Waterborne Exile Read online

  The lad nodded, his expression sombre.

  “We start wi’ your full name an’ address, so’s it’s all official an’ above board.”

  “Address?”

  “Where you live, like. That’s what officials call it – the street, the house, the room you rent?”

  “Oh, right.” The lad took a deep breath.

  It took half an hour to repeat his story, while the scribe laboured over the parchment, each stroke of the quill painstakingly slow. There were faster writers to be had, but this one was, frankly, cheaper. And Peveril had bought his silence years ago.

  “And now, lad, I said to you to bring proof. You done that?”

  “Aye, I have.” The lad’s jaw was set again. This was not a promising sign.

  “Out with it, then.”

  The lad turned his eyes to the scribe. “You said be careful no one saw…”

  “The scribe here will witness it. He’s sound – like me he’s in the pay of the palace.”

  The scribe looked up from his parchment and nodded sombrely.

  The lad looked from scribe to Peveril then appeared to reach a decision. He fumbled open his scrip and drew out a tiny fabric-wrapped bundle. He unfolded the wrapping to reveal a piece of gold, formed in the shape of a leaf, detailed with intricate veining. Exquisite work. From one end of the leaf dangled a short length of gold chain, from the other a single gold loop that formed part of a clasp. He held the object out towards Peveril, but did not hand it over.

  “That’s a fine piece. But you said you had the rest of it.”

  “Aye. I do. An’ if’n your master wants to see it, or buy it, an’ names his price, I’ll bring it then. An’ not before.”

  Damn him, the lad was not as green as he was grass-looking. Not when sober, at any rate. “Very wise, Master Shott. Very wise.”

  The lad nodded tightly. “Aye. I’ll keep it safe until then.” He closed his hand about the leaf he held out.

  “Understandable. But you see, my master will want to see for himself – he won’t just take my word for it.”

  The lad’s mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “I don’t know much, but I know this is worth a deal of coin.”

  “Aye, lad, so it is.” This wasn’t quite as easy as he’d hoped. “That’s why my master will pay ten coins for it, right here an’ now. I’m authorised to buy it from you at that price. See, there’s some as will take your statement at face value, but there’s others won’t believe it until they seen the glint of gold for themselves. And them’s the kind my master has to deal with.”

  The lad licked his lips. “Ten coin, you say?” The hand holding out the bauble shook a little. That must be several months’ work for a lowly apprentice.

  “The whole piece would be worth a lot more, of course. Broken like it is, takes the value down. Can always see where these things have been mended. If’n you’re not sure take a look down at the market an’ see what you can buy from the goldsmith for that.”

  The lad straightened his shoulders. “Ten coin, then. I’ll sell it to your master.”

  Peveril counted out the money onto the table, watching the lad carefully as he did so. He paused at eight, but the lad seemed to know that wasn’t enough. Reluctantly he counted out nine, then ten before the youth nodded tightly again and finally handed over the leaf, scooping up the coins and adding them to his scrip.

  Peveril wrapped the leaf in its fabric and likewise stowed it away safely, along with the scroll containing the youth’s report. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Master Shott. Expect to hear from me soon about the rest of the necklace – I have no doubt my master will be keen to acquire it.”

  Peveril watched the lad cross the yard, looking far too perky for his liking. Arrogant young prick. This wasn’t over yet. The lad strutted past old Marwick, who paused and glanced back at him before resuming his ponderous progress to the guard room. It was time for the quarterly review of the accounts for the palace guard. The scribe was still scratching with his quill on a fresh sheet of parchment.

  “Ol’ faceache’s on his way – you done with that yet?”

  “Very nearly.” The scribe spoke without a trace of Highkell accent. It always surprised Peveril, perhaps because the scribe spoke so seldom. His face had been rearranged so many times Peveril always tended to think of the rogue as one of his own. And the truth was far from it. His best guess was the scribe had been a noble who’d fallen on hard times.

  The scribe sprinkled sand over the sheet to dry the ink, then dusted it off and held out the sheet to Peveril. Peveril dropped a couple of coins into his hand, but he didn’t release the sheet.

  “We agreed three, I believe.”

  Peveril had no time to argue, Marwick was approaching the door. He dropped another coin into the scribe’s hand and the man released the sheet of parchment. Peveril pretended to study the sheet. He’d tried to learn his letters, but somehow never managed it. He recognised one or two, but they danced before his eyes and refused to line up one after another so he might decipher them. He wasn’t about to let the scribe know that, however.

  The door opened and Marwick stepped in, favouring his left hip. “Damned weather’s on the turn. You have the accounts ready for inspection?”

  Peveril nodded to the scribe. “Bring them out, Birtle.”

  The scribe jumped up from his stool and hurried to the shelves at the back of the room. He always moved a deal faster when the likes of Marwick were about. That was something else that vexed Peveril. Marwick didn’t even know the half of what Peveril did – and Peveril knew enough to hang the skinny scribe twice over, ruined face and all. And one day–

  “What was that young lad’s business here? He appeared pleased with himself.”

