Corsair (4 page)

“Could be,” Gareth said. “Anyway, I scouted the place on my way here. It’s got a big delivery door at the rear.”

“So?” Cosyra said.

“A
very
big delivery door,” Gareth said, and outlined his idea as Labala’s laughter grew, almost shaking the cobbles they stood on.

“An’ — an’ — an’ — ” he interrupted, sides shaking like they were in a gale, “there’s a ship, come from upcountry, just docked today, with just the right present for old Quindolphie.”

• • •

“Way for the musicians’ gear,” Gareth bayed, cracking, rather ineptly, the whip he’d borrowed along with the freight wagon and its horses.

A guildhall worker nodded without much interest, went back inside, under draped red and black banners.

Gareth managed to swing the wagon around, and Fox jumped out of the back. He awkwardly pushed at the horses until they backed up, and the wagon thudded against the building’s dock.

Cosyra and Labala jumped off the back, and slid a ramp from its slot under the wagon to the dock. She went to the guildhall’s gate, prepared to open it.

Fox and Labala were on either side of the ramp, and Gareth unbarred the wagon’s rear door.

Two dozen pigs saw freedom, squealed happily, and ran down the ramp as Cosyra opened the guildhall entrance.

Someone shouted, a woman shrieked, and the pigs boiled through the kitchen — no doubt smelling in horror their former colleagues revolving on spits — knocking a wine steward aside, into the middle of milord Quindolphin’s daughter’s reception.

The squeals were louder, human, and there were shouts and frenzy.

Gareth let himself listen to the cacophony with great pleasure, then came back to reality.

“Come on. There’s trouble building,” he shouted, and the four, abandoning the wagon they’d “borrowed” some hours earlier, ran down the side of the guildhall and into the street.

There was a man, rather foppishly dressed, dismounting at the main entrance, handing his horse’s reins to a servitor.

“Here, you,” he shouted. “What’s going on in there?”

Paying no attention, the four ran on.

Gareth looked back, saw the man draw a sword, come after them. But they had him by ten lengths, and in another two hundred feet would be able to dart into a winding, mazelike alley.

Then Cosyra slipped, skidded on the cobbles, and lay flat, her breath knocked out.

“I have you, shitheel,” the man shouted, blade lowered. “Damned footpad that you are, stealing from his lordship’s wedding — ”

Cosyra was on her knees, trying to get up, the blade was no more than a few inches from her chest.

Gareth, without needing to think, saw a loose cobble, scooped it up, and threw it hard. The stone smashed into the man’s head, and Gareth’s stomach roiled as he heard bone smash. The man dropped the sword, skidded on his belly against the curb, contorted twice, and lay very still.

Gareth heard, numbly, shouts from the guildhall, as he helped Cosyra to her feet.

Horses’ hooves rang on the stones, and he saw riders galloping toward him.

Fox had stopped, crouched against a building; Labala was running back toward him.

“No,” Gareth shouted. “Go on. Better they get one of us than all.”

“But — ” Cosyra managed.

“Go, dammit! Or they’ll have us all!”

Cosyra worked her lips, then ran, grabbing Labala by the sleeve.

A pistol went off, and a ball ricocheted off the stone near them, then the three were gone.

Four riders were around Gareth, three with drawn swords, the fourth, with a ready pistol, slid out of his saddle. He went to the body, knelt, and turned it over, his eyes and pistol barrel hard on Gareth’s chest.

He glanced down for a minute.

“It’s Sir Wyeth,” the man said. “He’s dead.”

He looked hard at Gareth.

“Now you’re for it, lad.”

• • •

The warders in the dank, chill Great Dungeon that sprawled just downslope from the east side of the king’s palace weren’t any more cheerful.

“Killed a man, and noble at that,” one of them said, smiling in pleasure. “And what’s your class, boy?”

Gareth shook his head, not really knowing.

“That’ll determine what happens to you,” the warder went on. “Commoner — which I suspects, seein’ how you’re dressed — for murderin’ nobility, ‘specially in the course of a crime, that’s having your guts pulled out in front of you an’ burnt, then the rope. Merchantman, that’s slow hangin’, or maybe bein’ broke on th’ wheel. If you were noble, like Sir Wyeth, it’d be no more’n th’ ax.

