Waterborne Exile Read online

  She stayed crouched behind the door, hoping the stone sconce would shield her from his sight if he should happen to glance her way. He stowed something on the shelf beneath the huge stone sink, then he reached up and hefted the big pan from the draining board and, wiping it dry with a towel, heaved it up onto the shelf where it belonged. He repeated the procedure with the other two pans, wiping each finally dry before setting it in place on the shelf with an odd deliberation. Then he draped the cloth over a rail to dry and moved noiselessly from the scullery, closing the door softly behind himself.

  Why was he sneaking around the one place he had every right to be found? She eased herself up from the floor, stretching her limbs. He’d come from the storeroom. Maybe he’d just been doing the sort of things most teenage boys did in unattended places.

  Maybe.

  That didn’t sound like her dutiful brother. He was the sort who was gullible enough to believe all the dire warnings it would drop off. What had he hidden under the sink? She crept over and felt around the shelf. Her fingers encountered nothing but an empty sack, neatly folded and tucked away at the back, out of sight unless someone bent down to inspect the shelf closely. She unfolded the sack, and opened it, sniffing the inside. It smelt of old bread. And perhaps apples. She felt inside with her hands and found a few breadcrumbs at the bottom. She dusted her fingers off on her gown, shaking the stray crumbs to the floor and shoved the bag back under the sink, not bothering to fold it. It made no sense for Tad to steal food and carry it away – he worked in the kitchens and could help himself whenever he had the opportunity. She frowned. Had that been some sound? She crossed the room to the door and put her ear against it, listening intently. All was quiet. After a moment’s hesitation, she eased up the latch and drew the door open, tiptoeing through and drawing it softly shut behind her.

  She had to wait an uncomfortable amount of time before her eyes adjusted to the dark. Only a hint of the day’s dying light found its way beneath the cellar door, barely enough to illuminate the uneven floor of the corridor leading to the storerooms. She would be wise to return with some kind of light to assist her. But if she did that, she’d be more easily seen herself. She began to make her way slowly along the corridor, keeping one hand on the wall, testing the uneven ground under her feet as she crept along. She was about half way to the first storeroom when she heard the sound again, muffled as if some distance away and oddly distorted by the hard walls of the corridor so that it echoed and rebounded. She froze. All was silent once more. She pushed along further, reaching the first storeroom, alert for any intruder, her nerves on edge.

  That sound again. She jumped, took a step back, when the sound repeated, and this time she recognised it: a cough. Or rather a series of coughs, half-stifled, weak… There was someone in the very next room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “This’ll have to do.” The older woman’s voice was parched, as if the desert heat had baked and desiccated her until she was one with the arid landscape. “It’s dry, at least.”

  As if anywhere in this Goddess-forsaken place wasn’t dry, Alwenna thought. The woman stepped back, gesturing Alwenna towards a squared-off opening in the cliff face.

  Alwenna ducked inside the low doorway. ‘This’ was an uneven chamber, part natural, part enlarged by previous inhabitants. Sand had drifted across the floor, banking up in a line where the draught through the uncovered doorway had dropped it. ‘This’ was to be home for the foreseeable future. A bed frame made up of rough-hewn wood stood in one corner, an ancient mattress sagging over the ropes supporting it. It reminded her of the room she had entered at Vorrahan, what seemed like several lifetimes ago. Where those lodgings had been grey and cold and cheerless, this place was harsh and alien, all red sand and desert heat. Weaver had reprimanded her then for being ungrateful. Weaver, who… Abandoned back there at the summer palace, left to Goddess knew what fate. She could not afford to let her thoughts dwell there.

  Alwenna returned to the door, ducking outside once more. The desert sun was still low and caught her in the eyes, stinging them. She summoned a smile for Marten’s wife, but it was too bright, too brittle. “Thank you. Your generosity…” What? Overwhelms me? Hardly. “I am most grateful.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “It’s little enough. This is Brett. He will bring you what you need.” The woman turned away from the doorway.

