Waterborne Exile Read online

  He couldn’t fight off the growing suspicion the lad had been lying to him all along. And if that was the case…

  Peveril only heard the footsteps on the landing outside at the last minute. He pulled the kerchief back over his face and ducked behind the door. There was nowhere to hide in the tiny room, but all he needed was the element of surprise. A key rattled in the lock and the apprentice stumbled in, not entirely steady on his feet. But this meant he took a step sideways to recover his balance and that turned him to face the door, and the spot where Peveril had hoped to remain concealed for a few more seconds while he retrieved his cudgel from its hiding place.

  Goddess, but his luck was out tonight.

  The apprentice gaped at him, his mouth dropping open in shock. There was no time for anything subtle as the lad reached for the door. Peveril dived forward, smashing the lad’s hand clear of the door handle. He ignored the crunching sound from the lad’s finger bones and grabbed him around the throat, silencing his yelp of pain and shouldering the door shut as he did so. He dragged the lad to the floor by the throat and pressed him down, pinning him there with his knee while he shoved one hand over the lad’s mouth. The youth whimpered and clawed at Peveril’s face with one hand. Peveril tightened his grip on the lad’s windpipe, slapping the youth’s hand away from his face, but not before the kerchief covering his nose and mouth was wrenched free. Recognition dawned in the lad’s eyes and some of the fight went out of him. He made a gagging sound as he struggled to draw breath.

  “Tell me where it is, lad.” Peveril pinned the lad’s upper arm to the floor with his other knee. “If I find you’ve been lying to me, I won’t be best pleased. An’ right now I think you have been lying to me. Where’s the necklace?”

  Beneath him the lad trembled and gasped.

  “Not happy? Then you’d best tell me where to find it, sharpish. I’m not a patient man.” Peveril eased one hand off the lad’s face.

  The youth sucked in a shuddering breath, in sharp bursts, unable to speak. His hand flapped.

  “No, you tell me now.” Peveril tightened his fingers about the boy’s windpipe again. The boy scrabbled his hand against Peveril’s thigh. Peveril closed his fingers about the lad’s throat.

  “I’m all out of patience.”

  The boy, panicking, flapped his broken hand, not to strike at Peveril, but towards his own chest.

  “Hurts, does it? You’ll be sorrier still that you tried to cross me, you arrogant prick.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and his head seemed to spasm as he attempted to shake it, but Peveril had no option now. The boy had recognised him. He closed his second hand about the boy’s throat and clamped it in an unforgiving grip.

  Eventually the boy fell still and the spasming of his limbs ceased. Peveril released him, easing the knots out of his fingers. He had the single leaf, after all. It was distinctive. It might be more than enough proof of the Lady Alwenna’s survival.

  He searched through the boy’s scrip, pleased to find most of the coin he’d given him still in there. He added that to his own, leaving a few small coins so it wouldn’t be obvious the lad had been robbed.

  Dead eyes stared up at the ceiling as Peveril searched through the rest of the youth’s clothing. And there, in a flat pouch on a leather loop about the boy’s neck, hidden inside his smock, he found it. Wrapped in clean linen, a small bundle, unyielding inside the fabric. Suddenly the boy’s flapping gestures made sense. He’d been trying to tell Peveril, all along. He’d probably even had it with him the day he’d sworn he’d never carry such a valuable thing with him. Peveril grinned as he untied the leather loop and placed it about his own neck, still warm from the youth’s body heat. He stood up, easing the knot in his shoulders.

  It wouldn’t hurt to cover his tracks.

  Peveril heaved the lad’s shoulders up off the floor and dropped him face down on the bed. There was little enough weight to him. He unbuckled the lad’s belt and pulled his leggings down to his ankles, then hitched up his smock, leaving his dead, bare arse exposed to the view of the world. Let it look like a rough game gone badly wrong.

