Waterborne Exile Read online

  Even after he shouted out her chosen name she hurried on her way without giving any sign of having heard him, so he had to sprint to catch up with her.

  “Wait up!” It took him a moment to catch his breath.

  She watched him gasping, with a frown creasing her forehead. “I haven’t any time to waste, Tad. I’m in a hurry.”

  “I– I just wanted to…”

  The frown deepened.

  “I… need to ask a favour. I need your help.”

  She folded her arms, her mouth tightening in a straight line. “And what idiotic thing have you done this time?”

  Tad hesitated. “You know when you wanted me to search the fire?”

  “You mean when you refused to help me?” Her lip curled. “And now you want me to help you?”

  “It’s not the same. This is different. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important.”

  “Really important? Oh, you fool. I already know.” She smiled, that humourless smile Tad knew so well. His stomach sank down to his tattered boots. “You’ve got that soldier hidden away in the cellars.”

  She spun away from him, laughing. “What did you imagine you could do for him? What do you even know about healing? I know more about it than you could ever hope to learn. If you’d come to me in the first place I might have been able to save him. But it’s too late and he’s dying. He might already be dead.” She turned to face him again, face composed in a holier-than-thou expression. “But of course you didn’t, because you’re a fool. And now he’s bound to die because of you.”

  She spun away again and hurried off along the cloister. Tad realised with a sinking heart she was heading straight for the prelate’s offices. How had she even found out? Had she used that sight the order guarded so jealously?

  And worse still, was she right? Was the soldier really at death’s door? Goddess, let it not be so.

  Tad turned back to his original destination. If she refused to help… She already had… But… Was she going to report him to the prelate? He trailed reluctantly back to the kitchen wing.

  The cook looked up as soon as he stepped inside the door. “Lad, there’s pans need scouring. Where do you think you’ve been all this time? Your break was over long ago. You’ll do extra tonight when we’re finished and scrub the floors right through.”

  Tad bowed his head. “Yes, sir.” He trailed through to the scullery, disconsolate, calculating how soon he could slip through to check on his patient. A great pile of pans waited by the sink – he might almost believe the cook had dirtied extra ones on purpose to hold him back.

  As it was, Tad had only started on the second pan when the prelate arrived, accompanied by the head cook, with three of his subordinates in his wake and following behind them, hands clasped demurely before her, his sister. Perched on the wooden block that raised him up to reach the sink, Tad could only turn and watch as they opened the door to the storerooms. The cook glanced a warning his way, making a sharp gesture with his head towards the sink and Tad turned back to the pans in his care, risking the odd surreptitious glance over his shoulder.

  Several uneasy minutes went by before the party returned, two brethren half-carrying the inert soldier between them, supporting his shoulders and upper body while his feet dragged: he appeared unable to coordinate sufficiently to walk between them. In the light of the scullery his face was pale and drawn. He did indeed look close to death’s door. The two brethren dragged him to the outer door, which was opened and closed again by the third brother. The prelate stepped through the door next and his eyes turned to Tad, with not a hint of a smile on his face. The blood in Tad’s veins turned to ice.

  The cook stepped through the door behind the prelate, and after him his sister, her features arranged in her best pious expression.

  The cook moved over to the sink. “Leave those pots now, lad. The prelate wants a word with you.” He wiped his hands on the cloth he habitually carried, and turned to the prelate. “He’s a good lad, sire. Always obedient. Willing and a hard worker.”

  The prelate inhaled, raising one eyebrow. “An obedient worker would not conceal known criminals in his employer’s premises.”

  The cook turned back to Tad. “Step down now, Tad. Best not to keep the prelate waiting.”

  Tad obeyed, stumbling slightly as he reached the uneven floor. Behind him he could hear gleeful whispers from the other kitchen boys who must be watching at the door. He felt his skin flushing deep red under the scrutiny of the prelate.

  “Brother Joran, take the boy and prepare him for questioning.” The prelate seemed almost bored by this turn of events as he gave the order.

  The priest took Tad by the shoulder, not ungently, and steered him to the outer door.

  The cook spoke up once more. “As I said, sire, I can vouch for the boy’s character.”

  The prelate made no reply that Tad could hear. Tad felt a sudden glow of affection for the gruff cook. If he was prepared to speak up for him like that, everything would be all right, wouldn’t it?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drew woke with a fuzzy head. He’d not felt this rough in a long time. It reminded him of how he’d sometimes felt at Vorrahan, after lessons with Gwydion: tired, while every bone in his body ached and a sharp pain had settled behind his forehead. Beside him, Jervin slept on. Drew pushed himself up from the mattress and swung his feet to the floor, setting them down on luxurious carpet. Jervin had imported it from some distant place overseas. It was woven with rich colours, an abstract design of such complexity he never ceased to marvel at the ingenuity of its creators. Elaborate swirls and spirals and stylised mythical beasts entwined in a never-ending dance around the border. The centre was filled with self-contained panels made up of similar motifs, although the stylised creatures could only be identified in the border, as if they patrolled the perimeter to contain the energy of the pattern. He trod carefully over the carpet, and reached for the ewer to fill the small basin. The floorboards at the edge of the room were cool beneath his feet. Jervin slept on. Drew splashed his face with water. It eased the ache in his forehead, even though it was not as cool as freshly-drawn water.