  “Once again I thank you.” Alwenna touched her hand to her shoulder in the freemerchant gesture of greeting and leaving. “Your generosity will be remembered.”

  The woman echoed the gesture, and said what was proper, but scarcely broke stride as she picked her way back down the slope to the dwelling she shared with Marten. Alwenna hadn’t been able to count all the doorways they passed, but there must have been a dozen at least: doorways of varying degrees of sophistication cut from the rock. Some were rectangular with regular frames and wooden doors. Others were little more than rudimentary gashes in the rock with once-colourful blankets draped over them in place of actual doors. The cliff was of reddish rock, sandstone, in some places fashioned into elaborate fluting by long-departed water. In other places it formed bellying slabs, criss-crossed by lines of crystal, scintillating in the morning sunlight. Occasional veins of ochre rock ran through it, glowing in the low sunlight. This landscape was as rich and colourful as Vorrahan had been grey and cold, but somehow she found it even more desolate. The red stone was unlike that of Highkell – this stone was softer, more friable. A fingertip rubbed against it would come away gritty with grains of sand, detached from the rock.

  “My lady? Tell me what you need and I will find it for you.”

  Alwenna turned her attention to the youth who had spoken. Brett, had Marten’s wife said? She dusted the sand from her fingers, trying to drag her attention to the here and now. The youth watched her intently, as if they were all taking part in something momentous. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, his hair was fastened back in oiled braids but not yet faded to the russet hue she was used to seeing. The line of his nose and chin bore an unmistakable resemblance to Marten. His eagerness was heartening. But where to begin answering his question – they had nothing but the clothes on their backs. They needed… Everything… But she dared not suppose the everything she might have expected at Highkell would be available here in this remote spot. “Erin, tell me, where do we begin?”

  The girl emerged from the doorway where she’d been inspecting the cavern with a doubtful expression. “A broom, my lady. We should begin with a broom.” She appeared no more delighted with their new lodgings than Alwenna.

  “Can you secure us the loan of a broom?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Brett nodded, his braids bobbing forward. “Is that all, my lady?”

  “We’ll need water, of course. And something to carry it in.” Their recent journey over near-desert terrain had brought that need into sharp focus. “Something to cover the doorway, perhaps?” And a change of clothing, and bathing water, and food, and a table to sit at, and… “Erin, go with him, see how much might be done.” She felt oddly dizzy.

  She watched as the two of them set off down the hill, the lad responding eagerly to Erin’s questions. The sun was climbing in the sky and already the day grew hotter. Alwenna stepped into the shade of the small chamber. She set one hand on the rock. It was cool to the touch, reminding her of the day she’d been taken back to Highkell as prisoner. And she’d discovered Weaver lived. Without thinking further about what she was doing, barely able to hope, she planted both hands on the rock wall, fingers spread so she could contact as much of it as possible. But she was an alien thing here. The rock was ancient, laid down aeons ago. It carried few echoes of human doings, barely even a trace of the effort it had taken to sculpt the natural cave into a more serviceable form. She concentrated until the blood hammered in her ears, willed the ground to yield up its secrets, to tell her where Weaver now lay, but its refusal was absolute. She dropped her hands, defeated, and slumped down on the bed. Was this not a freemerchant
place, and did not freemerchant blood run in her veins, brought here by the foremost freemerchant of them all?

  Perhaps that wasn’t how these things worked. She had forged no connection with this place. At Highkell, well, that place had taken her kin from her. Perhaps the secrets it had yielded up were only what she had been due. Or had she earned it through the offering of blood, sweat and tears over the years?

  How did any of this madness work?

