Waterborne Exile Read online

  There he was, speaking like a courtier again. Yet what passed for court in these parts was several days’ ride away – assuming it hadn’t burned entirely to the ground. “You must know, Marten, when you don the guise of a courtier I cannot trust you.”

  “How so?”

  “You need to ask? You sold me entirely to Tresilian at the summer palace, even though you claimed to be my friend. That is the cause of my anger towards you. It has nothing to do with the elders.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive, my lady.”

  “As can you, freemerchant.” Whether it was the night’s camouflage that made it easier to speak her mind, or the shadow of the nightmare that impelled her to seek the truth, she didn’t know. “You have as many answers as there are days in the year. For once, tell me the simple truth.”

  “Truth – now we have discussed that before, have we not?”

  “Have we, indeed? I cannot recall.” Weaver had spoken of truth once, long ago on the road to Vorrahan. What was it he’d said? Something about death being the ultimate truth? His certainty then had been absolute. And she’d not doubted him, either. Those had been simpler times…

  “The truth is what has happened, my lady, but it is so much more than a simple event. The way each of us sees the same events can differ. What matters to my eyes may not matter to yours, yet we both see the same thing.”

  Alwenna shrugged, scarcely listening to the freemerchant. He annoyed her when he went off on these flights of fancy. And that was all too often of late.

  “Of course, right now, my lady, the truth I perceive is that you are troubled.” He moved closer so he could set a hand on her forearm. “It is perhaps better to speak of such things. And for once there are none nearby to overhear.”

  Alwenna twisted her head to look at him. “Can you be so sure? I am not. And I believe some things are better not spoken.” She glanced pointedly at the hand on her arm and he removed it with a self-deprecating gesture of apology.

  “Does the sight still trouble you, my lady?”

  Well, he didn’t need the sight to guess that much, did he? Wandering alone beneath the night sky when most sensible souls were asleep was an easy enough portent to divine. “Yes, it does. It has been less of late, but…” What did one say? She had been dreaming of a dark place, where all was corruption and tainted. Where the whole world was pain, without remit. And there was something familiar about it all, yet she couldn’t quite place it. Her dreams of the lovers… they had been sharper, clearer. These visions – if she chose to call them that – they were nebulous, shifting, as insubstantial as night fears became by daylight. “Do you have the sight, Marten? I’ve heard often enough that freemerchants do.”

  “A fair question. It deserves a fair answer.” He paused.

  “Am I to assume a fair answer is not forthcoming? Some freemerchant secret that you are forbidden to reveal, no doubt.”

  “Not at all, my lady, but I fear my answer may disappoint you. We do not have the sight as I believe you would understand it. I’ve been told our senses are somewhat sharper than the average but I cannot divine your thoughts. It would make my life a great deal easier if I could.”

  Ought she believe him? Not that it mattered. She’d cast herself upon his protection. And still she didn’t fully understand why. She’d run to help him at the summer palace when it looked as if Tresilian would have overwhelmed him – that she couldn’t explain, either. Only that it had seemed paramount that she should save the freemerchant. But how much of that had been driven by distaste for what Tresilian had become?

  “You doubt me still, my lady?”

  “I doubt you still.”

  Marten spread his hands wide. “I cannot blame you for that. As it is I remain in your debt for saving my life. Do not forget that. You may call on me when you have need.”

  “I shall, never doubt it.” Yet she sensed that day would not come soon. “Marten, I fear I ought not remain here.”

  “You are safe here, my lady. Of course you should remain here.”

  She worried with her thumbnail at a patch of dry skin on the side of her finger. “It isn’t a question of my safety, Marten, but of yours. And your people. If I remain, I fear they will no longer be safe.”

  “You are letting the elders colour your thinking, my lady.”

  “No, Marten. I’ve had this conviction for some time now. A great evil stirs in the east. I ought not remain here, for your sakes.”

  “And what about the child you carry? Here, you are both safe. What else can you do? You would not return to Vasic, I think?”

  “I doubt he’d make me any more welcome than your wife has.” Alwenna could picture the horror on Vasic’s face if she should ever return to Highkell.

  “No one from your world knows you are here. You are safe.”

  “But how long will that last? And I am useless here, I can do nothing to help and I do not belong here. The very earth tells me so.”

  “Come now, this is not what you believe; this is the prompting of nightmares, of the fears that haunt us all through the dark night. Let the daylight bring reason: you will feel differently then. I invited you here and you are welcome as long as you need to remain. I say so, and that is enough for my people.”

  “It will not always be so.” Alwenna spread one hand over the rock on which they sat. It was nothing but an inert lump of rock, yet she knew that strange moment of stillness, of certainty. “It will not always be so. If I leave now it will be the better for you.”

  “If you leave now I will hold no advantage against Vasic.” His voice was low, suddenly intense.

  “Honesty at last, Marten? Your friendship is far from selfless. I have always known that, even before you gave us such proof at the summer palace.”

  “I will never hand you over to him.” Again that intensity.

  “No? Before you even know what price he might offer? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Marten. You would do anything for the sake of your people, and woe betide any landbound who get in your way.”

  “You cannot leave now. You have the child to think of.”

