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The moot was not something that was called casually. This would have been true even if the fact it was made up of mostly older, very powerful family heads with plenty of better things to be doing with their time was the only difficulty about it. That was, however, only the beginning of the reasons that the moot was not something to be taken lightly.

The second was simply the nature of the beast. Many of the members of the moot lived at some distance removed from the moot itself. Located deep in the mountains in order to be close to the iron and coal mines that were the greatest source of its income, the clan was spread out across a space of nearly three days travel by foot. While horses could shorten the trip, only the recent advent of the dragon roads had made it easier for some of the more remote elders to make it to the moot with any kind of rapidity.

The third, and probably the most important reason, was the site of the moot itself. The mountains were greedy things.They had left precious little space between themselves for creeks, let alone habitation. The original builders of the moot had taken a perverse approach to this problem, insisting on creating a space far larger than was needed as though throwing their defiance in the face of the mountains.

The moot had been built in a natural amphitheater ripped out of the very mountains by a waterfall. The builders had widened the space until it stretched out in tiered seats carved from the living stone of the place with the stream cutting it naturally into two. Bridges and platforms connected the two sides, and left the speaker’s deis suspended over the stream. A wall had been built behind this, blocking out most of the sound of the waterfall, but with carefully placed windows allowing speakers to be set against a backdrop of falling water. Nearly two thousand could be seated behind the two hundred or so benches reserved for the elders.

Given its size and peculiar construction, roofing it would have been impossible. The original designers hadn’t even tried, and no one had proposed attempting it since. The moot had always been an open air meeting.

Assembling the elders for a moot when there was any risk whatsoever of poor weather was not something done unless it was truly important, and in the mountains there was always a risk of poor weather. Calling for a moot when the weather was guaranteed to be bad was an act of madness.

Whoever had called a moot this early in spring was truly mad.

Or truly brilliant, Bravye reflected. Already blessed with an excess of self importance, the circumstances would be calculated to only make the elders uncomfortable and surly. With the cold of the frozen stones sapping the warmth from them no matter how many furs and blankets they’d wrapped about themselves, they’d be truly angry, and seeking heads as appeasement. Woe betide the subject of their ire.

Today, she was to be that subject.

Whoever had arranged all of this couldn’t have arranged a less hospitable moot to pass judgement on her transgressions against tradition and the laws of family inheritance. Doubtless this had all been by design. Someone, it seemed, was out for blood.

Despite the heavy cloud cover and the threat of yet more late season snow, the amphitheatre was nearly full with spectators. Word had quickly gotten out that there was a dispute involving one of the largest employers in the city that lay just two miles further down the valley, and that a madwoman was to blame for it. Many of the people present were there out of concern for what it might mean for their livelihoods, dependent as they were in one way or another on the foundry. The majority, however, were there simply for the entertainment of it, desiring a spectacle to end the boredom that always accompanied winter.

She’d be sure not to disappoint them.

“Elders of the clan! I call this moot to order!”

Bravye turned away from contemplating the crowd to look toward the dais. Being the central figures of this fracas, she and Kern had been given seating immediately behind the area reserved for the elders, along the aisle that ran between the public benches and the stream halving the ampitheatre. This meant she was a scant few yards from the dais itself, and the elder with the privileged position of being The Speaker, with most of the crowd to her back. The noise of conversations behind her dulled to a quiet background sound of murmurings.

“It’s about damned time!” a high pitched voice called out. She located one of the elders on the other side of the stream, his long, grey beard frosted with ice from the moisture of his breathing. “What damned fool would call us out in this weather?”

A large number of shouts and nodded heads showed that most of the assembled elders clearly agreed with the question, and the sentiment behind it.

“This damned fool would.” One of the elders stood up in the second row of benches reserved for the members of the moot. “I apologize for calling you out in such unfortunate weather, but this matter is an urgent one that could affect the very war itself.”

The Speaker turned to look at the man from under beetled brows. “Gurney, son of Dwyald, elder of the family of Highsheepherd, I call you to stand before the moot and explain yourself.”

“I shall.”

As the man worked his way past the elders between him and the aisle, Bravye leaned over to Kern. “I don’t remember this one.”

