Waterborne Exile Read online

Rina’s eyebrows snapped together as she frowned. “Three? Are you sure? Tell Rogen – he’ll need to go and look.”

  Did she think he couldn’t count? Always the same – his word was never good enough.

  “Quickly, now. Tell Rogen.”

  When Brett burst in on Rogen still at his breakfast the old man’s reaction to the news was more gratifying. He took up his bow – he adhered to the tradition that freemerchants should not carry edged blades – and followed him outside, questioning him for more detail.

  “Heading straight for Scarrow’s Deep from the south, you say? It could be your father. Or Nicholl. But you say you didn’t know the horses?”

  “No. There was one bay, but it was a short, cobby animal.”

  “Could be he met trouble on the road. He has a knack for finding it, your father.”

  They hadn’t long to wait before the horses could be heard climbing the slope towards Scarrow’s Deep. From the cover of a pile of boulders, Rogen nocked an arrow and shouted out a challenge to the approaching riders.

  “Halt and state your business.”

  “My business? Putting food on freemerchant plates, as it ever has been.”

  With a flush of relief Brett recognised his father’s voice. Rogen eased his bowstring and returned the arrow to his quiver, before pushing himself to his feet. Brett followed him out from behind the cover of the rocks. Close to he had no difficulty recognising his father’s taller figure, riding a grey horse without the benefit of saddle or bridle, only a meagre halter. Behind him, the other two riders were women, both mounted the same way as his father, without saddle or bridle. Both women slumped on their horses. They must have been riding half the night. Their heads were wrapped in scarves to protect them from the heat of the sun and the dust. They rode side by side, until the track they followed narrowed and the slighter-built one reined in her horse, dropping to the rear. She had tanned skin and freckles. Wisps of hair escaped from beneath her scarf; her forearms were wiry, strong.

  Brett moved his attention to the woman who rode behind his father, eyeing her with curiosity. She had fair skin, ill-suited to the desert heat. There was something ethereal about her, something he couldn’t quite name, some sense of – what, he wasn’t sure. As if aware of his scrutiny she looked up and her eyes met his. Brett caught his breath. For a moment it was as if she could read his innermost thoughts. But that was silly. No one could do such a thing. There was a slight twist of her mouth that might have been a smile then she nodded and he found he could turn his eyes away at last, aware of a sudden sense of great grief. Such a sorrow as he’d never known before. He felt strangely guilty, as if he’d intruded somehow.

  He fell in behind their horses as they picked their way up the valley. This was something important here, something momentous.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tad had to balance on a block of wood to reach the sink properly to scrub the pans. The other kitchen apprentices were pleased to shove him off it for their own amusement. Since the fire, part of the summer palace had been abandoned and there were fewer cleaning tasks to keep Tad’s persecutors occupied. Mostly he kept his head down and tried not to attract their notice. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t. He picked himself up off the floor, nursing a grazed elbow as the two lads hurried away, suppressing their laughter as the cook in the next room growled a warning to them. Tad winced as he heaved the last of the heavy pots out of the stone sink and set it to dry on the sloping shelf beside it.

  Other times this had happened he’d promised himself he’d run away, but it wasn’t that easy now. He had responsibilities. He hugged the secret to himself: he had a reason to stay.

  Tad recognised the familiar rush of air through the muggy room: the cook had stepped outside to smoke. This was his chance. He stepped down from the block of wood with elaborate care and tiptoed to the kitchen door, peering through. The room was empty. Tad spun away on his heel and hurried over to the pantry. He tugged a rough-woven bag from the waistband of his leggings and stuffed it with food – taking some fruit from here, some vegetables from there. Reluctantly he left the grain as he had nowhere to cook it. He risked taking a single bread bun from the latest batch, rearranging the others on the tray so there was no obvious gap. He slipped out of the pantry, gently closing the door behind him then hurried down the corridor. He stowed the bag carefully out of sight beneath a stone sconce in one of the disused rooms before scurrying back to his perch on the wooden block. He was just in time to hear the outer door slam as the cook returned to the kitchen, bellowing for Tad to bring the stock pot through.