  He’d been here long enough, and he had what he’d come for. Peveril refastened the kerchief tighter over his face, leaned out of the window to check all was clear and clambered out the way he’d entered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sky was overcast. The sea beneath it churned sullenly. At some point on the horizon the two merged almost seamlessly. As an Outer Islander, Lena had been raised by the sea, knew its every mood, every timbre, yet today the familiar left her sombre. Despite herself, she shivered and leaned closer into Darnell’s embrace. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

  “The water level. You see the marker there for high tide?” He pointed down to a wooden pole fastened to the harbour wall. At some point in the past it had been painted white, but it was now faded and peeling.

  “Yes, but I can’t see any tide markings on it. Have they all worn off?” His arm about her shoulders was comforting. She didn’t want to be standing out here with him. She wanted to be back in his bed, glorying in his body, glorying in the terrible hunger that overcame her whenever they were together. She didn’t want to be standing here on this cold harbourside, watching the creeping sea with a sense of dread that spoke to her very bones.

  “They haven’t worn off – they’re underwater already. There are three hours and more to go until high tide.”

  “But… It’s not even a spring tide, surely?”

  “No. It’s not.” Darnell stared out across the harbour. “It’s been happening steadily over the years – ever since I settled here. Every year, the tides have climbed higher and higher up the harbour wall. But this is the worst I’ve seen it.”

  And three hours to go to high tide? Lena looked down at the rising waters. The lower level of the harbour was submerged already, along with several of the steps leading down to it. The water washed back and forth, revealing then concealing another step. Even as she watched the tide climbed higher so the surface of the step could no longer be seen, except through a shimmering layer of water. She slid her arm about Darnell’s waist and they watched and waited together as another step was gradually overtaken by the sea.

  “How high will it get? Will it stop?”

  “I reckon it will top the harbourside this year, and flood these streets. And it won’t even take a storm to do it.” Darnell nodded over his shoulder.

  Lena turned to look, trying to visualise the familiar scene overrun, submerged in sea water. All the goods that were stacked waiting for hauliers to take them away, the crowd of people waiting to board the ferry that had just arrived from the Outer Isles. The passengers were filing off it now, carrying bags and bundles, negotiating the gangplank with varying degrees of ease. And the very last passenger moved leisurely behind the others, his bundle rather smaller than theirs. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself, but it wasn’t until he stepped onto the harbour wall that a shock of recognition ran through her. And, as if he sensed it, the newcomer looked directly at her.

  Bleaklow.

  Darnell must have felt her tense, for he was distracted from his contemplation of the sea. “What is it?”

  She twisted round to put Darnell between her and Bleaklow. “This place, it chills me today. Let’s go back to your house.” She knew a sudden desperation. She had no idea if Bleaklow had recognised her in that instant: why should he have, after all, her hair cropped short, wearing a commoner’s garments and entwined in the arms of another man. There had been no recognition in that instant his eyes had met hers. But why else would her father’s servant be here, if not to search for her? She tightened her arm about Darnell.

  “Let’s go back right now. I want to feel alive. I want you to love me.”

  Darnell hesitated, troubled. “What is wrong? Not that I don’t welcome your suggestion… But–”

  “Wrong? Oh, don’t ask me to explain. I just have this sense we may not have so v
ery long together.” She tugged at his hand. “Come with me now.”

  Darnell needed no further invitation as he caught her sense of urgency and they wasted no time returning to his house.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rekhart shivered. He’d been standing out here in the cold a good hour or more already and the barge was late. If it didn’t turn up soon he’d a good mind to tell Jervin just where he could shove his latest errand and go home to the warmth of his bed. A chill mist had crept up from the river, occluding the clear sky which promised frost before dawn. Goddess, he’d better not still be waiting here by then. Where was the accursed barge?