“I do.” Kern pulled the scarf from his face to make it easier for his whispers to be understood. “Most of the Highsheepherds run sheep up in the high vales during the summer, then winter them over in the lowlands. I purchase wool from them for the looms.”

“Why would he concern himself with this?”

“I have no idea.”

The two quieted as Gurney reached the dais. He clearly had always been a slender man who had only grown thinner with age. His cheekbones were raised ridges above his whiskers and the heavy coats he wore hung on him like sacks. Despite this, he held himself erect, his face locked in a mask of pride.

“Elders, last week one of my family came to me with disturbing news. An inheritance of considerable size remains unsettled, nearly half a year after the death of one of the pillars of our clan, in defiance of our laws. I have called this moot to settle the account.”

“Bugger to an inheritance,” a voice called. “What does that have to do with the war?”

“A great deal, elder,” Gurney replied, his voice calm. “Our sons are out fighting and dying in this war, and all that stands between them and sure defeat are the weapons we give them. Without steel we cannot provide them with what they need to remain free of elven slavery or death. Yet the primary source of steel for not just our clan, but for fully half of all of the clans lays in limbo, its disposition unsettled and uncertain. I speak of the foundry of Blaistrupe, who died for us nearly six months ago.”

Beside Gurney The Speaker called out. “I call on Grib, son of Dalmrog, the elder of the family of Greyrock to stand and address this accusation.”

Bravye watched carefully as Blaistrupe’s granduncle rose with quiet dignity. He had always struck her as a kindly man during those occasions she’d had to meet with him, but as the head of a powerful and rich family he had also always clearly kept the family’s interests in mind. She had little doubt that he little welcomed any occasion for the internal workings of the family to be questioned by an outsider.

Gurney stepped aside as Grib reached the dais. Rather than step behind it and address the assembled elders and onlookers, Grib remained facing Gurney. “Tell me, Gurney. Does the steel produced by my family still flow into the mills and factories as it always has?”

“For now,” Gurney allowed. “However I am told the foundry is being run by a woman. How much longer will it be before her feminine nature folds under the pressure and the flow of steel slows, or is halted altogether?”

“You are told? By whom?”

“Honsehauk, son of Brushane, my nephew. He worked at the foundry until he was deprived of his place there by the word of a woman.”

Grib looked thoughtful. “Ah. And did he say why he was so deprived?”

Gurney seemed surprised at the question, but the surprise quickly transformed into caution. “That she was a woman, unused to and incapable of managing men is reason enough for fickle decisions and whims.”

Rumbles of quiet agreement responded to Gurney’s statement. For most of the elders that seemed reason enough.

“Perhaps his failure to care for his son’s widow and child was reason enough for her to wish to be rid of him?”

A loud rumble rippled through those assembled. While Gurney colored, Bravye leaned over to Kern. “How could he possibly know that? I never told him anything about it.”

“I did,” Kern replied. “I suspected it might come up today.”

“But I didn’t tell you, either.”

“You had a new maid. I asked Isoli about it after I left you in your office.”

“Isoli talks too much,” Bravye muttered.

“Or perhaps she talks just enough,” Kern replied.

“Order,” The Speaker shouted. “We will have order!”

The crowd quieted down, expectantly watching Gurney for his reply. It was not long in coming. “I would not have expected you to resort to gross exaggerations in order to disrupt the important matters before this moot, Grib, son of Dalmog. Do you deny that a woman ordered him removed from his place in the foundry?”

“I revel in it. I found the ironic justice surprisingly appealing.”

The sudden rush of shouts of anger, delighted laughs, and sudden argument and debate completely overwhelmed any sense of the order only just restored a moment before. Bravye found herself feeling a bit stunned.

“What,” she asked, “is he doing?”

“I’m really not certain,” Kern muttered. “I barely know the man. I only just met him yesterday, when I went to make him aware of the fact I didn’t want the foundry.” He paused a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I have no idea what he’s thinking.”

It took several minutes of furious shouting by The Speaker to calm the situation down enough for proceedings to continue. Once people were back in their seats and quieted enough the elders would be able to hear, Gurney opened his mouth to speak. He had hardly begun his first word when an angry voice cut him off. “Oh, sit down you old fool! You’re not impressing anyone.”

