Waterborne Exile Read online

  She was enjoying one such moment of perfect peace when Marten came walking up the slope, a bag slung over his shoulder. This was it, then.

  “Marten.”

  “My lady.” He hunkered down beside her, his back against the rock.

  “You are leaving?”

  “I am leaving. I have been waiting only for the heat of the day to die down.”

  “Then I wish you well.” She need not tell him her own thoughts had been following similar lines.

  “Thank you my lady, that is more than I deserve. And yet… I wish you would join me.”

  “Indeed?” She set one hand on her swollen belly. “I doubt I’ll be going anywhere for a while.” The unborn child twisted beneath her hand, as if it knew her words were untrue.

  “I can delay no longer. I shall achieve nothing while I remain here.”

  The same could be said of all of them. A wave of weariness swept over her. The moment of peace was gone beyond recall.

  “We must follow different paths this time, Marten. They will like as not lead to the same place in the end, anyway.”

  “Do you dabble in prophecy now?”

  “I can think of few things more futile – I shall not make a habit of it.”

  “You will be careful, when I am gone?”

  She pressed a hand to her bulging stomach. “Right now I have very little option.”

  “Even so – you are uneasy, my lady. Promise me you will do nothing rash.”

  Alwenna shook her head. “Such a promise would have seen you dead on the floor of the summer palace months ago. I will do whatever’s necessary.”

  Marten pushed himself to his feet. “Then I must go without reassurance from you.”

  “You’re a grown man, and you’ve managed well enough these past years.”

  “Indeed I have. Behold the proof of my success: destitute and cast out by my own people.”

  Alwenna smiled. “Free and unfettered. I wish you well, Marten, truly. You will find the courage to do what is right in the end.”

  He hesitated. “What do you know? Will you not tell me?”

  “I know a thousand things, none of which may come to pass. Ask me what I don’t know, that would be easier to answer.”

  “Then tell me what you do not know, my lady.”

  No need to lie this time. “We are stepping out into darkness, Marten. I do not know where our feet will land.”

  Marten bowed his head. “I cannot argue with that. It is not easy travelling by night, but it is sometimes safer to avoid the heat of the day.”

  “You will make a fine prophet one day. May your road be clear, Marten.”

  “And yours, my lady.”

  He made his way back down the slope, his pace unhurried. It was the gait of a man embarking on a long journey. As he passed the door that had been his own, his sons came out. The eldest stood off to one side, awkward in his new-found maturity, while the younger two hugged their father. His wife looked on, her arms folded. Alwenna couldn’t see her expression from this distance, but she could picture it: the woman’s lips pressed tight with disapproval, her brow creased.

  The youngest boy returned to his mother’s side as the eldest shook hands awkwardly with his father. The middle son, Brett, walked with him to where his horse waited, helping to saddle up, before watching by the meeting tree until his father had ridden out of sight.

  She still had one ally at Scarrow’s Deep, at least.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Market days in Brigholm were colourful. Drew wound his way between the stalls laden with goods – some familiar, some exotic – shipped from far off places. He couldn’t be further removed from his provincial beginnings. If the Lady Alwenna hadn’t come to Vorrahan he’d still be trapped there now, stifling under the dour gaze of the grey stone precinct. He wondered how she was faring. Word of a catastrophic fire at the old summer palace had reached Brigholm but there had been no details. But he’d have known if she’d been caught up in that – he was sure of it. Jervin had no time for freemerchants, so he’d heard little gossip. And he was convinced the freemerchants would have word of her. Drew didn’t stop to question such instincts these days – dwelling on such things just led to lack of sleep.

  Somewhere about there had to be a freemerchant trader. Drew scanned the marketplace. There were bolts of fine fabrics brought up from Ellisquay, jewellery and pottery from local craftsmen, bags and gloves produced with leather from the tanneries downriver. But there were quite a few empty stalls, too – produce from the south simply wasn’t getting through to Highkell and existing stocks had finally been used up. The only flour to be had was the rough-ground local stuff and even that was scarce now. Prices had gone up at the bakers’ stalls, too. And there weren’t as many people about as he would have expected for that time of day.

