Western Watch, Chapter 3, First Draft - Bitch Slap

Author's commentary:

Unlike Chapter Two, Chapter Three does have a clear point-of-view (POV) character -- Merreth. The chapter is really composed of two scenes.  The first is where Merreth and Sarrit are in the hallway and on the staircase landing.  The second is where Merreth meets Lady Tiandraa in the crowded administration room [I know I need a better name for that room].  Like the last chapter, both scenes lack a clear scene goal for Merreth, though a couple of goals are implied (finding quarters, getting past the Red Hand without being noticed).  Both scenes will require re-writing.  In addition, Hanahk, the friendly tribal chief will be gone in the re-write.  His brief appearance in this chapter was to be the beginning of a sub-plot, but it never went anywhere in the subsequent chapters, so he'll be gone in the re-write.

The essence of the chapter will remain though -- Merreth's confrontation with Tiandraa, where Merreth's temper gets the better of her.  This moment is captured brilliantly by SYoshiko in her drawing "Bitch Slap", and it is the inciting event that catapults Merreth into a whole mess of trouble.  

If you haven't checked out SYoshiko yet, do it now.  She's a fabulous artist.

Enjoy.

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Merreth stalks down the hallway, anger, thick and dark, welling up from within her.  Stupid!  How could she have been so stupid?  A week’s hard ride avoiding roads and trails, shunning people like some desperate rogue until she crossed the ’Watch border, had left her worn and short-tempered.  Bullying one of the High Mistress Rehkhell’s scribes and snapping at the other, both within twenty feet of her.  She’d breached a half dozen unwritten protocols and had enjoyed doing it! 

Quarters first, thinks Merreth, then a visit to the High Mistress, that’s what she should have done!  It would have given her time for her temper to cool.  Of course Rehkhell would offer hospitality, I’m heir primary to Sable House!  What the blazes had she been thinking, storming in to see Rehkhell without even getting herself settled?  

Merreth passes two doorways on her way to the stairwell, both framed in dark, rich finished wood and curtained off. Feet scuttle away behind them, belonging to clerks who had no wish to meet the noble on whom they’d obviously eavesdropped.  Feet follow her as well.  Sarrit.

      “Lady Merreth?”  he asks in a soft voice.

     She stops.  Her leathers, baked to her skin by the heat, chafe in several places.  Merreth twitches her shoulders, hoping to shift her scabbard and relieve a maddeningly itch in the small of her back. Her legs still ache dully from her ride. Arms tight by her sides, she flexes her hands several times, fingers slipping inside her sweat-slicked gloves. She takes a deep breath and struggles to rein in her temper. “What?”

     No answer.  Merreth turns, ready to snap at him.  Sarrit fidgets, one hand twisting his tunic between his fingers, and he avoids her eyes.  His collar is now around his neck. Behind Sarrit and down the hall, she sees Duggel sitting at his desk in Rehkhell’s outer office.  He shuffles parchments and studies her furtively.   Oily little rat, thinks Merreth.  She forces a smile onto her lips.  “Yes, Sarrit, what is it?” 

      “Do you have an idea where you’d like to be quartered?” 

      Her smile vanishes.  Such a bloody stupid question! “Of course not!  I’ve only just –.”  She breaks off when Sarrit flinches.  Damn it!  Merreth closes her eyes briefly and starts again.  “No, I don’t, Sarrit.”  She should apologize for snapping at him, but she can’t bring herself to utter the words.   Some darker part of  her enjoys keeping Sarrit unsettled.  “Isn’t that your task?  To find me suitable quarters?” 

      Sarrit nods.  “I thought perhaps you knew of lodgings that you considered suitable, that you’d seen on your way here…” Sarrit’s voice falters as his gaze flicks towards Merreth’s chin.           

      A rivulet of sweat beads down her cheek, collects on her chin, and drips to the floor.  She closes her eyes again and exhales.

      “I’ll find something,” he says.

      “Good.” Merreth opens her eyes.  “And Sarrit?”  

      “Yes?”

      “Look me in the eye when we speak.”

      Sarrit’s gaze comes up to meet hers. He has green eyes, she notices. His boots scuff the floor as he shifts his weight, fingers of one hand still twisting in the edge of his tunic.  “As you wish, Lady Merreth.”