  “The arrogant little tike? Some tale of cutpurses hanging round after dark. I reckon he lost something he shouldn’t have and wants to shift the blame off his shoulders.” Peveril handed the parchment to Marwick, who took a cursory glance over it.

  “I daresay you’re right. His wasn’t the face of one who’d lost a week’s earnings. Have there been any similar reports lately?”

  Peveril made show of considering. “Not that I recall.”

  “Strikes me anyone foolish enough to carry a full purse abroad after dark deserves what’s coming to them. We should never have lifted the curfew.” Marwick dropped the sheet on the table next to the ledger which Birtle had helpfully opened on the most recent page. “There’s enough to be done round here without running around on behalf of feckless citizens who haven’t the sense to look after their own property.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Durstan pressed his hands to his temples and leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t massage away the headache that had been gnawing at him all evening. This day had lasted far too long and he was no closer to a solution. He might as well sleep. He needed to be patient. It would take time to work on the soldier Weaver, to ensure he would offer them his full potential. The order had been given a golden opportunity, just when it looked as if they were finished.

  Really the girl should have been rewarded for her loyalty to the order. There must be some suitable way of doing it that didn’t give her undue status. A naming ceremony, perhaps. A name accorded to her by the order would be an honour indeed. He couldn’t risk anything that would give her too much influence over the others because she was such a one as would abuse it without a second thought. Look how calmly she’d sold her brother’s secret – and his life – to him. Even Durstan, in his position of honour, had to grudgingly admire her sang froid. And this was precisely why the order would be wise to keep her sweet. If she eluded their control she could cause no small amount of trouble for them. And until the child she carried was born… It irked him to admit it, but until her child was born, the order needed her. After that she could serve the order one last time, just as her brother had.

  Durstan had little time for diplomacy but this situation called for the exercise of something close to it. The loss
of Tresilian had been a bitter blow, indeed. The little priestess could have led him by the nose anywhere and she’d been happy enough with all the attention he gave her. Vain creature. Just like all her kind. And now she was unsettled and likely to cause far more trouble than she was worth. Setting her to tend to the soldier had gone some way to keeping her occupied. If she carried the late king’s child, of course, her worth to the order increased beyond measure. And born out of the rites of rebirth, it would be a child like no other. The royal family had always carried the power in their blood, even though that power had long fallen out of use.

  All their plans had been so close to fruition. Where the erstwhile queen had gone, no one seemed to know. But he would find out; oh yes, he would. He was seeking information from every one of his spies and contacts. Every favour he was owed he was calling in now, and if any dared to ignore his call for help – well, woe betide them.

  The pounding of his forehead intensified and he finally reached for the bottle of willow water his physician had prepared. He tipped a few drops into a glass and added some wine to it.

  The freemerchant was behind some of the mischief, that was for sure. That one had outlived his usefulness: Durstan wouldn’t forgive his defection. It left him only one choice, although that might yet prove to be a lucrative association if he could but persuade Vasic of the value of the order to his plans. And who would not want an elite guard who were obedient without question? That’s what would persuade Vasic. Unfortunately the usurper was notorious for his volatility. Doubly unfortunately, he was also their last best hope. And the only one of the royal line Durstan could lay his hands on at this point in time. On the plus side, he’d far sooner deal man-to-man with such as Vasic than be forced to deal with a woman. And by all accounts the Lady Alwenna had been as stubborn and intractable as he might have expected. Her blood made it inevitable, of course. Where a man had honour and nobility, and could be counted upon to deal with those around him accordingly, a woman had only wiles and fickleness. But, if the priestess’s claims were true, then the same woman had also killed her own husband – her own kin, no less – with the ancient blade and that meant her blood now carried uncommon power as a result of the tangled family history.

  He would do well to find the former queen before she discovered her own strength. That strength belonged to the order and she had stolen it out from under their noses. And he would have it back within their confines, harnessed once more so it would serve him and his people and lead them to eternal splendour in the favour of the one true Goddess.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “They’ll just use you. Like they used me. You can’t trust them.” The same voice, repetitive and insistent, over and over. Why wouldn’t she just go away? Let him sleep, just let him be. Even opening his eyes was too much effort. Let her just go away.

  The small hand prodded Weaver’s shoulder, insistent. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

  He tried to open his mouth, to speak, to tell her to stop. But it was as if he was fighting his way up from beneath deep water. The effort was so great, yet he couldn’t seem to make progress. He sank back beneath the surface and drifted away into oblivion.

  Was she too late? She leaned over Weaver, studying him closely. Breath stirred from his nostrils, his chest rose and fell slowly. He was lost in a deep sleep once more. There was nothing for it. She would have to stop him drinking the physic the order gave him. He was always drugged too deeply to respond to her at night, and that was the only time she could speak with him at any length. She had duties in the infirmary through the day – and she’d made sure she continued to be useful to the order in obvious, visible ways. It was the important people who got their way in this world, and if she hoped to topple a queen – even an exiled one – she would need to be very influential indeed.