  Then he saw a familiar face approaching: Jaseph Rekhart. The commander of the city watch must be off-duty for he was not wearing his usual livery. He was startled by Drew’s greeting, but he stopped to talk. Drew saw then that Rekhart’s face was deeply lined and carried several days’ growth of stubble. The city watchman must still be haunted by recent events.

  “Are you well, Rekhart?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Then join me awhile for a drink. I was about to stop here.” He gestured towards a nearby kopamid house.

  Rekhart appeared to fight some inner battle, but his mouth twisted in something approaching a smile. “That would be welcome, and I cannot pretend otherwise, but… I have no money.”

  “I invited you to join me, I don’t expect you to pay. I would be glad of your company – I know few enough people in Brigholm and am always glad to catch up with a friend.”

  “I’m honoured to call any friend of Weaver’s a friend of mine.”

  It was clear that whatever troubled the city watchman had not diminished in recent days. He was living under some kind of strain. Perhaps now Drew would learn what. It seemed important he should do so, although he was at a loss to explain why. Was it the promptings of his meagre sight, or simply a desire to speak to someone from outside Jervin’s household?

  Drew poured the kopamid. The beakers in this kopamid house were plainer than those at Jervin’s home, but still brightly-coloured. The blend of spices made up for any lack of ostentation, rich and aromatic. Drew had found himself taking to the ritual of drinking kopamid as one born to the habit. He passed Rekhart’s drink to him and the watchman took it with unsteady hands, setting it down on the table sharply.

  “My thanks.”

  “Let us drink to continued good health.” Drew drank from his beaker first; some of the freemerchant ways had caught on in Brigholm.

  “I’ll gladly drink to your health.” Rekhart raised his own beaker, sipping a small quantity of the dark fluid.

  “But not your own?”

  “I’m not a deserving case. Not right now.”

  “Surely not. Can I suggest you are being too hard on yourself?”

  “I told you when last we met I’d seen and done such things as…” Rekhart clasped his fingers together, to steady them. “Even now I cannot bring myself to speak of them, I have found them so repellent. In truth, that’s why I am glad to encounter you today.”

  He fell silent, as if he felt he’d suddenly said more than enough.

  “If I can help in any way, then I shall. You can count on my friendship.”

  Rekhart shook his head. “You’re a good man… and I hate to put upon you. But… I understand you took holy orders. I… have been thinking of late of joining the precinct, as a way to make amends.” He looked up at Drew then, searching his face for… what? Approval?

  This was all the wrong way round. What advice could he possibly offer when he’d fled the precinct under a shadow? “In truth, I do not know what to say. My time at the precinct was… well, I wouldn’t be here now if I’d been successful in finding my true place there.”

  “But… to withdraw from all this. To spend my time in pra
yer and reflection, to make amends for my poor choices…”

  “My friend, if you hope to discover spiritual peace at the precinct, I fear you would be disappointed. One of the reasons for my departure was the lack of any true spirituality. After Brother Gwydion’s death, there were few there who were as devout as he had been. And Father Garrad, of course, betrayed a scared trust for the sake of money when he handed over the Lady Alwenna to the new king. There were others there, too, who held high rank, but…” What to say about Brother Irwyn? There was every possibility he might be in charge now without Father Garrad to guide the precinct. “You were frank with me when last we spoke, and now I must return the favour. Vorrahan has a reputation for piety and spirituality, but as your friend I cannot urge you to go there. That is not at all what you want to hear, is it?”

  Rekhart took another mouthful of kopamid. “I don’t expect it to be easy… but I thought, if I could devote myself to service of the Goddess…”

  “Can you not be content serving the Goddess through your work with the city watch? That is vital, after all. A great service to her people.”