  The first light of the sun was creeping up the sky, casting a pink hue on the undersides of the clouds. He was right, of course. Right now there was nowhere else she could go. She set an uneasy hand on her belly, fuller and firmer than it had been. Her life had become like wading through deep water, every achievement seemed to require so much more effort than it ought.

  “I will not sell you to Vasic. I will swear any oath you care to ask to prove my loyalty.”

  Alwenna shuddered, remembering the proof of loyalty Tresilian had demanded of Weaver. Marten’s words had cast an uneasy shadow over the place where they sat. She’d once demanded an oath of loyalty from Weaver, and look where that had got him. “I will demand no oath of you. Such things seldom end well. Besides, I doubt Vasic would have me at any price now.”

  “Perhaps not.” His voice was flat.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t agree.” Marten hesitated. “The blood in your veins, and the child you carry – both could be used to further his own cause, just as Tresilian tried to use it. Don’t waste time denying it – you know it is true.”

  Once again she had the sense Marten knew rather more about everything than he chose to tell her. But she also knew his words were true. “Some day, Marten, you will tell me all you know. And I pray to the Goddess that day will not arrive too late.”

  “My lady, I swear, you are safe here. No one knows you even survived the fire. Even now freemerchants are spreading word that you have not been seen since that day, and that we mourn our sister.”

  “Easily a dozen people saw us leave the palace.”

  “Did they have time to study your face? They were all busy carrying water, or recovering goods from buildings. They just saw two servant girls riding hell for leather away on stolen horses. And probably envied them their escape.”

  It might work.

  “Ask yourself
how many people there even knew for certain who you were in the first place, my lady.”

  That was easy: Marten, who sat next to her now; Erin, who slept safely in their cave further down the hill; Tresilian himself, dead at her and Marten’s hands; Curtis, dead at Weaver’s hands; Weaver, left behind to perish in the flames, may the Goddess watch over him; and Tresilian’s pale priestess, with, perhaps, a few members of the vile priesthood.

  “The priestess knew.”

  “She – and her kind – cannot touch you here. There are ancient wards about this place to prevent it being found by enemies. And for all they know you were grievously injured in the fire. You are safer here than you could be anywhere else on the Peninsula. Trust me.”

  “I trust you believe what you are saying.” For all his protestations of loyalty, Marten would change his allegiance again. Of that she was certain. And she had no option, right now. She had to remain at Scarrow’s Deep. But for how long?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Weaver could not have said how many days he’d lain in that room. It might have been forever. He lay there, conscious of air moving across his face, sometimes of sunlight that warmed his flesh, sometimes of shadow that sent a chill through his entire body. The pain was ever-present: a sharp, stabbing that lanced from beneath his arm and into his chest. He lay there, mute and obedient, because that was what was required of him. He saw no reason to question his understanding. It just was. Any kind of movement was too great an effort. He lay there, on his back, hands down by his sides. His limbs were too heavy to move at all. Even his eyelids seemed weighted with lead. Stolen from a roof, like as not… Although why that seemed to matter, he did not know. Thoughts like that made the pain worse. He had no business thinking for himself. Orders. He followed orders. Deep within, he knew that made sense. How he knew, he could not say. He drifted from moment to moment, untroubled by… Well, that was untrue. He was troubled: by the pain, by the sense that all here was not as it should be. But he was not so troubled he could stir himself to rouse from this lifelong sleep he seemed to have fallen into.

  Voices intruded on his inertia. They were a jarring note against the silence. He wanted them to go away. To leave him to meld with the emptiness, the silence. It was all he required. But instead they drew closer, louder. Two men.

  “And how fares our patient?”

  “Very well, sire. Very well indeed.”

  “His progress is slow.”

  “It is better this way, sire.” The man’s voice was hesitant. “We want him completely dependent on us, to lose all vestige of free will. This is the best way.” The voices went on, but Weaver had no interest in them. He yearned for silence, for solitude. For the stillness that had been before. Before all this tumult of… What? Motion and commotion. The urge to move, to raise a hand. To tug at the source of the pain in his chest. The demands of life pulsing through his veins, insistent.

  “Did his fingers move?”

  “Yes, sire. That is to be expected at this stage. Soon he will be ready to wake.”

  “Very well, then. Keep me informed of progress. I want a full written account of the process…”

  The voices drifted away then and Weaver relaxed. Except the silence was not absolute. Someone else moved around the room. Light footsteps hurried across the stone. There was a faint movement of air, the shush of fabric… Why would they not leave him alone? Had he not already done enough? How many times must he prove himself?

  There was a stirring of air against the side of his face, then a voice whispered in his ear. “Can you hear me? You can, can’t you?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “You can’t trust any of them. But you should trust me.” There was a girlish giggle. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  The hair on the back of his neck rose in instinctive horror. Trust her? He’d as soon… but he had no words to express his revulsion.

  There was a whisper of movement, then her voice sounded from further away. “They’ll try to use you, just like they used me. But I’m going to help you, and then you can help me in return. That’s how it works.”