  Rekhart stamped his feet and blew on his fingers in an attempt to warm them. He’d long ago finished the contents of the small flask he carried. He was tempted to slip away and replenish it at the nearest tavern, but the only money in his scrip right now belonged to Jervin. And every coin of it was destined for this contact of Jervin’s who was travelling on this abominably late barge. Of all the things he might have been doing on his first night off duty in ten days – well, this was not what he would have chosen. There wasn’t even a night watchman here tonight to keep him company. But he’d have cleared the last of his debt soon and there’d be no more hanging about on cold docks waiting for whichever shipment of goods Jervin had due in. No, by the Goddess, there wouldn’t. He’d learned his lesson.

  Rekhart shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his surcoat. Alongside the key to the warehouse he could feel the pouch containing his dice. He still carried them, fool that he was. They were what had led him into this in the first place. He’d had some vague idea of keeping them as a reminder, but instead they were a source of constant temptation. He drew the pouch out of his pocket and untied the loop that fastened it shut. He tipped the dice out, turning them over in his hands. They were a fine set, carved from quality bone, with no chips or blemishes. Absentmindedly he rolled them on the flat top of the harbour wall. All twos and ones.

  No use to anyone. And what did he imagine he was doing with them now? As if rolling sevens would change anything.

  Rekhart scooped the dice up and stuffed them back into the pouch, fastening it tight. The surface of the river was still, the current running deep and unseen. Moonlight spread over the water, calm and accepting. On an impulse Rekhart drew his arm back and hurled the dice pouch out over the water. The pouch sailed far beyond reach of the harbour lights, then dropped into the water with an unremarkable plop. Ripples spread from the point where it sank, setting the moonlight dancing.

  It was as easy as that. He would turn his life around and close this sorry episode. Maybe three, four more nights to do and he’d have settled up with Jervin. And then… There was that merchant’s daughter from the trade quarter. He’d spoken to her at the spring fair. He saw her sometimes, fetching and carrying from her father’s market stall. She always had a shy smile for him. Perhaps–

  From upriver Rekhart heard the unmistakable splashing of oars deployed by tired hands. This would be his barge, at long last. He’d be able to stow the goods in Jervin’s warehouse and be tucked up warm in his own bed before another half hour was out.

  He gave his hands a last rub to warm them through and paused to check his knife was snugly in position on his belt, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Many of Jervin’s business associates were less than savoury.

  The barge nudged up against the side of the dock with a gentle thud. Rekhart caught the line the captain threw over and secured it about the nearest bollard. A moment later a figure stepped up from inside the barge and leaped easily over to the dock.

  “You’re Jervin’s man? Not seen you before.” The voice was a woman’s, of low timbre, but unmistakably a woman’s.

  “I’m Jervin’s man.” The words seemed to stick in Rekhart’s throat. But not for much longer, he wanted to add.

  The woman eyed him with curiosity. Her long hair was wild and unkempt, and she had a front tooth missing. “Aye, well. If you say so, you likely are.” She grinned. “Best get this done then. You got my money?”

  “I have. You can count it in the warehouse.”

  She shrugged, chewing on a mouthful of tobacco and spitting on the ground. “You’re the cautious one. Makes no odds to me.” She turned and shouted back to the barge. “Wait there, Tam. No unloading till I’ve counted up.”

  She walked with Rekhart to the warehouse, clearly knowing the way already. He unlocked the door and they stepped inside. He soon regretted his decision to conduct their business behind closed doors rather than out in the open – some time must have lapsed since any of the woman’s garments had been washed, let alone her person. He didn’t delay in handing over the fat purse Jervin had given him.

  She opened it there on the spot and counted through it, taking her time. Then she counted out half a dozen coins and handed them back to him. “You give that back to Jervin, an’ you tell ’im the load’s not complete. I’ll not charge him for goods I can’t deliver. And you make your mark on this ’ere paper so’s I’ve proof you took it from me. I’ll not have Jervin chasin’ me for short delivery.”

  The woman looked pointedly around the warehouse as Rekhart signed a receipt for her.

  “We ’ad some trouble wi’ this lot on the river. Be glad to unload ’em. You got the cellar key, too?”