  It was dark before Tad had the chance to take the food to his patient. One of the servants had noticed a water carafe had gone missing. There had been an awkward moment when all eyes turned to him and he thought they’d guessed his guilty secret, but, no, he’d been accused of breaking it and hiding the pieces. He didn’t deny it, hanging his head in apparent shame while he kept his lips pressed tight together, fighting the relief that made him want to grin.

  Josh, the ringleader of his tormentors rounded on him afterwards. “You’re a liar, Tad No-name.”

  Tad shrugged one shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on his work.

  “You’re a stupid no-good liar with no family, that’s what.” Josh shoved him and Tad had to flail to keep his balance, half-stepping and half-falling from his perch.

  “I’m here in the same place as you. Your family couldn’t wait to be rid of you, could they?”

  That riposte earned him a few more grazes, a black eye, and a sharp reprimand from the cook. But Josh fared little better and when Tad had done cleaning the rest of the pots and pans that evening, Josh wasn’t lurking outside the scullery waiting to resume battle. That suited Tad just fine.

  He made sure no one was around to see before he ducked down the corridor to the unused storerooms.

  The soldier was lying on the makeshift bed, propped up against the corner of the room, chin sunk in a half-doze. He raised his head when Tad entered the room. The soldier’s breathing was heavy, sluggish. His chest heaved as he drew in each breath.

  “Oh. It’s you.” The soldier was listless. Even these words seemed to be too much effort for him.

  “I brought you fruit. It’s good. It will help you fight the infection.” Tad noticed the bandages he’d carefully applied to the man’s arm had fallen loose again. The skin beneath was raw, red, angry still. He’d cleaned it as best he could, but he worried his best was not enough. How could the soldier be getting worse now, when he’d survived the fire? He’d seemed so much better the first couple of days, but now…? The man slumped in the corner with an air of defeat. A rank smell hung about him. A smell of impending death. Tad shuddered. He knew that smell well enough, having tended the grey brethren before their rites. Of course he’d never seen the ritual itself performed, but he had helped prepare the altars.

  The man’s chest rattled as he drew in a laboured breath. Tad winced. He needed to get a proper healer to the man, and quickly. But any healer would have awkward questions to ask – and like as not hand him over to prelate Durstan for questioning anyway, even if they didn’t recognise the former King’s Man. And Tad would get into so much trouble… But he couldn’t abandon his patient now. There had to be a way.

  It dawned on him slowly that his sister had been trained in healing arts by the cult. He’d hoped to keep the injured soldier a secret from her. That had been the game, at first: to defy her. Pure and simple. To prove to her that he existed for reasons other than to do her bidding. And perhaps, deep down, he still wanted to believe the story she’d told him about the man being their father. Here, hidden in this room, he could pretend it was true. The shadows were sympathetic to his daydreams. Once she knew, then her scorn would peel away the layers of illusion that he found so comforting.

  Tad peeled and sliced a peach for his patient, who offered him a hoarse word of thanks in return. Even by the poor light in the storeroom Tad could see the man’s pallor was increasing. An
d there could be no ignoring the disturbing sound that issued from the man’s lungs each time he drew breath or exhaled. The fruit sat forgotten in the soldier’s hands.

  “Here, you need to eat if you’re going to recover.” Tad hesitated before taking a slice of peach from the man’s lax grip and held it up to his mouth. “Taste it. It’s good. It’s the best, brought in for the prelate’s table.” He tried to prevent his hands shaking. This didn’t look good, not at all.

  The soldier opened his mouth and chewed the fruit painfully slowly. Tad repeated the process with the next, and the next, until the peach was gone. He tried the same with the bread but the man’s strength was spent. “Have some wine, at least. It’ll strengthen your blood.” He’d heard the healers say that often enough, it had to be true. Surely this would help, if only the man would drink it. He held the beaker up to his lips and the man gulped. As much wine dribbled down his chin as he managed to swallow, but half the beaker was consumed that way, until the man shook his head.