  Another shifting of air and the padding of furtive footsteps across the floor, and then he was alone. Solitude and silence, blessed be the Goddess. Let the voices not return so they’d trouble him no more. Let him be alone with his pain. He’d earned that right.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  This was getting repetitive. Bleaklow braced himself before stepping into yet another muggy tavern. The stale air was thick with spilled beer and cabbage, a particular favourite of the dockside. But, in a reversal of recent ill fortune, the very man he hoped to find was propping up the bar at the furthest end from the door. Or perhaps the bar was propping the man up – it was ever hard to tell. The man in question was a guard at the palace and, according to the roster, had been on duty the night of the wedding. Tonight he was very much off duty, and clearly had been for several hours. He studied his pint of ale with the fixed stare of one who no longer cared if he drank any more or not.

  “Evening. You’re Simmons, I take it?”

  “Eh? Why? Who’s asking?” The man was startled well and truly out of his beer-sodden reverie. It seemed reasonable to conclude he was indeed Simmons, sometime guard of the royal household and drunken ne’er do well.

  “Simmons.” Bleaklow smiled and set an urbane hand on the man’s shoulder as the guard half stood, setting one foot on the ground. If he’d had any thoughts of making an abrupt departure he abandoned them, sinking back onto his bar stool.

  Simmons took up his tankard, as if he feared Bleaklow was about to take it from him. “Now I’m not sure what people have been telling you, but I’m a peaceable, law-abiding man.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Bleaklow bared his teeth in a cold smile. “But I’m pleased to hear it all the same, since I’ve some questions that need answers, and you are just the man to give me them.”

  Simmons didn’t seem to find the smile or the words reassuring. His fingers tightened about the pint tankard. Good. Respectability had become something of a habit in the years Bleaklow had been working for the royal household and he’d been worried he might have lost his edge.

  “Now then, Simmons. It’s nothing too complicated. I gather you were on guard duty the night of the wedding. Yes?”

  Simmons nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  Bleaklow nodded. “Excellent. Now think carefully: was there much coming and going to and from the palace after dark that night?”

  Simmons’ brow furrowed. He shook his head slowly, warily watching Bleaklow for any reaction. Reassured by his bland expression, he got up the courage to speak. “It were quiet. Right quiet.”

  “Again, excellent.” Bleaklow smiled again. “In that case I’m sure you remember everyone who entered or left the palace bounds.”

  Simmons hesitated, his mouth dropping open for a moment. “Well, I don’t know as–”

  “How many people left the palace before morning?” Bleaklow didn’t smile now.

  Simmons licked his lips. “Well there were a couple of drays left with empty barrels.”

  “Who was driving them? Did they carry any passengers?”

  “No passengers.” Simmons scratched his head. “They were just the usual draymen – old Len from the harbourside, and that young chap from the top of the hill.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Simmons scratched his head some more. “Well, there were a few lads who’d been celebrating a bit much – got turfed out.”

  “Anyone else? Any women, perhaps?”

  Simmons’ jaw dropped again. “Well, now you come to mention it there was one. A laundry woman. Cheeky with it, gave me lip as she was waiting for me to open the gate.”

  Bleaklow doubted that. “How old would you say she was?”

  “Young.” Simmons nodded vigorously. “Definitely young.”

  “Tall, short? Fat, thin? What colour was her hair? Eyes?” Bleaklow leaned in closer to Simmons. “Make no mistake now, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
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br />   “She was… normal height for a woman? Maybe on the tall side. Shorter’n most men though. She wasn’t fat. Was hard to tell cos she wore a thick cloak. Pretty. Long eyelashes, dark hair, I think. Tied back it was, but not fancy.”

  Bleaklow grilled the man until he’d extracted enough details of the laundry woman’s appearance to be reasonably confident it was the Lady Drelena. A little more careful questioning elicited the information she’d walked off in the direction of the harbour. But when he thought he’d pumped Simmons dry, the guard rallied.

  “So why you lookin’ for her? She done something wrong?”

  The lie came easily now, he’d repeated it so often. “It’s a matter of petty theft. Once the complaint was made I have to follow it up or I’ll get no end of grief. Chances of finding her now are non-existent – but mind, if you see her again, there could be a reward in it for you. It’s not so much what she stole, but who she stole it from. Important people don’t like to be crossed.”

  Bleaklow left Simmons to enjoy the remains of his tepid pint. He doubted he’d have any need to speak to him again. She’d not be on the island any more, not if he understood her character right. They’d already searched the docks, after all. Although they hadn’t been looking for a pert young washer woman with a sharp tongue and no manners. If Simmons could be believed; the man was just enough of a coward to have told him more or less the truth. He’d held something back, for sure. But that didn’t concern Bleaklow right now: he had a runaway royal to find.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Peveril was waiting with a scribe in the guardroom when the apprentice turned up at the palace. He’d slicked down his hair and wore a clean smock, in an attempt to make himself look respectable. This was going to be too easy.

  “I come, like you said. You said to ask for Captain Peveril.” The youth enunciated every syllable with great care.

  “An’ you found him. Right then, lad, first we need to take your statement. This ’ere’s a scribe an’ he’ll write down what you say. That way it’s official. An’ this statement is what my master’ll read. Got that?”