      Wonderful, she thinks.  He’s bloody terrified of me.  She shakes her head, turns, and strides to the stairs, her boots kicking dust into the sunlight streaming through windows set high in the walls.  She takes the steps two at time and worries about her behaviour with Duggel.  I browbeat Rehkhell’s senior scribe for nothing more than his attempt to carry out his duties, she thinks. And Rehkhell said not a damned thing about it. It was vicious, it was uncalled for, it was out of character, and … it was gratifying.  That frightens her.  She stumbles before she can push away an image of Drynndin’s red-soaked ruin of a chest that crawls up from within her.

      “Are you all right, Lady Merreth?” asks Sarrit.

      Good question.  “Your task, not my well being, should be your concern, Sarrit.” Again, the words are sharper than she likes. Attentive clerks sit behind a pair of desks on the spacious second floor landing. They nod as Merreth strides past them to the next flight of stairs.  A small landing at the bottom of the stairs overlooks a large common room.  Flanking the lower steps stand a pair of Rehkhell’s guards. Short, compact, and powerfully built, they wear simple, loose white tunics.  Each holds a polished ash wood staff, the ends resting on the floor.

      Merreth halts on the landing and quickly scans the room. Like most buildings in Westhold,  Watch Hall has been constructed out clay, brick, and timber.  Oak panels dressed with carvings depicting Watch history adorn the white plaster walls. Two large windows flank the main entrance. Their curtains are drawn back, allow sunlight to flood through.   Parchment laden desks and tables are arrayed along the walls where minor scribes deal with the daily minutia necessary to govern the ‘Watch.  Clerks, merchants, and other assorted townsfolk moved in and out of the common room.  A pair of Royal Postal Riders lounge in a corner, their bulging packs and dust-covered clothes signaling their recent arrival.  The air, noticeably warmer than when Merreth had arrived, is suffused with the scent of sweat, dried timber, leather, cotton, and ink.

      Sarrit comes down the stairs, careful not crowd her, and looks out over the room. “Your party, Lady Merreth?”

      “There’s no one with me.” Her gaze is drawn to the Postal Riders.  What news do they carry?  She worries her lower lip, notices and stops herself.  They’re not here for me, she tells herself; there hasn’t been time.  I look bloody stupid, she rebukes herself, standing here like a fool. Like a child afraid of being punished. Her hands are tightly gripping the wooden rail in front of her.  She glances down and forces her fingers to uncurl.

       A dark patch in the tumble whites, tans, browns and more vibrant colours worn by the throng catches her attention.  Off in the corner, their backs towards her, two noblewomen point and gesture.  The taller one is clearly the leader, berating a helpless merchant? Clerk? Shopkeep?  Merreth can’t tell, the two stand between Merreth and their victim.  Their house leathers are the color of dried blood – a sharp contrast with the light tunics and robes worn by the commoners that surround them.  “Red Hand,” Merreth whispers.  Her chest tightens.

      “Lady Tiandraa Garand and Lady Lyadkell Shulwar,” says Sarrit. “Lady Tiandraa is the taller of the two.”

      I know who they are, thinks Merreth, especially Tiandraa.  Her lip curls as she remembers Tiandraa’s contempt for Drynndin and the venom directed at Merreth when the betrothal was announced. Rot in the House is not repaired by inviting vermin to guest with you!  Tiandraa and Lyadkell appear in full cry, snatches of their tirade break free and rise of the general cacophony of conversation.  Others in the room begin to move away, except for the postal riders.  They watch with interest. 

      Bullies, thinks Merreth.  That’s all most of them are.  She glances at Sarrit remembers snapping at him, and how she enjoyed abusing Duggel.  Maybe I am too.  The thought makes her uncomfortable, embarrassed even.

      Sarrit starts down the stairs. 

      “Wait.”  Merreth’s hand reaches out to seize the back of his tunic, jerking him to a halt.   Her eyes never leave the two across the room.  Go, damn you!  Now!

      Two clerks bustle through crowd and attempt to placate the nobles.  The hapless victim eases away while the two women confront the scribes.  More finger pointing and gestures but the clerks remain calm and un-cowed.  Merreth notices they even dare to make eye contact.  The Red Hand women turn on their heels and stalk out the door.