  She must hope the freemerchant elders would know.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It drew nearer and nearer. Drew twisted and turned, determined to outrun the brooding presence, but it was as if his arms and legs were bound by leaden chains and they would not respond to his commands. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to be there when it rounded the corner. He was in a vaulted chamber, not unlike the dungeon at Highkell. That thought alone was enough to fetch bile upwards to bite at his throat. He fought his fear: he needed to be calm and rational to work out the best way to escape. But the dread presence was coming closer and closer. He could hear neither footsteps nor breath, see neither shadow nor form in the flickering torchlight, but he knew it was almost at the corner of the corridor. Any moment now…

  He twisted and fought against his shackles, but they still hampered him, all his efforts producing only a leaden clunk. And still it drew nearer. Sweat broke out on his brow. Goddess, the thing would smell him if it hadn’t already heard his struggles. So many times it had gone on past, but he knew tonight it was going to uncover his hiding place at last. He pressed his eyes shut, tried so hard not to gasp his horror. Then he opened his eyes, sensing he was being watched.

  It took a moment for his eyesight to pull into focus, he was in such a state. It stood there, and for the first time he saw the brooding presence that had been stalking him through his nightmares. Shorter than a fully grown man, of slight build, the creature of his nightmares resembled – indeed, appeared to be – nothing more than a young woman, probably no older than himself. She stepped forward into the dim light that surrounded him, raising a hand to shield her eyes–

  And then she was gone.

  Drew woke with a start in the pitch dark. His heart was racing and he was tangled in sweaty sheets. The shadow of some menace lingered over him from a dream – or nightmare – that was already slipping from memory. Just some night fear. He stretched, then reached out for Jervin. That was one sure way to chase away the remnants of the horror. He found only warmth where Jervin had been lying, surely only minutes before. Disappointed, Drew sat up. Had Jervin gone through to the next room to make water? All was quiet.

  Drew got up and shuffled through. Sure enough the room was empty. Drew availed himself of the facilities then wandered back to the bedroom. The bedcovers were tumbled half off the bed and he stooped to straighten them. Moonlight glanced off something on the floor. On closer inspection, he found it was a coin. He picked it up – it was good luck, after all. He absentmindedly hefted the weight of it in his hand. It was thicker than the coins he was used to handling, but deliciously cool to the touch. He set it down on the storage chest, passing close to the window. It was then he heard voices from outside. He moved to the curtain and peered out. Rekhart again, this time arguing with whoever stood on the doorstep. Drew recognised Jervin’s bass voice, kept low so no one would overhear. But not so low Drew couldn’t sense Jervin’s cold anger towards the commander of the city watch.

  Rekhart stepped back, then bowed his head. “Very well. It will be done as you wish.” Rekhart walked away, moving uncertainly, with the air of a defeated man. The sight troubled Drew. He slipped back between the sheets, tugging them up off the floor. When Jervin returned to bed a few minutes later, Drew pretended to be asleep.

  Jervin climbed into bed and lay down next to him. “Are you awake?”

  Drew made no reply. The bed frame creaked and the mattress shifted as Jervin turned over.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The priestess waited on the hard bench outside the room where Durstan worked, her hands folded in her lap. She was taking a risk, demanding his attention like this, but, with a little luck, it would be worth it. The past hour spent sitting there with the hard bench digging into her slender backside might yet prove not to be a waste of effort. She must appear humble and obedient. Maybe, in truth, she was more obedient than she had ever realised. That thought gave her little joy – she didn’t want to be obedient to the grey brethren any more than she wanted to be obedient to Durstan. But she couldn’t seem to think her way into a world where she wasn’t dependent on them for her wellbeing. Maybe that was her true problem, not her fall from favour since the death of Tresilian. She’d had a glimpse of a different world then: one where she was valued; where her needs were met with plenty to spare; where she enjoyed something akin to comfort. And it had all been taken from her. Taken by that woman from Highground, traitor to her own people in the Marches. And with her, that soldier, the one who’d dared to turn against his king and side with the traitor queen. Oh, yes, she knew all about them – or at least, as much as she needed to know. The rest she could guess. And now her brother had handed the traitor queen’s lapdog to her. Her foolish little brother, of all people. She’d never expected that of him – nor had she expected he’d defy her enough to keep it a secret from her. He was full of surprises, her little brother. All because of that idle lie she’d told him.