  Behind him, Jervin stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “You’re up early.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” The daylight streaming in around the edges of the curtains told him it was not so terribly early anyway. It was rare for Jervin to sleep in. “You were late last night.”

  “Not that late. Come back to bed awhile.” Jervin turned back the covers, smiling lazily. It was a smile that could melt greater resolve than Drew had ever had.

  “I– I have a headache. I need some fresh air, I think.” Drew didn’t want to turn him down – in fact he couldn’t think of a time when he had before. “Really. I’m feeling quite off-colour this morning.”

  Jervin’s mouth twisted in – Drew hoped – disappointment. But it looked a lot like disapproval from where Drew stood. Goddess knew he’d seen enough of it in his short lifetime to be able to recognise it.

  “Maybe later, when I’ve cleared my head?” Drew felt he should make amends somehow.

  “Goddess, no. If you’re hatching some dire illness I don’t want it.” Jervin threw the covers back and stood up, stretching luxuriously, displaying every lean, muscled inch of his body. Drew couldn’t help staring: that was one sight he might never get enough of. Jervin picked up his robe which he’d left on the floor the night before and pulled it on, knotting the belt carelessly. He grinned at Drew. “Your loss. I’ll be busy later – I’ve a lot to get through today. I’ll be back late.”

  Again. Drew nodded, wincing as his head throbbed at the movement.

  “I’ll need to go through the accounts tomorrow. You’ll have the books ready, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I always knew you were more than just a pretty face.” Grinning, Jervin strode out of the door, leaving Drew to his headache and a sense of having been ill-used. He splashed his face once more with water fr
om the ewer. As he reached for the towel something fell to the floor with a clatter. He stooped and picked it up. The coin he’d noticed yesterday. He’d forgotten all about it. By the daylight getting into the room around the curtains he could see it was not some local coin, as he’d assumed last night. In fact it was utterly unfamiliar. He’d grown used to handling various coins from the Marches as well as those from Highground, since he’d been working for – he couldn’t say “with” – Jervin, but this was different again. Thicker, made from a different metal, but too worn for him to make out the lettering around the face of it. He’d ask Gurney in the counting house, he’d know it.

  Drew forgot all about the indifferent start to the day as he became absorbed in the bookkeeping. Whatever bad memories he might have about his time at Vorrahan, he would be eternally grateful for the skills he had been taught there. Without the librarian’s patient tuition he’d never have mastered this work with numbers so readily. He’d completed the accounts up to date, all ready for Jervin’s inspection tomorrow. He straightened up and stretched, stifling a yawn. He’d worked through most of the day, even though it seemed little time had passed since lunch. Gurney was standing up, setting his desk straight when Drew remembered the strange coin.

  “Oh, before you go, I wanted to ask you about this.” He fished in his scrip for the coin, and held it out for Gurney’s inspection. The old man peered at it.

  “Now, you don’t see many of those in these parts. It’s a southern guinea. No use here at all, unless you know someone who’s bound for Highkell or the sea ports. Worth some then, of course. But if you don’t, then you’ve been cheated.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Traders are supposed to surrender them for local coin when they land from seagoing vessels, or cross through Highkell from the south. So’s the administration can take their cut in tax. They’re not legal to use otherwise – stops traders dodging taxes. Not even freemerchants are meant to carry them.”

  “I see.” Drew studied the coin in his hand.

  “Of course, making the rules and enforcing them’s another matter. But if the powers that be find you trying to spend one of those in the north, there’s the import tax and a hefty surcharge to pay on top.”

  “I won’t be trying to spend it then.”

  “Might be worth waiting to see what our new king does. It was one of the peace terms the late king’s father – Goddess grant them both rest – agreed. I’ve heard it was pretty unpopular with southern folk. Could well be King Vasic has plans to do away with it – and draw the north’s teeth at the same time, I’ve no doubt.”

  Drew tucked the coin away in his scrip. “You think that’s likely? I doubt I’ll be venturing near Highkell any time soon.”

  Gurney pulled on his cloak. “Likely? Oh, yes. We’ll be seeing some changes before Vasic’s done, you mark my words.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Goddess, what had they fed him? Weaver’s head spun. His eyes were closed, but still the dizziness raced through his skull, rushed through his ears with every beat of his heart. And Goddess, the pain. His chest burned with every inward breath. Was this the price he must pay for betraying his own king? Should he have burned back there in the palace, instead of crawling to safety like the craven coward he was? Was he finally being brought to account?

