The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [107]
The chamber of justice, a half-round of a stone room, sat high up in the main broch on the east side. A flood of sunlight from its high slit windows fell across the polished table, where Ridvar was sitting to the right of its center. The gold ceremonial sword of the rhan hung on the wall under the sun banner of Cengarn rather than lying in front of the gwerbret, who would merely advise, not preside, since Gerran had appealed directly to the new justiciar. At the door two tabarded guards stood lounging against the wall, though they did straighten up and then bow when the prince walked in.
Voran took the central chair behind the table. Gerran and Salamander knelt in front of it. When Oth and the scribe appeared, they sat at either end. A servant lass followed them in with a tray full of tankards of ale. She placed it on the table, curtsied, and hurried out. Ridvar helped himself to a tankard.
“Now, then,” Voran said. “What is this matter, Lord Gerran of the Gold Falcon?”
“It’s a question of an inheritance, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “My wife tells me that an uncle of hers left her a hundred silver pieces when he died, but she never got it. The coin came to Dun Cengarn—she’s sure of that—but her share was never disbursed.”
Ridvar snickered and glanced at Oth with a grin, as if at a shared joke. “That old matter,” Ridvar murmured. “Ye gods, you think she’d give it up.”
“May I speak, Your Highness?” Oth said.
“That’s why you’re here, Lord Oth,” Voran said.
“There never was any inheritance.” Oth gave Gerran a pitying sort of look. “She seems to think there was, but I’ve tried very hard to explain to her that she was left nothing. Women do have trouble understanding these things.”
Gerran opened his mouth, but Voran raised a hand to silence him.
“I don’t understand, Lord Oth,” the justiciar said. “Why would she claim she was due coin, then?”
“No doubt Lady Solla made up a little tale, Your Highness, to increase her chances of a good marriage.”
Gerran rose. He slammed both hands palm down upon the table so hard that the tankards clanked and spilled on their tray.
“Lord Oth,” he said, “are you calling my wife a liar?”
Dimly Gerran was aware of Salamander, rising from his seat to stand beside him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Oth’s face, suddenly pale, his eyes as wide and rolling as a spooked horse’s. Voran leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Gerran took his silence as permission to speak again.
“Are you?” Gerran went on. “If so, we’ll have this out between us in the combat ground.”
“It’s his right to challenge a man who insults his wife,” Voran remarked casually, as if speaking to the empty air.
Big drops of sweat broke out on Oth’s face and slid down his wrinkled cheeks. Salamander laid a warning hand on Gerran’s arm.
“Very well,” Oth whispered. “Your wife speaks the truth. I— I—” He began to sob, but still he stared with wet eyes at Gerran like a rabbit staring at a weasel.
“Gerro, kneel!” Salamander tugged at Gerran’s arm. “You can’t kill a man of thrice your years. Be calm and hand over that letter.” He bowed to the justiciar. “Your Highness, we have written proof.”
Gerran let out his breath with a puff and knelt. Oth wept silently, his nose running like a child’s. When Salamander knelt beside him, Gerran reached into his shirt, brought out the letter, and handed it to Voran’s scribe, who looked it over with some surprise.
“Read it,” Voran said. “Or as much as pertains.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” The scribe cleared his throat, then read. “My beloved and dutiful niece, I am leaving you a hundred silver pieces. When our clan turned against me, you spoke out in my favor, and I want you to know that I remember your kindness well and warmly. Put it aside for your dowry, dear Solla. Your brothers will receive some of my wealth as well. Do not mourn for me, though I am dying slowly—” The scribe paused. “The rest, Your Highness, though touching, seems a private matter.”
“No doubt,” Voran said. “Gwerbret Ridvar, if I may ask, did you