  The next day in the infirmary as she stowed clean linen in the cupboard she watched the priest preparing the last medication of the day for Weaver before he carried it through to the small chamber the soldier occupied. As she thought, it contained a great deal of poppy juice. No wonder she could never wake him or get any sense out of him. That would have to change. She would need to substitute it with something equally syrupy, so it didn’t appear obviously different.

  There was that voice again, disturbing his sleep. Weaver grimaced with annoyance. When the hand shook his shoulder, he raised his own hand to push it away. Weak muscles protested, unused to such abrupt movement. And in that instant he was wide awake.

  What had happened? The weight that seemed to have been pressing his eyelids shut was gone. And his eyes were open. The room about him was unsteady, blurred. Shadows wavered and he could not see the far walls. For a moment he believed himself back in the cavern containing the holy well on Vorrahan. But the air here was not dank and chill, there was no whisper of slow moving water, no echo from the stone walls of the cavern.

  “Shush, now. Don’t let them hear you.” The young woman’s voice whispered and the hand pressed his shoulder. It took a moment to bring her face into focus. She was a pale blur against the darkness, scarcely more than a ghostly presence. Perhaps he was imagining this – all of it. Yet the hand on his shoulder was very real, felt completely solid.

  He shrugged his shoulder and this time she removed her hand. His tendons knotted up at the unexpected movement, tightening with a sharp pain. He flinched, despite himself. His whole body was similarly knotted up, every movement setting off spasms through unused muscles. What was wrong with him?

  But his vision was clearing. The face before him resolved.

  She was a young woman, slight but with pretty features. Her hair was palest blonde, her eyes a cool grey. Her features were pretty, but the expression in her eyes as she studied him chilled him to the core. And he remembered: the altar, the bowls, the blade. The king he’d sworn fealty to and his pale priestess standing before them. And there, facing them, the freemerchant and–

  No.

  Weaver’s gut twisted with revulsion. In that instant he tried to spring to his feet, but succeeded only in knotting muscles that were weak from disuse with fresh spasms.

  “Don’t worry, you’re in no danger from me.” Her voice was saccharine again. “Because you’re going to help me, and I’m going to help you. Right now, we need one another. Let me tell you how it will be.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “An’, if’n you can, get another sack of neeps from yon northerner. They cook well. He’ll bring ’em round at the end of the day, maybe sooner if he’s keen to get his money. Look lively, then.”

  Lena pulled her cloak on, before the cook could change her mind. She’d never been trusted to complete the errands alone. It was a sorry reflection of what her life had become that she was actually pleased to have an opportunity to look round the market. It would be a luxury to linger over the fine silks on the fabric stall, consider the leather purses – not that she had much to put in one – examine the boots on the cordwainer’s stall, or dally with the notion of a new shawl. One last day of freedom before she brought this episode to an end, perhaps. Freedom involved a great deal of drudgery, it turned out. And she was feeling increasingly guilty over the anxiety her parents must be suffering. She had been away long enough to make her point, surely? Long enough to ensure the next time they talked marriage it would be on her terms, at the very least. If that had been her point – she was no longer sure. She’d wanted to see life, to taste it for herself. Mostly, she’d seen a succession of greasy pans in the scullery sink and tasted more mutton stew than she had in all the years of her life leading to that point.

  The market square was set on flat ground just above the harbour. Sea freight had always been important to the harbour town of Sylhaven. Fishing was steady business, but the real wealth came in with the merchants’ cargoes, traded across the oceans. That was what built the many stone houses on the sloping streets above the sea front; Sylhaven had been a prosperous port for many years. Henty had told her the larger ships now struggled to navigate
the inlet, but it remained home to many wealthy tradesmen.

  Herbs acquired, Lena paused to run her fingers over the bolts of silk on the fabric merchant’s stall. It shimmered, even in the poor light of an overcast morning, but her fingers were so roughened from hard work they risked snagging the fine material. She lingered over a bolt of jade green fabric, just long enough for the stallholder to take notice.

  “Now, my lady, you’d be fine indeed in that, ’twould match your eyes to perfection. There’s not a man could resist you if he saw you clothed in that.”

  “Kind of you to say so, but I’m sure it would be beyond my means. How much for three ells?”

  “To one such as yourself I could let you have it for fourteen coins, for I’m sure you’d tell everyone who admired it where you came by such fabric.”

  “That’s a good price. If my employer were so generous with my wages I would not hesitate.”

  She moved on, scratching absentmindedly at the point where her rough woollen collar chafed her neck. It didn’t take long to make her other purchases and she began to wend her way back down the other side of the market, determined to make the most of her few minutes of liberty.

  The market was growing busier now as the first quiet of morning had passed. Someone bumped against Lena as she studied the haberdasher’s threads.

  “I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was elusively familiar.

  She looked up, to meet Nils Darnell’s brown, if somewhat bloodshot, eyes. The pallor of his face suggested his head was giving him good reason to regret the previous night’s imbibing.

  “No harm done.” She turned her attention back to finding the thread she needed to mend her blue gown – not that she’d have need of it if she returned home. Darnell clearly hadn’t recognised her. The aisle was empty once she had negotiated her purchase. All just as she’d predicted. She only had the turnips to order, then her errands would be done.