One of the elders had stood from his place towards the far side of the amphitheatre. He was hunched with age, his beard hanging far from the paunch of his belly. A cane assisted him with remaining upright. Despite these signs of infirmity his voice was full and clear. Gurney made a second attempt to speak, only for the old man to cut him off with an impatient sound. Looking defeated, Gurney made his way off of the dais.

Once Gurney had made good his retreat, the feeble man turned his attention on Grib. “Gurney is a spiteful idiot, but that doesn’t make his accusation false. You’ve admitted that it was a woman that tossed his brat several times removed out.”

Grib nodded. “Yes.”

“For her to be able to do that, there would be no man in charge that could have brushed aside the order.”

Grib nodded again. “Yes.”

“For that to be true, it would mean she would have to be in a position where she could control who was paid, and who wasn’t, at the foundry.”

“Yes.”

“This means, then, that she is handling the accounts personally, with no man to do it for her.”

“Yes.”

“By the One, man, are you senile? Where, in all of this, is Blaistrupe’s heir?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Grib smiled. “Blaistrupe died childless. In such a circumstance our laws and traditions are clear. One of his brothers is to inherit.”

Heads nodded in agreement around the moot, and the tremulous old man sat, looking satisfied. 

“Blaistrupe had no brothers.” Grib frowned. “His father died years ago, as did both of his uncles. Of his nephews, two died in their childhoods, one was killed early during the war, and the remaining nephew suffered a high fever as a youth and remains a child in his mind. His grandfather is long gone. In fact, of blood relations as defined by our traditions and laws only I remain, and I am far, far too old to be inheriting anything.”

Another elder rose. “But there is still an heir. Blaistrupe had a brother in law, did he not?”

“He did,” Grub agreed as the man sat. “He is here with us today. Kern, son of Higalt, of the family of Stonefall, I call you forward.”

Bravye felt Kern tense beside her before he rose. Clearly he was not pleased with the direction the conversation had gone, even though there really wasn’t any other way it could have moved. She watched his back as he walked down to the dais.

Grib waited until Kern had arrived at the dais. “You are the brother in law of my grandnephew, are you not?”

Kern fidgeted. “Blaistrupe married my sister, Elder.”

“Tell me, did you have any brothers who might have been fighting with you over who was to inherit from Blaistrupe?” Grib’s voice was kind.

“No, Elder. I am his only brother in law.”

“That clearly makes you the undisputed heir, does it not?”

Kern said nothing, simply standing there with a frustrated look on his face.

“Why have you not come forward to claim the foundry then?”

Kern stood in thought for a moment, his jaw tight enough he could have been chewing dragon road spikes in two. When he spoke, his voice was stiff. “Because I do not want it.”

Mutters rolled about inside the amphitheatre. Clearly that was not an answer anyone was expecting.

Grib’s kindly expression and voice changed not in the least, however. “It would make you a very wealthy man.”

“I am already a wealthy man. I’ve managed a fabric factory for twenty years, and expanded it twice.” Bravye could see a flush of pride beginning to color Kern’s expression. “I supply ninety percent of the cloth used to create uniforms for the clan’s soldiers. Fifteen percent of the dwarven navies use canvas produced at my factory.

“I have all the wealth that comes from that success, but it comes because I am dedicated to my factory. I am no producer of steel. If I were to take on Blaistrupe’s foundry I’d have to spend my time learning to run it, and that would take time away from the industry I do know.

“I know my limits, elder. I can either be very good at producing fabric and ignore steel altogether, or I can become a poor producer of both. No, I do not want the foundry.”

One of the elders jumped up. “It’s your duty to the law and traditions of our people,” he shouted.

“At the expense of our soldiers?” Grip countered. “The makers of our law and tradition are dead. Our soldiers are still alive.” He clapped a hand onto Kern’s shoulder. “The boy’s reasoning is sound. Perhaps during times of peace we might force that burden on him, but for now we need all the fabric and steel we can get. Have a seat, Kern.”

Obedient, Kern left the dais and returned to sit beside Brayve.

“Are you suggesting we leave things as they are? With one of our most important war resources in the hands of a woman?” The standing elder was clearly not done yet. “What is a woman even capable of, anyway?”

Grib smiled. “Good question, elder. Let’s ask her.” In the sudden, stunned silence he turned to look at her. “I call Bravye, wife of Blaistrupe, of the family of Greywalk to address this matter.”