      “Let’s go.”  Merreth makes her way down the stairs, roughly brushing past the two guards, Sarrit following.  What were they doing out west, she wonders, about as far from their usual soft comforts and pleasuremen as they could get?  Have they heard of what had happened?  Were they here because they thought she would be here?  Merreth grimaces at the thought. Don’t be stupid.  I could chase that worry around until it digs a hole in my head, she thinks.

      From out of nowhere an elbow cracks into her side. Almost knocked off balance, it takes Merreth a moment to recover.  She spins to confront who had hit her and finds Sarrit in her way.  Merreth pushes him aside, and sees an unbelievable figure.

      A bald, whipcord-thin, but well-muscled man bulls his way through the crowd.  Easily half a head taller than any around him and shirtless, he wears a simple shoulder harness fashioned from leather. Olive skin bears the rough weathering brought on by decades under the western sun.  Merreth catches a glimpse of loose shorts made of some sort of heavy tan cloth held in place by an ornate belt, also of leather.  A scabbard and sword are slung over his shoulder. A brace of daggers dangle from his harness and she sees his legs are clad in rough knee boot, strapped in black. “Who’s that?” she demands of Sarrit, all thought of the Red Hand vanishing.

      “That’s Hanahk, Lowseth of the Amecku People,” he says.

      “Lowseth?”  Hanahk reaches the bottom of the stairs where Merreth expects him to be immediately stopped by the guards.  They let him pass with a nod. “But he’s armed!” she exclaims.

      “Yes, that issue has been raised before,” says Sarrit.

      Merreth gives him a hard stare as his dry tone registers.   “You can tell me what that means later.”   She threads her way through the crowd towards the door.  As she reaches for one of the door handles she checks to see that Sarrit is following her. The doors are flung open and one hammers Merreth in the face.  She stumbles backwards, arms flailing as she attempts to maintain her balance.  Merreth stops, runs a hand down across her face, and looks at the wet smear across her gloved fingers.  Blood seeps into her mouth from a split lip.  She scoops her hat from the floor and sets it back on her head.

       “Good Goddess, it’s a Little Whip!”  Tiandraa steps though the doorway with Lyadkell right behind her.

       Tiandraa is just as Merreth remembers. Wetter, though.  Her black hair hangs in loose sweat-sculpted licks. Above the waist she wears only a riding band, the mud-red colour blotched and darkened from perspiration. Her breeches are similarly mottled.  Large eyes in a long face sit above a wedge like nose. 

       “More than that,” says Lyadkell.  “It’s Merreth.” A short, fleshy woman, younger than Merreth, she has close-cropped red hair, green eyes, and thin lips.  Her face, pock-marked from some past illness, is red and peeling from the sun. Despite the growing heat she wears her riding vest.  She cocks her head.  “What are you doing in Westhold? I thought you were getting ready to corrupt our bloodlines.”   

       No fear of that now, thinks Merreth.  Her heart thuds in her chest.  They can’t know, she tells herself.  Eyes in the room turn toward them.  She wants to leave but the casual, cavalier insult in front of dozens of commoners roots her to the spot.  Silence seems to close in as Merreth struggles to frame a reply.

      “Lady Tiandraa,” says Sarrit in a horrified voice.  “Lady Merreth is –.”

      “Lady Merreth?” says Tiandraa. She frowns at Sarrit.  “You’ve recovered your collar but seem to have lost your wits, Sarrit.  This is Mistress Merreth, Heir Primary to Sable House.”

      “Mistress?”  He looks at Merreth, eyebrows rising in surprise.  “Lady, I mean, Mistress Merreth?”

      “I’m not surprised she eschews the title”, says Lyadkell, “I’d scarcely be proud of it either.”

      Merreth’s temper is brewing, but she keeps her voice low and even.  “Come on, Sarrit.  Quarters.  Let’s go,” she says.

      “Quarters?” asks Lyadkell, her eyebrows rising.  “Rehkhell refused to have you, did she?”

      “Just a minute. Sarrit,”  Tiandraa grips his arm.  “You’re to attend me tonight.  Remember that.  If you haven’t found a place for Merreth to stay by then, leave her in the nearest stable and be on your way.”

      Merreth shoves Tiandraa’s hand from Sarrit and steps between them.  “He attends me, Tiandraa.”  Around them people edge away from the women.  Disputes between nobles are interesting, but only from a distance.   “You’re in front of commoners,” says Merreth. “Stop behaving like one.”

