‘Yes, they’re intelligent girls.’ Her head drooped; again, as she sat tense and still, she seemed to be searching for words.
‘That is a pretty rose you are wearing, Your Ladyship,’ said Swin encouragingly.
‘Leave that,’ she responded. ‘Call me by my given name. And don’t…’
‘Don’t attempt to flatter you, Arloth? I will not; I was merely about to remark that the roses behind you are also beautiful, and then to ask, by what art do your gardeners bring them forth so early? Outside the flowers of early spring are blooming, and the snow has but lately gone.’
‘They’re grown in hothouses,’ she answered sadly.
‘What are hothouses?’
‘…Swin Gumasson, I have been trying to think what to say to you. I owe you an explanation, at the very least; but I am afraid that has turned out to be quite impossible. You shall – you must – you must simply guess, or rather work out for yourself, the reason for your presence here, and the task required of you.’
‘Very well.’ Swin began to say more, but she silenced him with an upraised palm and continued to struggle for words.
‘I’m not alone,’ she went on at last. ‘There are six other ladies of this City, friends of mine, who also desire to meet you.’
‘Heaping-up of extraordinary favour,’ said Swin, poker-faced, as she paused again.
‘All of us are women of wealth, and some have influence. I happen to be on the King’s Council. I assist with the Stewardship, that is to say the governance of this City. A command from me, therefore, was enough to overrule Nometh’s judgement, just for today, and to get you released.’
‘Nometh?’ said Swin. ‘Is that magistrate the Princess Nometh? The betrothed of Lord Melohtar?’
‘Indeed she is.’ Arloth sighed, and smiled, and relaxed slightly, for the first time stirring from her rigid pose.
‘May I –’
‘No, Swin, please. You have many, many questions to ask and later on I may be able to answer some of them. But now is not the time for you to be asking me anything. Nor to tell me that you do not understand. You are required to understand. It is necessary. You are not foolish. I have heard reports of your conduct today. If you cannot understand me, I shall have to have you sent straight back to prison; we could not tolerate it otherwise, for you will have hurt us too badly. I am not expressing mself well. I am afraid, you see. There is wine beside you. Please pour out a glass for me, and one for yourself, if you like.’
The wine was in a tall decanter, with eight crystal glasses arranged round it in a circle. Swin poured very carefully. She reached out a trembling hand and took her glass.
He gave her his kindest smile. ‘Here’s to better understanding between Thandor and Doroech.’
‘Thank you. Yes: to a better understanding.’
They drank the sweet red wine. Swin’s mouth was flooded with intense, rich, complex flavours. He went on sipping appreciatively while Arloth recovered her composure.
‘All of us, all my friends – not only us, of course, but we seven are among the few who are able to act with some freedom – suffer from a grief. It is the same grief, and it involves us in difficulties. One of those difficulties is that we can hardly talk about the grief itself. Your first task, then, is a task of discernment.’ Abruptly she stood up. Her skirts shimmered and rippled. ‘I will now bring in my friends and present them to you.’
Swin stood up and remained standing as she left the room. Thoughtfully he moved to the fireplace, picked up a pair of shining tongs and used it to transfer more of the oozing pine-cones from their large basket to the top of the fire. The light brightened again, and the double door, the one he had come in by, was opened.
‘Come, sisters, here’s our warrior,’ said Arloth. ‘Swin, I have the honour to present to you Lady Vornis, wife of Engwe Parmandur the Lord Secretary.’
A thin black-clad lady stepped forward and entered the circle of chairs that stood round the light. Her face was lined, though not old, and her hair streaked with grey. She made a slight curtsey to him, then sat down.
‘The Lady Sisilas.’ This was a younger woman, tall and golden-haired, wearing a green dress cut low on her bosom; it shimmered magically in the same fashion as Arloth’s. Its pattern resembled leaves moving in the light of a summer evening. She offered him her hand to kiss.
‘The Lady Miriel.’ This lady had a dark and lovely face; she was gowned in soft dark blue, and a great sapphire hung between her breasts.
‘And the Lady Alquessiel.’ Miriel and Alquessiel were sisters. She who now approached wore a frock of lighter blue, with a little white cape, edged with swansdown, to cover her bare shoulders and arms. The merriest of the company, she smiled at him as she came up from a deep curtsey.
‘The Lady Daeranna, wife of Lord Lefnui. She’s been my principal helper and encourager in this adventure of ours.’ Daeranna was a stately dame, as tall as Swin himself, and largely built. She was dressed in lustrous cloth-of-gold; her hair was rich and brown, her lips full and red, her bosom freckled but magnificent, her hips broad and her waist somewhat stout. She gave him her hand for a manlike handshake; with alert responsiveness Swin returned the squeeze of her hand, giving her the strength of his own. As he did so his eyes met hers, and he saw the despair that was in them, and the desperate silent appeal.
‘The Lady Ilyirme.’ The last to approach was the youngest. She came forward barefoot, with no sound; her feet were small and very pretty below the clumsy folds of her strangely unbecoming robe. It looked like a piece of sack-cloth. She curtseyed in her turn, but as she did, the front of her garment – her single garment – fell outward, drawing Swin’s gaze in. For the first time he lost his self-possession; the watching women saw his eyes widen in amazement; Ilyirme clutched the robe to her, looking gravely back at him with candid blue eyes. Then she sat down.
Swin felt like a tightrope-walker, very high up, high in the clouds, about to set forth on a wet and swaying rope, of which the other end was hidden in mist; but he collected himself. ‘Gentle ladies,’ he said, ‘you are welcome to me, and to this gathering, and I am honoured by it. Arloth, will you allow me to be your cupbearer, and to hand your friends each their glass of wine?’ Silence fell as he went round with the drinks, but he was careful to begin talking again before he had finished. ‘Now this is a start, a prelude of courtesy, but what shall follow? How shall I fitliest return thanks for such favour? With your kind indulgence I’ll try to entertain you with a song. This one I learned from the bard of my own tribe, who told me that his great-great-great-grandfather had learned it from a singer of the Elves.’
He sat down on a low stool, laid the harp on his knee and softly plucked at it, tuning the strings. Meanwhile his eyes unhurriedly roved from one to another of the seven faces that watched him expectantly, veiled or open, or smiling, or sad, or soft, or appraising. He announced the title of the piece, then began to play and sing. He was pleased to find his fingers working nimbly and well, and to hear his voice sounding forth easily, and to feel, as he continued, that he had begun to succeed in his mysterious task; for the women had settled themselves into their chairs, and Alquessiel had laid her head on her sister’s shoulder, and faces were becoming self-forgetful, and lips were parted, and eyes were shining.