  Rekhart ran a hand through his hair. “I no longer work for the city watch. I was dismissed several days ago.”

  Drew gaped at him. “Impossible! How can that be?”

  “How? Very easily if a commander turns up drunk to work. Easier still if an influential businessman has already laid information against him, before plying him with drink.”

  Drew’s heart sank. “And that businessman…” He didn’t need to ask, but he needed to hear the answer spoken all the same. “It was Jervin?”

  Rekhart nodded, then drained his beaker. “The very same.”

  “But… you and he had an understanding.”

  Rekhart ran his hand through his hair again. “We did indeed. I was foolish enough to think I could break with him.”

  Some of the sunlight had leached out of Drew’s day. Jervin wouldn’t have been so petty? Surely… He recalled the snippets of conversation he’d overheard when he’d eavesdropped on his meeting with the Ellisquay traders, the sense of Jervin’s implacable resentment. He pushed the thought away. “There must have been some misunderstanding. Let me speak with Jervin and see what can be resolved.” Did he have enough influence with him, when all was said and done?

  “There’s no need. I’m sorry to have mentioned it at all, Drew. None of it has been your doing and I ought not set you one against the other.”

  “But my friend, surely this can be resolved?”

  “Jervin made it clear if I would not work for him I would work for no one in Brigholm. I fear he was as good as his word.”

  “But… that’s unspeakable. I pray to the Goddess there has been some simple misunderstanding.”

  “I cannot ask you to intervene.”

  “Would you work for him now, if you were given the chance? If only until you could make other plans? I’m not convinced the precinct will be what you need.”

  Rekhart hesitated. “Goddess knows, I dislike going hungry. See, even my pride has left me. I would swallow all my principles to see a square meal on the table again, after only a matter of days.”

  “It need not be for ever. Only until you find something better.”

  Drew watched Rekhart’s expression harden as he warred with himself again, and lost.

  “Do you think you can persuade him?”

  “I can’t promise anything. But you have my word I will try, my friend.”

  Rekhart nodded and got to his feet. “Have a care for your own wellbeing. I will not think the less of you if you change your mind.”

  Drew watched Rekhart walk away. He’d found the courage to act on his doubts, and Jervin had broken him. Could he really be telling the truth? Drew couldn’t believe Jervin would treat one of his own so harshly. He refused to believe it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Peveril set the necklace on the table in his room and sat down, staring at it. It was a fine piece of work. For all he’d told the apprentice it couldn’t be repaired, he had no doubt it could – by the right craftsman. But with the way old Marwick had been sniffing around lately he couldn’t risk taking it to anyone in Highkell. And no one in the south, either, if his guess as to the origins of the necklace was right. That left east – Brigholm, or beyond. There were plenty of dealers there who’d give him a good price for it and ask no questions.

  The real question was, would they give him more than Vasic might pay for the tale he’d overheard? He took a swig from the wine bottle at his elbow. It set his teeth on edge, but he could afford nothing better. And he suspected Vasic’s generosity would do little to improve that situation. No, if he told the king his bride-to-be had been rescued from the rubble he doubted Vasic’s generosity would even be expressed in anything as tangible as money. A promotion, perhaps. Most likely in the form of a succession of taxing duties that would prove far more onerous than his present work. And would Vasic welcome the news anyway? He’d more likely be relieved to learn for certain that his erstwhile bride-to-be was dead. And the more Peveril thought about it, the more he suspected Vasic was likely to pay generously the man who could make sure of Alwenna’s death. Now there were possibilities. But discovering she lived was one thing; scouring the country to find her was quite another matter. He’d recognise her again, for sure, but he couldn’t hope to have the good luck of stumbling upon her during a routine patrol. She’d be far from Highkell anyway, if she had any sense.