      “Blunt as always, that’s Merreth,” says Lyadkell in a lilting, mocking voice.  “She speaks like those commoners whose attention so worries her.  Difficult to believe she’s had the benefit of the best tutors.”

      Merreth doesn’t spare Lyadkell a glance.  “Be silent, you bloated, sweaty little tick,” Her tone is dark as coal at midnight.  “You owe me an apology, Tiandraa, for barging through that door like some witless scullery oaf.”

      “Yes, well, Merreth, bloody careless of you, being on the other side like that,” says Tiandraa.  She wipes her forehead, glances at the sweat beads on her fingers, and flicks her hand, not quite in Merreth’s direction.  “You have my apology.” 

      She had nothing of the sort, but Merreth ignores that for the moment. “Why are you out here, Tiandraa?” she asks instead.  “Shouldn’t you and Lyadkell be off bullying the men folk in Red Hand Hold?”

      Tiandraa moves within inches of Merreth. “We’ve business here concerning Wechta,” she says in voice as hard and sharp as knapped flint.   “Unlike your house, the Red Hand looks beyond its borders and has a responsibility to help its weaker sisters.”

      “Such as how you ‘helped’ the Seven Hills House out of its ancestral holdings?  Or perhaps you’re speaking of how you ‘assisted’ the Sea Watch by executing its High Mistress for trading outside the Matriarchy?” 

      “Unsanctioned contact with patriarchies is serious offence against Wechtan traditions.  We provided proof to loyal Sea Watch nobles.”  Tiandraa crosses her arms. “It was they who took action.”

      “You bloody hypocrite,” says Merreth in a low voice.  “Everyone knows the Red Hand profits from trade the Eastern Watch lets slip through the Kettleback Mountains!  That’s contact with a vengeance!”

      “No, that’s the pitiful, envious whining of a fading house,” says Lyadkell, “Daughters of the Red Hand certainly do not dirty their hands with common trade, even if such were not a threat to all we hold dear.”  Her gaze slides over Merreth like pond scum running off a rock.  “What was our High Mistress thinking when she agreed to your marrying one of our own?”

      What was Ammantha thinking when she recommended the match, Merreth asks herself.  Aside from Drynndin and one or two others the Red Hand were supercilious, imperious, and vicious.  Tiandraa and Lyadkell remind Merreth just how much she loathes the lot of them.  “Probably that I’d improve your stock,” she says.

      “You as a brood mare?”  Lyadkell grins.  “Let it never be said Mistress Merreth harbours modest aspirations.”

     “We’re here, Merreth, to help shepherd the Western Watch towards a Wechtan solution for its current problems,” says Tiandraa.  “From what we’ve seen they need the assistance, desperately. So they’d best not annoy the only ones who offer it.” She reaches out and taps Sarrit’s collar.  “Tonight.”

      “That’s would run counter to Mistress Rehkhell’s instructions to me, Lady Tiandraa.”  Sarrit’s voice is low but firm.  “I can certainly arrange for someone equally as skilled in the literary arts to see to your needs.”

      Good Goddess, he actually has a backbone, thinks Merreth. 

      “What would run counter, the attending part, or the bit about leaving Merreth in the nearest stable?” asks Tiandraa.

      Crack!

      Tiandraa’s head snaps to the left.  The blow rocks her on her heels and she takes a step back to steady herself. An angry red hand print blazes up on her right cheek.  “I accept your apology, Tiandraa.”  Merreth glares at gape-jawed Lyadkell.  “Was that blunt-spoken enough for you?”

      In the sudden silence Merreth’s words drop like rocks in a pond.  Clerks, merchants, and townsfolk, their respective affairs and concerns forgotten, stare at the group.

      “You common little thug!” Lyadkell glares at Merreth.  “Striking a noble.  Is that your idea of properly comporting yourself?” Her hands ball into fists and her face reddens with fury.

      Tiandraa rubs her cheek and wipes her hand across her mouth.  Her fingers come away red from where Merreth’s blow has split her lower lip.  She smiles, a thin, humourless line slashed across her face.  “Thank you, Merreth.”

      “Go play with goats.”

