“Oh, look, one of them’s floundering already,” said one of the court ladies nearby, a ripple of mirth in her voice.
One of the swimmers did indeed appear to be in difficulty. He had turned back before making even a quarter of the river’s breadth. Clearly labouring, outmatched by the chill of the water and the powerful current, he was the target of hundreds of abusive catcalls from the bank.
“He’ll not be winning the favour of any girls tonight, with a performance like that,” Tara observed. Everyone laughed in agreement.
As the luckless man hauled himself out onto the mud, several people threw food and pebbles at him.
“Most mysterious to me, some of your traditions,” someone said at Tara’s elbow.
She glanced around to find Alem T’anarch, the ambassador of the Dornach Kingship. He was a handsome man, but prone, like many Dornachmen, to an occasional haughtiness that made him difficult to warm to.
“Not only to you,” Tara replied with a fleeting smile. She had no wish to appear rude or dismissive, but it would not be advantageous to be seen spending too long in conversation with this man, given the current mood of Gryvan’s court. Relations with the Kingship, never warm, had reached new lows once Gryvan found Dornach mercenaries fighting against him during Igryn’s rebellion. Tara knew the High Thane had only decided at the last moment that T’anarch should even be allowed to attend the Crossing.
“Not good for swimming, I would have thought,” the man murmured. “These cold waters, I mean.”
“Yes. I imagine you never have to put up with such chilly amusements in the Kingship.”
“Oh, it can be cold, my lady. In Evaness, in midwinter, I have seen snow.”
Tara nodded, content to let matters rest there. She had said enough to appear cordial, not enough to attract the attention of any observers. The ambassador was, however, gently persistent.
“A pity that he cannot be here, your husband. Must be even colder in the north.”
“It probably is,” Tara agreed. She was careful not to let her irritation show. Alem T’anarch was an intelligent, capable man. He must know perfectly well that no one of any consequence would want to be seen enjoying his company while he stood in such ill favour with the High Thane. “Perhaps you should ask one of the servants to find you some warmed wine, Ambassador, if our weather is displeasing you.”
“No need. Have you heard when the Chancellor will be returning, tell me? I have asked, but cannot find an answer.”
A flurry of shouts drew Tara’s attention back to the river. Halfway across the leaden mass of the Vay, amidst the crowd of flailing arms and backs, it appeared that another of the swimmers was being overcome by the current and the cold. A single pale shape was parted from the rest, carried off downstream. The man’s yellow-capped head bobbed in and out of sight; at this distance there was no way of telling whether he was being pulled under or whether it was only the waves obscuring him. Further down the bank a little boat had been launched, two burly men hauling at their oars in an effort to reach the swimmer. On the basis of past experience there was a good chance they would not succeed. Sometimes the bodies were never found.
“I ask only because his voice would be valuable now, I think,” Alem said. “He is missed. Wise heads are, in times of difficulty.”
Tara had always been steadfast in distancing herself from the kind of matters that absorbed Mordyn’s attention. She worked in a different arena, collecting – sometimes shaping – gossip, making gifts to good causes, cultivating the company of merchants, musicians and craftsmen. Except on those rare occasions when her husband felt it useful, such as her recent audience with the Craftmaster of the Goldsmiths, she stayed out of the dealings of Thanes. This Dornachman knew that. Why, then, seek to interest her in his only too well-known troubles?
“I am sure my husband will return soon,” she said, smiling. “I do not follow such things closely, of course, but by all accounts it will not take long to settle matters with the Black Road.”
Alem T’anarch gave a little nod of his elegant head.
“Time is ever the heart of things. And war, or threat of it. A shame, that such violence should be required in the north. It is never the desire of the wise, violence. I hope, at least. Not when there are ways of avoiding it.”
“Indeed,” Tara said. She took a small, decisive step away. “Excuse me, Ambassador. I must have a few words with Abeh oc Haig. I promised to provide some musicians for her gathering at the White Palace tonight.”
“Of course. Mention my interest to your husband, if it please you. Should you send him a message. Tell him I hope the Thane of Thanes will benefit from his counsel once more, soon.”
Tara frowned a little as she worked her way through the throng towards Gryvan’s wife. She was annoyed with Alem T’anarch, but concerned too at the implication of his words. The Dornach ambassador was evidently a troubled man. That he should try to involve her in solving his troubles had more than a whiff of desperation about it. Perhaps he feared an irreparable breach between his masters in Evaness and the Haig Bloods. It would be no surprise: Mordyn had told Tara more than once that there would be war between Dornach and Haig in their lifetimes. As far as she was aware, though, that confrontation was supposed to be some time off yet. Perhaps in her husband’s absence Gryvan oc Haig was allowing his contempt for the Kingship to run away with him.
Abeh oc Haig was an avid spectator of the Crossing. Her maids had cleared a space in front of her to ensure an unobstructed view. The High Thane’s wife did not even glance round as Tara came up at her side.
“Can you see who is winning?” Tara asked, managing to feign at least a little interest.
“Not really. Three or four of them seem to have left the others behind, though.”
“Perhaps there will be a contest to the end this year, at least,” Tara murmured. Last year, one young man had so easily outpaced all the others – including the youth who had been confidently expected, and heavily backed, to win – that there had been a general sense of disappointment, not to mention suspicion.
“We may hope so,” Abeh agreed. “Did Alem T’anarch tell you who he favoured for the race?”
“No, my lady. He didn’t. I imagine the Ambassador’s favour would sink any swimmer it was attached to, in any case.”
Abeh gave a girlish laugh. “Well said. He spreads gloom wherever he goes, these days. Oh, look. There goes another one.”
One of the swimmers was drifting. He was fortunate: a rowboat hovered only a short way downstream, and the current looked set to carry him onto its prow.
“The Plate’s impressive,” Abeh observed. “You chose well, in picking Tremannor for the task.”
“I am glad you approve.”
“I was discussing it with the High Thane last night. We thought perhaps you could speak to Tremannor – tonight, or tomorrow, as you see fit – and convey our gratitude to him once again. And express to him our hope, our expectation, that now that he has reached this pinnacle of his art, he will not find it appropriate to accept any commission to make the Plate for future Crossings.”
“Of course.” Tara dipped her head a fraction to signify acceptance of the task. “Though it will be the High Thane’s task to provide Hedrig’s Plate once again, in four years’ time. Perhaps I should suggest that Tremannor refuse any such commission for… three years?”
Abeh grunted in dry amusement. “If you wish. We are thinking of using him to make a gift for the new Kilkry Thane, in any case. A chain, we thought, to wear about his midriff.”
“By all accounts, Roaric oc Kilkry-Haig would not fully appreciate the artistry of one such as Tremannor,” Tara said.
“Of course not. The man probably wouldn’t know the difference between a pebble and a ruby if they were both set down before him. But that’s not the point.”