commoners through and through.
As she and Cavan turned the last corner, they saw a crowd of men and horses standing around outside the collegium grounds. By the light of the lanterns that hung by the gates, Alyssa could just pick out the red and brown colors of the Fox clan’s livery.
‘Gwerbret’s men,’ Alyssa said. ‘I wonder if they’re waiting to arrest anyone who was part of the mob.’
‘Not a bad guess, alas.’ Cavan glanced around and pointed to the deep doorway of a nearby house. ‘Wait here.’
Alyssa stepped into the doorway and watched him from the shadows. Cavan strolled down the street and made a great show of looking around as if he were lost. Off to one side of the pack at the gates stood a fellow holding the reins of a pair of horses. Cavan stopped beside him with a friendly wave. Although Alyssa could hear nothing of their talk, she did pick up a pleasant burst of laughter. With another wave, Cavan strolled back to her.
‘They’ve come to take the gwerbret’s daughter back to the dun,’ Cavan said. ‘She doesn’t want to go with them. That lad with the horses told me that the vixen’s found a nice deep den.’
‘Vixen?’ Alyssa snorted in disgust. ‘It’s obvious he knows naught about Lady Dovina. Very well, then, I’d best go round the back way.’
Cavan escorted her as she hurried the long way round the collegium wall. At the back, not far from the women’s hive, the settling of the ground had caused a section of the stone wall to sink some few feet lower than the rest and bow inwards a bit as well. Loose stones made a precarious series of steps up and over. Alyssa started to tuck her skirts into her kirtle, but Cavan was watching the display of ankle with entirely too much interest.
‘My thanks for your aid,’ Alyssa said to him. ‘No doubt you’ll be wanting to get back to your inn and a nice tankard of ale.’
In the light from the nearby oil lamps she could see him grin. She had to admit that she found his smile charming – but a silver dagger? Like every lass in Deverry, she’d been warned against the men of that band from the time she could toddle. Mothers pointed them out and made sure their daughters could recognize the dagger they carried. Dishonored men, all of them, who wandered the roads looking for paid employment rather than serving in a proper warband – and they all have the morals of street dogs, Alyssa’s mother had always said, when it comes to lasses. Cavan, Alyssa figured, would be no better than the rest of them, despite his smile and the elegant way he bowed to her.
‘I know a dismissal when I hear one,’ Cavan said. ‘But may I see you again, on the morrow perhaps?’
‘At noon on the morrow come down to the old marketplace. Not the new one up by the gwerbret’s dun, but the old one near the smaller harbor. If all goes well, you just might find me there.’
‘I’ll pray I do.’ Cavan made her a deep bow, then turned and walked away.
Alyssa finished tucking up her skirts, then climbed the wall with the ease of long practice. Getting down again required grabbing the branch of the old oak that grew near the wall, swinging herself out and over, then slowly lowering herself to the ground. She managed and dropped lightly into safe territory. She hurried around the women’s hive and found the two chaperones standing guard by lantern light. Lady Werra clutched a stout walking stick in both hands, and Lady Graella, an iron poker.
‘Ye gods!’ Alyssa said. ‘Are we under seige?’
‘We might well be. The porters are supposed to be guarding the front gate. If they weaken and let that yapping warband in, we’re ready.’ Werra hefted the stick. ‘No men allowed in here after the last bell sounds. They’ll have to follow the rules like everyone else in Aberwyn.’
‘And speaking of such matters,’ Graella put in, ‘where have you been, young Alyssa?’
‘Oh, come now, my ladies, you saw me leave. Things got a bit more difficult in town than I’d been expecting. I came back the long way round.’
‘Difficult? You might call it that.’ Werra turned grim. ‘All of our lasses are here and safe, now that you’ve turned up, but two of the men from King’s are dead.’
‘Dead?’ Alyssa caught her breath with a gasp.
‘And one of them noble-born, at that,’ Graella said. ‘Young Lord Grif, and him but fifteen summers old. The other was the Dyers’ Guild Own Scholar, Procyr of Abernaudd. Their fathers will have a few harsh words for the gwerbret once they get the news, and the guildmaster will, too.’
‘More than words, my lady. Griffydd of the Bear is Gwerbret Standyc’s son. I doubt me if he’ll settle his feud with our Ladoic all peaceful-like now.’
The two chaperones nodded their agreement. Graella sighed with a shake of her head.
‘Some of the townsfolk were badly hurt,’ Werra said. ‘And there’s another man dead among them. They say one woman lost an eye from being whipped. She’ll be suing in the court for that, I wager!’
‘Huh!’ Alyssa said. ‘As if His Grace will listen! They can take a suit to the law court, but who’s going to be judging it? His cousin by right of birth! He won’t be able to dismiss Standyc’s complaint so easily, though.’
Werra was about to speak when distant noises reached them – angry shouts, a scream of rage, and then the clang of the iron gates slamming shut. Alyssa heard a strange low-pitched throb and finally identified it.
‘Someone’s shaking the gates,’ she said, ‘but those locks are made of dwarven steel. They’ll not break so easily.’
The two older women agreed with small smiles. Alyssa curtsied to them both, then followed them inside to the women’s great hall. In the big round room a scatter of old, scarred tables and benches stood on the floor, covered with woven rush mats for want of money for carpets. Opposite the door stood the stone hearth where a peat fire smouldered against the springtime damp. At intervals around the stone walls hung candle lanterns, flickering in the drafts with the rot-touched smell of tallow. Off to both sides rose spiral iron staircases, splendid examples of dwarven blacksmith work and a gift from the rulers of Dwarveholt, that led to the upper floor and the access doors to the side brochs of the hive.
The head of the collegium, gray-haired Lady Taclynniva, or Lady Tay as she preferred to be known, sat in the chair of honor at the one new table. As always, she sat bolt upright, her head held high, her slender hands at rest together in her lap. The two chaperones took their chairs on either side of her. Both Werra and Graella kept their improvised weapons in their laps, just in case, Alyssa supposed, some enemy rushed in. They were sisters, who years before had fled unsuitable marriages and taken refuge with Lady Tay. Both of them had strong jaws, wide foreheads, and dark hair just beginning to show gray.
All around them the young women, with their loose red scholars’ surcoats over their tunics and long skirts, stood or sat on the floor, some weeping, some narrow-eyed with fury, all of them with their hair down and disheveled as a sign of mourning for Cradoc, their teacher of rhetoric. As Alyssa approached, Mavva hurried over to greet her. She had one hand on her tunic and clutched her silver betrothal brooch as if she feared it might be torn off. In the riot, of course, it might have been.
‘There you are!’ Mavva said. ‘Thanks be to the Goddess! Rhys and I are both safe, but I’ve feared the worst ever since I lost you in the mob.’
‘I