      “My second will seek you out later today.”  Tiandraa speaks stiffly but a malevolent gleam dances in her eyes.  “She should have no trouble finding you. After all, how many black asses can there be running about in Westhold?” She produces a cloth and wipes her fingers.  “I have things to which to attend this afternoon, so my satisfaction must wait until tomorrow.  Let’s leave, now, Lyadkell.  This place is tiresome suddenly.”

      “But Tiandraa, Merreth struck you, in full view of these,” Lyadkell sweeps her hand around at the crowd, “these … people.”

      “Now, Lyadkell,” says Tiandraa in a sharp voice.  She turns and walks out the still open doors, followed by her companion.

      Merreth stands silently, face tight, fists clenched in anger and frustration.  She shakes from the tension. Damn it!  What the blazes is wrong with her?  Her hand seemed to strike out at Tiandraa of its own accord.  Not half a day in the Western Watch and she’s caused a major confrontation with the Red Hand.  No, she corrects herself.  Not caused, escalated. 

      But it had felt so good!  To wipe away Tiandraa’s mocking smile with the flat of her hand.   Still, twice in the space of mere hours anger has gotten the better of her. Both times she’s lost her temper in front of common folk, behavior hardly befitting an Heir Primary. 

      And Lyadkell was right.  She had acted like a common thug.  But still, Merreth feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.   Something inside her, slick, cold and dark, enjoyed the moment immensely.  Merreth waves Sarrit closer.  “What was that about a second?” she asks.

      “Lady Tiandraa is going to send her second to speak to you,” says Sarrit.  She notices he’s twisting the edge of his tunic again.

      “I heard that, Sarrit.”  Merreth glowers at him.  He’s being obtuse, she thinks.  “What is a second, and why does think I wish to speak with one?”

      Sarrit chews his lower lip for a moment before answering.  “Lady Tiandraa’s second will seek you out to make arrangements for your honour match.”

      Something tugs at her memory and an uneasy feeling skitters down into Merreth’s stomache. She seizes his arm and drags him into a corner.  “Good Goddess!  She wants me to fight a duel?”

      “Ah, good,” says Sarrit with obvious relief.  “So you know what’s required.”

      “No, I don’t!”

      “You, ah, well, that is to say,” Sarrit’s face floods with red, “you struck  Lady Tiandraa,” he finishes.

      “Yes, I remember that.”

      Sarrit gathers himself.  “Mistress Merreth,” he begins.

      “Lady. Lady Merreth.”

      “But I thought –.”

      “Forget the title,” says Merreth. She waves it away as if it is of no consequence.  “We’ll talk later about what you can call me.” Goddess!  I sound like a bloody fool!

      “You struck Lady Tiandraa.  She has the right to demand satisfaction.  Her second, probably a close friend, will seek us – you – out later today to make arrangements for a formal duel.”

      Merreth stares at him, dumfounded.  “But that’s preposterous!  There’s been no dueling in Wechta for over fifty years!”

      “Not in the east, or so I understand, Lady Merreth” says Sarrit.  His voice is remarkably even, and he is meeting her gaze without flinching, but he wrings his hands. “In the Watch duels are still fought to settle matters of honor.”  He brightens a bit.  “Not to the death though.  That’s barbaric!”

      Merreth doesn’t reply, still struggling with the whole concept of duels.  To the death or not, the practice was coarse, vulgar, and dirty.  Always frowned upon as a custom more suited to the brutish tastes of men, duels had fallen completely out of favour in east decades before her birth.  She’d just assumed they weren’t pursued anywhere in Wechta.  Merreth had no idea how one actually fought a duel. “Why does Tiandraa know about them?” she asks.  A lot more than I do, I’ll wager, she thinks.

      Sarrit lowers his voice. “Lady Tiandraa has been here over four weeks,” he replies.  “She learned of honor duels from Lady Urnna.” 

      Merreth has no idea who Lady Urnna is.  Some minor member of the Watch nobility perhaps? “Tiandraa’s fought a duel then?”

      “Many,” says Sarrit in a worried voice.  “She contrives to find insult whenever she can.”

      “She wins?”

      “Yes.  She practices at the armory almost every day.”

      “Is she any good?”

      “Lady Urnna thinks so.   She’s lost every bout she’s had with Lady Tiandraa.”

      “And who is this Lady Urnna?”