Ravenheart (39 page)

A
LTERITH
S
HADDLER SAT
on the rickety bed in his small room, watching the snow forming ridges on the leaded window. It was cold, and his meager store of fuel was exhausted. A thick blanket was wrapped around his skinny shoulders. There had been low moments in Alterith’s life but none as bleak as this. He gazed around the room: four bookshelves groaning under the weight of historical tomes, a chipped and ancient chest containing his spare clothes and the certificates and prizes he had won as a student. On top of the chest lay his white horsehair wig, threadbare now, the canvas lining showing through at the temples. The west wall was bare. The dripping water upon it gleamed in the pale light, as did the black mold staining the wall above the floorboards. His was the highest room in the old boardinghouse and was directly below the cracked roof. His best frock coat had been ruined a year earlier when he had inadvertently left it on a chair against this wall. The summer rain had seeped in, carrying tar and muck from the roof felt, and when autumn came and he needed the coat, he found it stained with a gray fungus that had eaten away at the fibers.

Alterith had always hated this room, yet now that he was about to lose it, he found himself filled with despair.

The last year had been one of his best as a teacher. The conversation with Mulgrave regarding the great king Connavar had caused him to reexamine the histories. He had found many records that contradicted the official view. In the spring he had saved enough daens to subscribe to the
Journal of
Varlish Studies
, published in Varingas, and had sent away for the back issues regarding the wars between Vars and Keltoi. Some of those issues had proved fascinating, especially a section on the battles of King Bane that detailed the nature of Rigante society in the years after the death of Connavar. Alterith had discovered a new respect for the ancient people and their way of life. He had tried to impart this new respect in his teaching of the clan children. It had been most succesful and rewarding, for truancy fell and his classroom was always packed. His students endeavored to complete their homework assignments, and there was little dissension during lessons.

The summer had been golden. At the end of the term his clan pupils had even given him a present: a small box of vanilla-flavored hard candy purchased from the apothecary Ramus. Alterith had been touched by the gesture, though the first of the sweets had made his teeth ache and he had shared the rest with the class.

With his pupils more attentive, he had decided to teach more than history, reading, and writing and had included lessons on arithmetic and mathematics. To his surprise he found that some of his students were quick to grasp the concepts and that one in particular was exceptionally gifted. Arleban Achbain soon learned to work out complicated sums in his head.

It was still hard to believe that such a gift could prove to have such heartbreaking consequences.

Banny had worked hard, often staying behind after class to talk to Alterith about figures and their magic. Alterith’s bleak mood lifted as he recalled Banny questioning him about the figure nine. “It is a pure figure and never diluted,” said Banny one day.

“In what way, Banny?”

“No matter how many other figures are used to multiply it, the base figure always returns to nine,” the boy told him.

“Explain.”

“Well, sir, five times nine is forty-five. Four plus five
equals nine. Sixteen nines equals 144. One plus four plus four equals nine. All multiplication of nine returns to nine. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Alterith smiled at the memory. So impressed had he been with Banny that he had entered him for the school examination in arithmetic. The application had been denied. Worse than this, Alterith had been ordered to cease teaching beyond his brief. All lessons, apart from reading and writing, were canceled forthwith. The problem did not end there, however. At the end of the winter term the headmaster, the elderly Doctor Meldane, had attended one of Alterith’s lessons, sitting quietly at the back.

The lesson had been a triumph, a class full of attentive pupils, with one of them reading an essay aloud to the others at the close. It told the tale of Bendegit Bran, one of Bane’s greatest generals. Alterith had been full of pride.

Two days later Doctor Meldane had summoned Alterith to his plush office on the first floor of the school proper. He did not offer Alterith a seat. “I am puzzled,” he said, “as to why a competent teacher such as yourself should take it upon himself to alter known history. Perhaps you would explain.”

“I have altered nothing, sir,” Alterith told him. “All of my teachings are based on known records of ancient events, based on the findings and research of the
Journal of Varlish Studies
.”