  “Yes, of course.” Rekhart drew the key from his pocket, wishing the woman wouldn’t stand so close. In truth he’d forgotten about it, but Jervin had instructed him this consignment must go in the cellar. A particularly expensive vintage, he guessed. He unlocked the solid door, to be greeted by a rush of rank air, fusty and damp. He hoped the wine barrels were well-sealed.

  The woman had already set off back to the barge and he followed her, grateful for the relatively fresh air outside, despite the usual dockside smells.

  “Let’s have ’em, Tam.”

  A stooped figure clambered up on deck of the barge, while the captain had set up a gangplank to allow them to unload the goods. Rekhart hoped it wouldn’t take long. He was ready for his bed. And if they thought he was about to help with the fetching and carrying…

  He stopped, one foot on the gangplank as one small figure after another emerged from the cabin behind the individual known as Tam. This was no trick of the moonlight: the stooped figure was leading a string of children from the cabin, their hands bound, each one tied to the child in front like so many mules. He stepped back as Tam tugged at the leader and they shuffled one by one along the gangplank, past Rekhart and onto the dock. For the most part they kept their eyes downcast. One gave Rekhart a wary glance, as if they would sooner not walk so close to him, lest he lash out.

  “Wait. What’s this?” Rekhart turned to the woman.

  “Nine of ’em. I gev you back coin for the other, like I said. Get ’em inside, Tam. Cellar’s open.”

  Tam grunted and tugged at the leader of the string of children, who stumbled after him. The rest followed, their steps uncertain as if they’d spent a lot of time crammed into a tiny space. And from Rekhart’s scanty knowledge of barges, they must have.

  “But… they’re children.” The eldest couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve.

  The woman turned back from paying off the barge captain and walked off the gangplank. “Aye. An’ all fit an’ healthy. You’ll not catch us passing off substandard goods, no–”

  “Oy, wait!” The captain emerged from the cabin. “You’ve left one behind.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “An’ I told you, you gev ’em bad water. It’s your problem.”

  “I did no such thing. The others would be ill, too, wouldn’t they?” The captain gestured towards the line of children vanishing inside the warehouse. “They’re fine, can see for yourself. You want me to run for you again, you’ll take this ’un off, too. I can find plenty work without havin’ to clear up after my cargo.”

  The woman shrugged. “’Ere, gie’s a hand.” She tugged on Rekhart’s sleeve and he followed her numbly. She ducked
inside the cabin and emerged backwards a moment later, stooped over as she dragged a limp form by the shoulders. “Grab ’is feet, then.”

  Rekhart stepped forward and picked up the child’s feet which were trailing on the deck. He guessed this one to be nine or ten. The boy’s eyes opened briefly and he stared at Rekhart with the unfocused gaze of the fevered patient. His head slumped back and he moaned as Rekhart lifted his feet in the air so they were no longer dragging over the ground. The boy’s arms dangled free. At least they’d had the humanity to unbind his hands. The child needed a healer, there was no doubt of that. Who would be safest to consult? He was vaguely aware if the woman moved any further back she’d miss the gangplank at the end of the barge altogether, and get a long overdue washing.

  “You ready?” The woman adjusted her grip, raising the boy slightly. Rekhart nodded, likewise raising the inert form so they could lift him onto the gangplank without injury. Then the woman swung the boy’s head and shoulders bodily out over the edge of the boat and let go. Reflexively, Rekhart tried to hang onto the lad’s ankles with the result the lad’s upper body pivoted in mid-air, swinging round before he dropped out of sight and his head smashed against the side of the barge with a sickening, hollow thud. Rekhart couldn’t have said quite when or how he lost his grip on the lad’s ankles, but he was left clutching one worn old boot as the boy sank beneath the surface of the water without so much as a kick of his bare and grimy foot.

  The ripples had almost stilled before Rekhart dropped the boy’s boot in after him.