“But they’ll not let you die that easy,” he said with glee.

“Best you come up with some silver afore th’ day, boy, so you can pay th’ headsman to put a blade in y’r heart after he makes the first cut along y’r guts.”

The first cell he’d been thrown into had been occupied by two great bruisers. They’d decided to fight to see who’d be first to have the boy as bedmate. The noise had attracted the corridor warder, who jerked Gareth out and put him in a solitary cell. Not, he was careful to explain, that he minded the idea of Gareth being raped, but both the thugs were in for murdering a fellow of his, and he’d see they had no pleasure at all before their death day.

Gareth had stayed in that cell long enough to hear the prediction of his fate and, hating to do it, getting paper and pen and promising a guard he’d be paid for taking a message to his uncle.

When that warder came back, his manner had changed.

“Here, boy,” he said. “Your uncle said to make sure you was took care of.”

He escorted Gareth out of that section, up flights of stairs into another corridor, and to a very different cell. This had a desk, a chair, even a bed. The bedding, though threadbare, was clean, and the cell didn’t smell too badly of shit.

“Anything you want to eat,” the warder said, “just call for me. Name’s Aharah. You want anything now?”

Gareth shook his head, then asked for water, and could he wash?

A pitcher of clear water and a bucket and soap were brought, and Gareth numbly cleaned himself, thinking of what the first warder had said of his death options.

He went to the cell window, looked out. Gray day, gray stone walls, guards walking their rounds on the parapets. He was high enough to see a bit over the walls, a few streets, then the Nalta River, gray winding to the ocean he’d never sail.

After a while, Aharah brought a tureen of soup, bread, and cheese. Gareth forced himself to eat. The soup wasn’t bad, and he forced gloom away.

Perhaps he’d find a way to escape before the execution. He guessed he’d be taken out of his cell and brought before some judge or other. Maybe there’d be a chance then.

Surely! He jeered at himself. Just about as great as the possibility of growing wings and flying out of here.

Aharah came back, with a small box.

“A girl brought this,” he said. “Gimme a gold piece to take it to you.”

Gareth took the box, untied string, opened it. Inside was a silver sea eagle he recognized, and a note:

“Wait,” he said as Aharah was leaving. “What of this girl? What was she dressed like?”

Aharah shrugged. “Wore a cloak, so I couldn’t tell much. Looked like maybe she was somebody’s maid or somethin’. Thin. Short hair. Haw, boy. You so popular with the little girlies you don’t know who sends you things?”

Gareth didn’t answer, but sat turning the eagle in his fingers. At last, he put its chain around his neck, tucked it well out of sight.

Strangely cheered, as if the little icon could somehow help, he lay down, and sleep came.

• • •

Two days later, his uncle came to see him.

Gareth had wondered if Pol would simply forget him as a murderous fool, or, if he did come to the prison, only rail at him for his stupidities.

Radnor did neither.

He sat down, heavily, in Gareth’s chair.

“These damned stairs take it out of a man,” he said.

Gareth sat, waiting.

“I’ve often said, as I’m sure you’ve heard me, that I consider myself lucky.

“Son, compared to you, I’m the original cursed one with a black cloud over my head.”

Gareth started in surprise.

“The first piece of luck you’ve had is Sir Wyeth, the man you … you killed, is … was … has a reputation around the city for being a rapscallion and a man without honor. I don’t know what he did to gain such repute.

“As an aside, I assume that you killed him in fair fight, although what the hells you were doing out and about at that hour is quite beyond me.

“I do not believe a Radnor, particularly my brother’s son, capable of cold-blooded murder. Nor do I wish any explanations.

“As I said, the identity of the man you killed was the first piece of luck. No one seems much to care whether his death is recompensed.

“The second is even greater. The king has heard of what happened.”

Gareth could feel the blood leave his face, braced. What kind of luck was that, to have the king aware of him?

“Lord Quindolphin has long been in disfavor with the king. I — and I never want you to repeat these words, since it bodes not well for a man to openly criticize those above him — have found him to be without integrity, especially when he decides to do business with those he considers of a lesser class, such as merchants and shippers.