  She was pulled from her reverie by the scuff of approaching footsteps. She straightened up where she sat, composing her features into the meek expression that seemed most effective when dealing with the dignitaries of the order. There was no mistaking Durstan’s uneven stride, one heel scuffing on the ground every other step.

  The permanent frown creasing his brow deepened when he saw her, but he straightened up and the unevenness of his gait became less apparent. That was worthy of note – something she might perhaps turn to her own advantage one day. She pushed herself to her feet and bobbed a curtsey, keeping her head lowered. If he ignored her now, all her efforts would be for nothing.

  “You should be in your chapter-house.”

  “Yes, sire, I should.” She kept her head bowed. “But I have important news.” She risked an upward glance. His expression was forbidding.

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “I will not intrude upon your time any longer than necessary.” She hurried on before the prelate could dismiss her. Already he had reached for the door handle to step past her into his office. “My brother works in the kitchens and he found an injured soldier in the storerooms after the fire. He is still there now, terribly ill. But, sire, I knew the man straight away: he was King’s Man to my late lord, the same who was in the queen’s confidence.”

  Durstan’s frown cleared. “The former King’s Man? Are you sure of it?”

  “Yes, sire. I am sure. My brother made up a story that the soldier was our father – he is prone to such imaginings – so I knew the man’s face immediately. I pray you don’t think too harshly of my brother for his disobedience. He has formed an attachment to the soldier, I think, but I fear the man is close to death and in need of the most skilled healers.”

  “And this man is to be found where?”

  “He is lying in the deepest storeroom off the sculleries.”

  The prelate nodded. “Very well. This information is valuable. Find Curwen and send him to attend me at once, with two priests to assist.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She curtsied as low as she could without overbalancing, then hurried to do the prelate’s bidding. For the first time since Tresilian’s death something promised to be going right for her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Vasic made no attempt to conceal his impatience as he watched Marwick approach along the length of the throne room. The old man had taken the death of his nephew and heir badly. But it had at least stirred him into action at court – and he was a more astute creature than his nephew ever had been. Stanton had traded a great deal too much on his looks. Old Marwick was made of sha
rper stuff, but the trouble was just that – he was old. Some of the younger nobles had distanced themselves from Vasic’s court since that disastrous wedding. Their excuses were fluent and florid: there was unrest on the borders of their estates; their proximity to the Marches meant they needed to keep a high profile at home; they were all as predictable as they were apologetic. And he had all their names on a list. He would not forget. And when he had overcome recent setbacks either they would step into line, or he would deal with them much as he had dealt with his own cousin. In the end they would be happy to comply with his wishes. Once the first example had been made, there would be little doubt as to the outcome. In the meantime he was watching their activities more closely than they realised. Oh yes, Vasic had been made for kingship. Tresilian hadn’t understood the half of it, with all his prosing on about the love of the people. Just like his fool father before him – and only look where that had ended: cut down quelling some minor rebellion in the east.

  “Sire, pray forgive my tardiness.” Old Marwick’s voice was wheezy. He’d lost a deal of the excess weight he’d carried when he returned to court after his nephew’s death, but it had already taken its toll on his health. “I was unable to return immediately as the quarter-sessions were not complete. There has been some difficulty over tax collection, as I am sure you are already aware, and I felt it incumbent on me to ensure order was maintained and to make an example of the worst offenders.”

  The old man’s voice caught every few words, and Vasic felt a growing urge to clear his own throat. Greater still was the urge to throttle the old fool, but, damn him, he needed every loyal man right now. Rumours about the Lady Alwenna’s death flew about the kingdom. Some said she had ascended to the Goddess’s side to receive her blessing and would return to free her people from the yoke of southern rule. Some said she had not died at all, that she was merely biding her time in the wilderness and waiting for the right moment to strike.