  He cracked his eyes open. The room spun about him. It was light enough to see that, at least. Where was he? There wasn’t much light – did that mean it was night, and the room was lit by candles? No, for all his dizziness the light was constant, he could sense it, the steady glow of early daylight, but Goddess, would it not stay still? He pressed his eyes shut, then eased them open a fraction. Better this time. He was looking up at a ceiling. Plain, flat, whitewashed a long time ago. A layer of grime and dust and cobwebs adhered to the surface above him. He could be anywhere. Had the storeroom had a vaulted ceiling or flat? He couldn’t recall. This place was lighter though, for sure. He thought he heard a movement nearby and twisted his head. Was that a door? Everything pitched dizzyingly from the unguarded motion. He pressed his eyes shut again.

  “Does it hurt?” The voice was a young woman’s, sweet, perhaps too sweet to be true. A Marches accent. She may even have been from the same small town as his wife…

  Where was the crazy boy? How had he come here? He opened his mouth to speak, but no sounds emerged beyond a harsh croak. He closed his mouth again, opening his eyes a slit to see if he could see the speaker. The room pitched less violently now, but it was still enough to turn his stomach. He closed his eyes again.

  A hand pressed on his shoulder, oddly insistent. Sharp, prodding at him. “It does hurt, doesn’t it? Are you even awake?” Not so sweet now.

  He eased his eyelids open once more and could see a figure moving around. Too close to focus, nothing but a blur. Then his other senses stirred, bringing him a familiar flowery scent. Soap? His… wife? She had used soap with that scent.

  “Erian?” He forced the syllables between parched lips.

  The hand pinched the flesh of his shoulder. “No, you fool. I have no name here.”

  This made no sense. Weaver took another inward breath, more hasty, and his chest rattled. A cough escaped. And having coughed once, he had to cough again and again, each more painful and gut-rending than the last. Finally, exhausted, the coughing stopped. It was silent in the room again. The daylight remained steady, as before. The young woman, whoever she was, seemed to have gone. Good. He hadn’t liked her.

  This time the dizziness had faded, but the pain in his chest weighed down on him like a boulder. He could remember now, being dragged along between two priests, face down, feet trailing. The one on the right had stunk of sweat. They’d brought him here, dropped him on this – bed? – without ceremony. Then they’d forced liquid of some kind between his lips. That was it. They had fed him something. He could recall much more clearly. But Goddess, the pain…

  “You’re awake.” The young woman’s voice. The rustling of skirts as she crossed over to his side. She must have been watching him this whole time – he had no idea how long, but guessed it might have been as much as an hour. “Does it hurt again?”

  Weaver nodded minutely, a tiny gesture, wary of setting the room spinning once more. For now the room held its peace.

  “It’ll hurt worse by the end.” Her tone was indifferent. “But they want you alive, so until then I’ve to physic you.” When she bent over him, holding out a deep-sided spoon, her eyes were cold as a shadow on winter snow – the palest grey. He’d seen those eyes before, somewhere. She pressed the spoon against his lips, pouring syrupy fluid over them. Some ran down his chin, before he twisted his head away and the rest spilled over his neck. He wanted nothing from this creature.

  “Don’t be stupid. Or would you rather die in agony?”

  He might, before he accepted anything from her.

  There was a rustle of skirts as she turned away, the clink of a glass stopper. She was refilling the spoon.

  “This will make you feel better.” The saccharine note had returned to her voice. A hand clamped over his nose, thumb and forefinger digging into his jaw muscles. He tried to struggle, but he hadn’t the strength to shake off her grip. The instant he parted his lips to draw breath, she jammed the spoon between his teeth and he had to swallow the fluid or choke on it.

  She leaned close to him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Next time, don’t be so difficult.” Her words were all sweet reason, but her smile chilled him.

  The room about Weaver seemed to fade, taking with it the pain. He could no longer focus on those cold eyes, which was a blessing. He could imagine himself alone, disturbed only by the clammy trickle of poppy syrup creeping down his neck.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At the lower end of the desert valley stood a gnarled old tree. Twisted by countless years spent in the arid environment, its growth stunted by lack of rainfall, it nevertheless spread a generous canopy beneath which the freemerchants were wont to sit. All
business of the community took place there. Children would play there, laughing and singing, or as often squabbling, in the shade of the canopy. But today the children had been chivvied away and they were playing among the boulders that had long ago slid down from a loose section of the escarpment from which their homes had been carved. Laughs and shrieks punctuated the still air from further up the valley as they played some elaborate game of tag.

  The elders were assembled under the shade of the tree, waiting as Alwenna and Marten walked down the slope. As they approached the group Alwenna had an overwhelming premonition of hostility. She had enemies here today, no question about it. Grit crunched beneath her feet – everything at Scarrow’s Deep was coated in a fine layer of sand or dust. Everything. How desperate did one have to be to call this arid place home? She wasn’t that desperate, not yet, despite the trail of death that she’d left in her wake. She’d sooner climb those mountains that lay beyond the escarpment and live out her days there, lost in the mists, where the air turned not just chill, but cold. Every night. Where streams gushed in spate down steep, narrow channels, water tumbling over the rocks and plunging into deep pools at every twist and turn…

  “My lady, are you unwell?” At her side Marten frowned.

  “I beg your pardon. I seem to be always tired these days. Always distracted.”

  “Are you suffering visions again?”

  “No. Not like before.”