“I confess to having suffered financially at Quindolphin’s hands myself. Why the king dislikes him, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. But King Alfieri heard of your little sport, and found it most amusing. It gave him, I’ve been told, the only hearty laugh he’s enjoyed this month.

“When I heard that, I ventured to speak to a friend, who has friends elsewhere. Your joke has cost me dearly, Gareth. But there will be no judgment passed on you. If Sir Wyeth’s heirs materialize and become noisome, I’ll see they’re paid for the loss of their relative.”

“That means …”

“That means you’ll not end before the King’s Justice and … other, less pleasant places.”

Gareth slumped back on the bed in disbelief.

“However, this doesn’t mean that matters can return to normal,” Pol said.

“Oh, nossir,” Gareth babbled. “You can rest assured that I’ll never again — ”

“I am hardly referring to your choice of recreation,” Pol said with asperity. “I’m saying that Lord Quindolphin has sworn revenge, and, since he knows whose kin you are, vows he’ll go to any extreme to see you punished for making the wedding of his only daughter the joke of the city.

“I hope you didn’t know she’s considered a rather plain thing, poor lass, and was known to her friends as ‘Hoggy.’ ”

Gareth grimaced.

“So there is no way that you could continue to live with me, let alone work in my factory, without having armed guards convey you everywhere, and my own house would have to be somewhat garrisoned. And I assume that would be of little good, since Quindolphin has far more men under his command who’re familiar with blade and ball than I could dream of or pay.

“So Ticao and Saros are lost to you, boy, at least for a couple of years. I’ve already made arrangements for you to be taken from this prison after nightfall. We’ll move quickly, and hopefully fool the lord if he’s having this prison watched. You’ll go directly to the port, and board a certain merchant ship as purser’s assistant. Suitable clothing and gear is being purchased at this moment, and will be waiting for you aboard ship.

“You have found a most peculiar way to secure the position you were always hounding me for. But now you are for the sea.

“And the gods have mercy on you.”

Gareth’s first ship was the elderly
Idris
,
a small two-masted coaster, with two jib sails and a lateen sail on its foremast, a smaller lateen on its main mast, with a crew of twelve. The purser — Gareth’s new master, Kazala — was also second mate.

Gareth was at the railing, marveling at all, as the
Idris
cleared the mouth of the Nalta River. He’d had nothing to do thus far, because the
Idris
was already loaded, carrying sacked potatoes to Adrianople, two weeks’ sail distant to the south, away from the winter’s gray and storms.

He was proud of himself for having no trouble with the
Idris
’s slow roll in the river current, having noticed a couple of hands bending over the side, “praying to the sea goddess,” as one sailor put it. But they’d been noticeably debauched-looking when they put to sea.

Then the first ocean swell lifted the
Idris,
in a rather gentle corkscrewing motion. Interesting. Then another, and another. Gareth felt his throat knot, swallowed hastily.

The
Idris
hit a bit of chop, and the motion became a seesaw, and Gareth lost interest in exactly describing the ship’s motion.

He bent over the railing, feeling the entire world coming up, and heard a baying command:

“Boy, if y’puke on m’ ship, I’ll have the rope’s end to your arse! T’ loo’ard, dammit!” from the captain in the stern.

He staggered across the deck as ordered, and emptied himself.

Then another shout came, this from Purser Kazala:

“
Hern
Radnor! Below with you! We need to go over the bills of lading!”

He threw up once more, then stumbled toward the hatch.

Belowdecks it was thick, muggy, and Gareth suspected the
Idris
had carried fish not long before. Old fish. He tried to pay attention to the papers Kazala was busily stacking in front of him, felt his guts rising again.

“Don’t throw up on the paperwork,” Kazala warned him. “Here. Put this bucket ‘tween your knees, and I’ll get some dry biscuit from the dogsbody. Now, get yourself to work, for there’s a hundredweight discrepancy between the factor’s claims and what the watch logged as being loaded.

“Try to see whether we’re being rooked or if the damned first mate just can’t add.

“And stop looking so damned piteous! You think you’re the first lubber who’s gotten seasick?”