  No, Vasic would not be overjoyed to learn she may have lived. Peveril prided himself on understanding human nature. It would be a waste to offer the entire necklace to him: the single leaf would suffice to support Peveril’s tale. The king need never learn about the rest of the necklace, unless his reaction was unexpectedly favourable.

  Was there anyone who might pay him more generously for his information? Vasic had enemies – would they be able to make better use of the secret? There were all sorts of rumours flying about the city already. The Goddess had handed him a rare opportunity with this necklace: he must turn it to a profit on his own account somehow. Peveril scooped the necklace up and folded it away, tucking it inside the leather pouch which he slung around his neck. Truth was, he was slowing down. If a gift like this had come his way a year or two ago he’d not have hesitated the way he was now. But he’d learned caution. This was too big a matter to risk his hand being detected. Art Peveril was on the up, and he wouldn’t waste this chance by acting hastily.

  The scribe, Birtle, was already bent over the ledgers scratching away with his pen when Peveril walked into the counting-house. He looked up as the door opened.

  “Good morning.”

  Peveril grunted. There was little good about it. The leather pouch nestled against his chest, taunting him for his failure to find a way to turn it to profit.

  “That’s no way to greet a fellow who’s just being sociable.”

  “Is that so?” Peveril turned a dead-eyed stare to Birtle, who remained unabashed.

  “Not when you hear what I have to tell you.” Birtle set his pen down. “Your friend’s been asking a lot of questions about you lately.”

  “Which friend would that be?” Peveril kept his voice non-committal.

  “Of course, you have so many.” Was that the ghost of a smile that crossed the skinny cleric’s features? Birtle rested his hands on the desk in front of him, clasping his fingers together. “That would be the friend you usually refer to as Old Faceache.”

  “Has he nowt better to do?”

  “Apparently not.” The cleric fixed him with a steady gaze.

  Peveril fought the urge to turn away. “Are you implying something, Birtle? It would save us both time if’n you just came right out and said it.”

  “Not at all, old fellow, not at all. I just thought it fair to warn you.” Birtle unclasped his fingers and took up the quill again, dipping it in the pot of ink on his desk. “We go back a long way. Neither one of us is likely to benefit if the other were to fall foul of t
he authorities now.”

  Peveril had no arguments on that score. “There at least we agree.”

  “Be careful of Marwick. He’s under pressure from the king to deliver impossible demands. He’s looking for easier ways to keep face.”

  “If he thinks taking me on would be easy, he’s a bigger fool ’n I ever thought.”

  “Again, we are in complete agreement, my friend. But he has taken a great deal of interest in that business with the stonemason’s apprentice. Poor lad was found dead, face down on his own bed. Strangled, apparently.”

  “Arrogant little prick likely asked for it.”

  “Like as not. The honourable Lord Marwick is yet to be convinced of that, I fear.” The cleric bent over the ledgers once more.

  Birtle knew too much. Far too much. But he was one of Peveril’s more useful connections and he wasn’t about to cut off his nose to spite his face. Marwick, on the other hand, was rapidly becoming a thorn in his side. Something might have to be done about that.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Durstan watched from the gallery above as the soldier now known as Pius applied the last of the day’s nine strokes to the priestess’s back. The soldier applied the whip mechanically, without any apparent force, but the girl flinched a little more with every stroke. There was a time Durstan would have ordered the soldier to apply the whip harder. He liked to think he’d learned compassion in recent years.

  This was the ninth of the nine days. Durstan found himself clenching his fist about the holy sceptre he held before him. He could not speak out now – he had set the punishment, and he must be seen to be unyielding. At the seventh stroke, a tremor ran through the girl’s slender frame and fresh blood sprang to the surface where her back had been repeatedly crossed by the lash. His orders had done this.

  At the eighth, she shuddered and her head sunk lower, but still she bore the punishment in silence. Few men had displayed her courage in the face of such an ordeal. At the ninth her knees gave way and she sagged where she stood, arms bound above her head else she’d have dropped to the floor.