  “No more.” His voice was painfully hoarse, and the effort of speaking set off a rasping deep within his chest.

  “Good?” Tad asked. There was a little more colour in his patient’s cheeks.

  The man nodded, summoning a tight smile, and he stirred himself enough to raise a hand to wipe the spilt wine from his chin. “The prelate’s, too?”

  Tad grinned with relief, and nodded. “Yes. I’ll leave the rest here for you. In case you’re thirsty later.”

  Tad set the beaker down on the stone floor, within reach, but not so close he might knock it over by accident. “I’ll be back at first light. Mind you rest.” He left his patient picking at a chunk of bread and made his way back to the kitchens, pausing to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. Surely the Goddess would spare the soldier now, after all he’d been through? She could not be so cruel. Tad offered up a guilty prayer, hoping the Goddess hadn’t heard him doubting her, but he didn’t think she’d heard anything at all. And, worse, he didn’t think she cared to make the soldier live.

  He had to act. There was no doubt his patient’s condition was worsening. And he could think of only one thing to do.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The meeting had been going on all evening. Drew flung his book to one side. He was in no mood for foolish stories. Not when something of such importance was happening in Jervin’s office at the far end of the hall. The one room in the house Drew had never been permitted to enter.

  Not for the first time he wished he had the nerve to just barge in there. How could he help Jervin with the business if he didn’t know the half of it? He’d heard enough snippets of conversation – only that day he’d been on the point of returning a book to the library. For some reason – Goddess knew what – he’d hesitated before pushing open the door which he’d found ajar. Perhaps some instinct had warned him there were people in the room already.

  Then came a man’s voice, raised. “This wasn’t part of our deal. News, you said. I should let you know if anything important came up.” Rekhart, Drew guessed.

  “And so you have, most reliably. I don’t see what your problem is. I pay you generously, do I not?”

  “Of course. But I must be careful.” It was definitely Rekhart’s voice. “Carrying word to you is one thing. Tampering with records… Well. The chances of getting caught are severe. I daren’t–”

  Behind Drew a door handle rattled and he jumped back from the library door. He hurried on to the stairs and began to climb them, hoping it was not apparent he’d just been eavesdropping.

  He risked a glance back from the half-landing. It was only a servant, shuffling along the hall with an empty log basket. The man never so much as glanced in Drew’s direction. Wasn’t that the way of it: Drew’s fate was to be always invisible. With a grimace he continued up the stairs.

  Drew had spoken with Rekhart a few times and found the leader of the city watch to be pleasant-natured, easy to talk to. He knew he had known Weaver for many years, and had remained on good terms with him despite the price on Weaver’s head in Highground. But hearing Rekhart question Jervin like that troubled him. This wasn’t an isolated incident. This wasn’t the first time he’d had reason to doubt Jervin’s… He hesitated to use the word honesty, but he could not deny Jervin had displayed a certain lax attitude towards the law at times. He knew Jervin had a past – he’d worked his way up to this grand house from nothing. A childhood in the slums of the biggest port in the Peninsula was bound to have left indelible marks on Jervin. Of course, he had to be driven to have achieved so much. But now he had, Drew reasoned, he might be expected to focus on the more positive aspects of his life, to pause long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He might step away from the less savoury business that had brought him to this point, surely? How could a man of his urbane tastes and sophistication not wish to do so?

  Yet Rekhart must have had good reason to take issue with the terms of his agreement with Jervin. Drew was not so naive he expected the commander of the city watch to have no dealings at all with local businessmen – after all, information could flow in both directions, wittingly or otherwise. Certain associations were only prudent. But for Rekhart to remonstrate with Jervin – the hitherto mild-mannered Rekhart – for him to risk alienating Jervin, who was famed for his short temper. Well, that troubled Drew.