“Do not bandy words with me, sir,” snapped Doctor Meldane. “I listened to a nonsense essay with an underlying premise that the Keltoi were a great people, noble and just. You did not dispute this … this fabrication.”

“What was there to dispute, sir? Everything the boy said was true. King Bane did lead an army to defeat Stone at the height of its power. He did institute laws which were just. The people were happy under his rule. Where is the error?”

“Bane was the son of Connovar, a Varlish king. Therefore, Bane himself was Varlish, at least in part. The Keltoi of themselves have never achieved anything of note. If they were
noble and intelligent, where was their empire? Where are their scientists and philosophers? The Keltoi are an inferior race, Shaddler.
This
is what is known.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said Alterith, “it was their intelligence and nobility which prevented them from creating an empire. Perhaps they decided that butchering other races and stealing their lands was barbarous and inhuman.”

“This conversation is concluded,” said Doctor Meldane. “The experiment of teaching highland youngsters has proved a failure. The class will not resume after the winter break, and your services are hereby terminated.”

“Terminated? You are dismissing me?”

Meldane reddened. “You were offered this position, Master Shaddler, because you were known to be sound. In short, a man who understood the glory that is the Varlish destiny. I overlooked your humble origins and your lack of social graces. But you, sir, are a traitor to your race. I’ll not have your like polluting my school. Be so kind as to remove yourself from my sight.”

That had been three weeks ago. Alterith’s small store of daens had been used up now, and he had no coin for the rent, which was due the next day. He had tried to find employment as a clerk, but word had gone out that he was “suspect” and a “kilt lover.” No Varlish businessman would even give him the benefit of an interview.

The winter was proving a harsh one, and many of the roads south were blocked by snowdrifts. With no income, no savings, and no work Alterith faced a bleak future. If he sold his books, he might have enough money to buy passage to Baracum, but he knew no one there.

Life had been good this year despite the departure in the spring of Gaise Macon to the capital and the loss of income that had entailed. Now he was to pay for his happiness.

Discarding his blanket, he put on his shoes, locked his door, and descended the three flights of stairs to the dining room. The other ten guests were already at the table. They ignored Alterith as he took his place. He ate in silence, listening
to the conversation. More talk of civil war in the south. The legendary cavalry general Luden Macks had been arrested for treason but had been acquitted by the people’s court. He had been rearrested on the orders of the king and tried by the privy council. He was due to hang within the month. There was also talk of unrest in the north. The Black Rigante had apparently murdered Colonel Linax, and the Moidart was mustering troops to move against them in the spring.

Alterith finished his meal, mopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread.

The landlady, a sour-faced widow named Edla Orcombe, approached Alterith as he left the table. She had always been polite, though never friendly. During the last few difficult weeks that politeness had worn thin. “I have had inquiries regarding rooms, Mr. Shaddler,” she said. “Will you be keeping your room past this present month?”

“We will speak tomorrow, madam,” he said, aware that the other guests were listening.

“Indeed,” she told him. “Oh, by the way, a young kilt came by this afternoon to see you. Called at the front door, if you please. He left a note. It is upon the table by the door.”

Alterith thanked her and walked out into the corridor. The note was where Edla Orcombe had said. It was wax-sealed, though the seal had been broken, the note obviously having been opened and read. Alterith swallowed his annoyance. Opening it, he saw that it was signed in black ink by someone called Maev Ring. He had heard the name. The clanswoman had a small business making clothes. She was also, he seemed to recall, the mother of the troublesome Kaelin Ring. The note was short and to the point. It invited Alterith Shaddler to call upon Maev Ring the following day two hours before noon. Cursory directions were provided.

Under normal circumstances Alterith would have sent back a note politely refusing the invitation. He was not comfortable in the presence of women. On this occasion, however, it gave him an opportunity to leave his lodgings for a
day, avoiding the questioning of Edla Orcombe and the embarrassment of admitting that his funds were gone.

