Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [85]
“Good move, silver dagger,” Matyc said, and never were fair words so grudgingly sounded, not that Rhodry had ever heard. “Let’s have another, shall we?”
“Now here, I can’t hang about with you louts all night.” Otho shoved himself forward. “Yraen, I need a word with you.”
“It’ll have to wait.” Matyc snapped out the words before Yraen could answer. “We’re in the midst of a gamble.”
“I don’t give a pig’s fart,” Otho snarled. “Can’t find Rhodry, so I need to talk to Yraen—here!”
Otho dodged back just in time as Matyc slapped at him in lazy contempt. So! Rhodry thought, losing is one thing that goads our lordship.
“You impacted pusboil from the hind end of a leprous mule!” Otho snapped.
“Don’t you insult me, you stub-legged excuse for a man.”
“Very well, I retract that. You’re a running sore on a leprous she-mule’s cunt.”
Matyc leapt up so fast that he tipped the bench over behind him. Yelping, riders and dogs alike scattered out of his way. The lord slammed both hands palm down on the table and glared at Otho, who stood his ground and glared right back.
“Draw that knife of yours,” Matyc said, and his voice rang dangerously level. “If you dare.”
“Hold.” Rhodry stepped in front of Otho. “We’re in a gwerbret’s hall.”
Matyc let out a long breath in a deep sigh.
“So we are, silver dagger, and you have my thanks for reminding me of that.”
If Otho had held his tongue or muttered something conciliatory, the matter would have died, but Otho had never been much for keeping his lips together.
“Very well,” the dwarf snapped. “If that piss-proud excuse of a noble lord apologizes to me, I’ll accept.”
“Me apologize to you?” Matyc’s voice cracked. “I’ll see you dead first.”
At that the captain of Matyc’s warband grabbed his lord’s arm. Matyc shook him off, his face as cold and blank as a stone.
“Fear not,” he growled. “His grace’s hall is safe from my spilling blood in it. But come the morning, dwarf, you’d best be here, because I’m bringing this matter to justice in malover.”
Matyc spun round and stalked out, his captain and his men filing out after him. Yraen, who’d been sitting on the other bench all this time, shook his head and began putting the carnoic stones back in their tiny coffer.
“This is going to cost you a grand lot of coin, Otho old lad,” he said, grinning. “Rhodry, we’d best get the hire he owes us out of his hide before Matyc drags him into court.”
Otho howled in sheer anguish. Although the other riders in the hall began to laugh, Rhodry turned and snarled them into silence.
“This is a fair bit more serious than coin,” Rhodry said. “His lordship feels his honor’s been insulted, and I doubt me if that’s a laughing matter, lads.”
Rhodry was proved right on the morrow morning. Since Gwerbret Cadmar could refuse no request for a judgment from one of the noble-born, he convened malover and sent a couple of servants trotting down into town to fetch Otho from his inn and a priest of Bel from his temple. Everyone in the dun who would fit crammed into the great hall, even Meer and Jahdo, way off in the back, while the latecomers stood just outside at door and window. To prevent trouble, Matyc’s warband was forced to stay in the barracks, but when Otho arrived, he brought his three kinsmen with him, to stand beside him as was his and their right under the laws. As witnesses, Rhodry and Yraen knelt on the floor up at the front of the hall. The best view, of course, was reserved for the noble-born. Off to one side but close at hand sat Lord Gwinardd, Prince Daralanteriel, the gwerbret’s lady, and of course Carra, pale with worry.
After the servants turned the honor table sideways and placed his grace’s chair, Cadmar sat in the middle of one long side with a priest at one hand and a scribe at the other. Before him on the nicked and scratched oak slab lay the golden ceremonial sword of the gwerbrets of Cengarn. ‘Twixt table and witnesses, Otho knelt toward the gwerbret’s left and Matyc, to his right. Cadmar took the sword and raised it high, point