  Jervin had a reputation to uphold, Drew understood that. Jervin’s dealings with Drew had always been considerate, affectionate when the two of them were alone. As Jervin’s live-in lover, Drew knew a side of his character few would have seen and certainly not his business associates. And yet…

  There had been that time, on his way to run an errand of some kind, Drew had passed the parlour door which stood open and seen Jervin in conversation with a number of strangers. Jervin had glanced up as Drew hesitated, nodded curtly to him and gestured to someone unseen who closed the door firmly, leaving Drew alone in the hallway, excluded. That had been the early days of course, while he had still been a relative stranger and Jervin had been cautious with him, but time had passed since then. Drew felt as natural and familiar with his lover as if he’d been family – more so, even than that. He helped with many matters of Jervin’s business, keeping accounts for his shops in the town. But here he was again, shut out of an important meeting in that room he’d never caught so much as a glimpse of.

  Downstairs, a door thudded. Voices in the hallway told him the meeting was over. As ever, they left the house by the back door. Drew eased his curtain aside with a fingertip. The night was still clear, no fog yet, and he could make out the figures as they crossed to the back gate. Two were tall men he didn’t recognise. The third was a short, stout man he’d taken a dislike to early on – from the snide remarks he’d made, Drew surmised the man to be a jilted lover of Jervin’s. The other was indeed Rekhart, who paused long enough by the lamp over the gate for Drew to be sure. Rekhart looked back at the door he’d only just left, as if he’d return to the house, but then with a gesture of frustration he spun on his heel and strode away, his shoulders hunched. Drew could picture the frown he most surely carried on his face. A footstep on the landing prompted Drew to drop the curtain and move away from the window, feeling as if he’d been caught out in some wrongdoing. This was becoming a habit.

  The door opened and Jervin stepped in. His face was not the usual unreadable mask, tonight there was a scarce-suppressed smile lighting his features.

  “Your meeting is over, then?” The words sounded more petulant than Drew had intended. But in truth they mirrored how he felt.

  “What’s the matter? Have I been gone too long for your liking?” Jervin was in a playful mood. His smile was assured as he approached Drew and raised one hand, sliding his fingertip down the front of Drew’s shirt, over his sternum, down to his stomach.

  Drew snatched in his breath, almost involuntarily, but stepped back. “Don’t tease. I’m not some child to be turned from my purpose so easily.”

  “You have a purpose, do you?” J
ervin grinned, unbuttoning his own shirt. “So have I. But tell me about yours first. I like purpose in a man.”

  “Of course I have purpose. Why wouldn’t I? You always assume the least of me.”

  Jervin dropped his silk shirt on the floor. “If your purpose is to bore me you’re going the right way about it. Come now, we have better things to do than argue about nothing.”

  All Drew needed to do was summon a rational argument. But it always went like this. Jervin had a way of leaving his thoughts in disorder, just when he most wanted to express something he’d barely become aware of. And the sight of Jervin’s naked torso was too tempting a distraction. And he was right. Of late they’d had little enough time together, without spending it arguing – over what, in the end? A moment’s pique, that’s all it was. When Jervin reached out again for Drew he didn’t step away. Instead he leaned closer, closing his eyes as Jervin’s fingers moved deftly over the buttons of the shirt Drew wore. Life was too short for petty squabbles.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was night before the priestess was able to sneak into the kitchen building, long after the evening meal was done. There was no sign of her tiresome little brother in the kitchens. Typical, when she needed him to tell her what was going on in the infirmary. She crept into the scullery in case he was still working, but the place was empty, heavy pots clean and draining by the sink. He might come back to set things square for the night, so she hunkered down behind the door to wait. And wait she did, growing increasingly vexed as he failed to turn up. She was nodding off in a half-doze when the door from the storage cellars creaked open. She started awake, startled to find the room was almost dark now as the sun was setting outside. Whoever was making their way in from the cellars was doing their best to be quiet. She didn’t speak up, alert for any sound from the intruder – for such it must be. No one else would be sneaking around the stores after the day’s work was done. The intruder ghosted over to the sink and she saw his silhouette against the remaining echo of light at the window and realised with another start the intruder was every bit as slight as her brother, Tad. In fact, it was Tad. Creeping around the scullery as if he had no right or duty to be there.