He slept badly, the wind rattling the window and ice forming on the inside of the glass. The morning sky was dull and overcast, the temperature well below freezing. Alterith rose and dressed. He shivered as he did so, his hands blue with cold. He descended the stairs to the dining room. Breakfast was being served, and a fire was blazing in the hearth. Alterith poured himself a cup of hot tisane and sat by the fire.

It would take him almost an hour to walk to Maev Ring’s home. His teeth would be chattering by the time he reached it.

Edla Orcombe moved into the dining room, heading past the tables, her small eyes fixed on Alterith. His heart sank. “Good morning to you, Mr. Shaddler.”

“And to you, Mrs. Orcombe.”

“Will you be requiring dinner this evening?”

“I will, Mrs. Orcombe.”

“We need to discuss certain matters, then, for I run no charity here.”

Normally Alterith Shaddler found himself nervous in the company of women and experienced great difficulty focusing his thoughts. But something snapped in him now. “Indeed not, madam,” he said. “In fact, you are as renowned for your lack of charity as you are for the squalor of your property.”

Her jaw dropped. “How dare you?”

Alterith stood. “I would continue this conversation, madam, save for the fact that it is both boring and annoying. Please have my bags packed. I shall be quitting this pestilential place upon my return.”

Sweeping past her, he returned to his room, wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck, put on his frayed topcoat, and left the house.

It was bitterly cold outside, and he slipped and slithered on the icy street.

He had been walking for around twenty minutes when a pony and an open-topped trap came into sight. It was being
driven by Banny Achbain. He waved at Alterith and drew on the reins. “I have been sent for you, sir,” he said. “There are blankets by the seat.”

Gratefully Alterith opened the side door and climbed in. He was too cold to make conversation and wrapped one blanket around his shoulders and another over his thin thighs. When he had thawed out a little, he called out to Banny. “Do you know why Mrs. Ring wishes to see me?”

“No, sir.”

“What is she like?”

“Frightening,” replied the boy.

Time was running out for Maev Ring. Already there were whispers in Eldacre about the highland woman and her burgeoning wealth. She heard them through her workers and from warnings offered by two of her oldest partners, Gillam Pearce and Parsis Feld. It would not be long before the Moidart’s cruel eyes turned toward her. Perhaps a month, perhaps a year. It would be so much simpler to be poor, she thought. Yet everything she touched turned to profit, and with no opportunity to spend her wealth on extravagant homes or jewels, she continued to invest in businesses both large and small.

The previous night she had had a dream. She was riding upon the back of a huge and terrifying bear. At any moment it could throw her off and devour her. So she fed it honey cakes to keep it friendly. The honey cakes made it grow. And soon it was big as a house, its claws like sabers. She could not get off, for the fall would kill her, and she was running out of honey cakes.

Shula Achbain was preparing breakfast for Jaim. She could hear them chatting amiably in the kitchen. Shula was normally shy and stuttering in company, but Grymauch had won her over, and she teased him, making him laugh. Maev liked to hear Jaim laugh. It was a sound full of life. He had just returned from a trip to the north, and the news he had
brought back was worrying. The colonel of the Beetlebacks had been killed, supposedly during a meeting with the Rigante leader, Call Jace. Jaim had told her that Jace knew nothing about the killing. The new colonel was a former captain named Ranaud. He was known to be a kilt hater.

Kaelin, however, was doing well at Ironlatch. He was in love with a girl named Chara, and if all went well, they planned to marry on Kaelin’s seventeenth birthday the next year.

Time is flying by, thought Maev, moving to a mirror on the tall cabinet. There was more gray in her red hair now and a deepening of the tiny lines around her eyes. “You are getting old,” she said aloud.

“Aye, but still the most beautiful woman in the highlands,” said Jaim Grymauch.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” she snapped. “A big man like you has no business moving so silently. What do you want?”

He grinned at her. “Nice to see you blush, Maev,” he said.

“You are an irritating man, Grymauch, and I don’t know why I keep you around.”

“Old White Wig is here. He looks like an icicle.”

“Then go and make him welcome. Offer him breakfast.”