Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) (24 page)

Climbing up through the hatch, the cold sea air revived him a little. The chill was especially welcome, driving away lingering memories of oppressive Aldabreshin heat. He saw the harbour wall protecting a huddle of buildings approaching as the trader’s ship rode the rising tide past a low expanse of mud flats tufted with stained reeds. Looking back he saw the creamy smear of the vessel’s wake cutting across the mud-coloured waters of a broad shallow bay. Sea and sky alike were opaque with mist.

What was he doing here? He had sworn to defend Halferan, Lady Zurenne and her children for his dead lord’s sake. Yet he was doing the Archmage’s bidding once again.

Corrain pushed such treacherous thoughts away. This was the only way he could find out who that mysterious man from Wrede might be. He’d also wager good gold that his journey had been noticed by Den Dalderin spies. If Imperial eyes were following him, they wouldn’t be contemplating Halferan too closely. Meantime, Kusint was more than capable of warning off any renewed Karpis ambitions to encroach on the barony.

Besides, whatever service he was doing the Archmage was incidental. He was here first and foremost to see Hosh healed; a fitting reward for all the lad had done for Halferan. Corrain could never redeem his failure to save the other loyal men who had died at the corsairs’ hands but he could make good on this debt.

The ship rounded the watch tower at the end of the harbour wall and headed for the dockside’s sodden and fraying wooden pilings, lapped by turbid water strewn with refuse.

‘Mind your backs!’ A sailor hurried past, a hempen cable slung over one shoulder.

Corrain grabbed for the ship’s rail and straw-filled fenders crackled in protest as a large swell drove the vessel hard against the brick-built quay.

‘Thank Dastennin for that,’ Hosh said fervently.

A sailor sprang onto the rail, his salt-encrusted boot thudding beside Corrain’s hand. Inside a breath, the mariner had leaped ashore, winding the sturdy rope around an iron bollard. All along the wharf, men were securing their vessel.

‘You’d do better to thank Larasion in these waters.’ His task done, the sailor pointed towards a statue some distance along the quayside. Twice life size, the Forest goddess was crowned with a wreath of blossom and a necklace of flowers defying the winter. Only the hems of her flowing gown gleamed bright, the bronze polished by countless grateful hands, while the rest of the metal figure was weathered to dull green by salt and mist. Her sandaled feet were surrounded by sodden silk blooms, earthenware leaves and glazed pottery fruits piled high on her plinth.

‘I will make sure to leave an offering,’ Hosh replied fervently.

Corrain kept his mouth shut. He would thank every last rat in the ship’s bilge before he’d thank any deity for seeing them safely across the Gulf of Peorle. That said, he was grateful to be safely moored. This last leg of their journey, cutting across from the Caladhrian coast, meant a night at sea out of sight of land. That wasn’t lightly undertaken at this season, even in these sheltered waters with the bulk of southern Ensaimin barring the path of winter storms sweeping in from the western sea.

‘Where are you headed now?’ The trader-captain paused on his way from his own cabin beneath the raised rear deck to the hold’s hatches amidships.

‘We have a letter of introduction to Mentor Garewin at the university.’ Corrain buckled on his sword and picked up his bag from the deck. ‘Where will we find that?’

‘The university?’ The trader laughed. ‘Once you’re away from the water, it’s all around you, my friend.’

Corrain smiled as though he understood the man’s joke. ‘So where should we ask for this Garewin?’

‘Try one of the inns by the carillon tower in the central square. The tapster will send a runner to find your mentor for a silver penny.’ The captain continued on his way. Bales and crates were being hauled out of the depths of the ship and now they had made landfall, he was intent on turning as much profit as possible, to reward him and his crew for the risks of sailing the Caladhrian coast in winter.

His only interest in his passengers had been the coin they were willing to pay, which suited Corrain. He and Hosh had bought their passage in their own names, not claiming any rank for some sailor to carry ashore. Both wore plain and hardwearing clothes like any other winter traveller. Nothing marked them out as in any way noteworthy.

‘A tower should be easy enough to find,’ Hosh carefully wiped his face. Whether from the winter cold or the salt-laden breeze, his eye and broken nose had wept ceaselessly during their journey.

‘Flat, isn’t it?’ A yawn cut short Corrain’s agreement.

He walked to the gap in the rail where sailors were settling the gangplank to reach down to the quayside. Brick-built and steeply gabled warehouses were ranged along the dock, like nothing in Caladhria. Beyond the harbour, buildings sprawled in all directions; red-tiled roofs above walls patterned with every colour of brick to ever emerge from a kiln. Dull ochre was everywhere underfoot.

Hosh followed him ashore. ‘How far do you suppose the walk is, to this central square?’

Corrain pointed to a trio of two-wheeled gigs drawn up beside another statue, this one honouring Trimon, the wandering god, who was striking his traveller’s harp with a dramatic flourish. ‘We’ll hire one of those.’

As the horses chomped inside their nosebags, their drivers were passing a black glass bottle from hand to hand. The first to notice their approach turned ready to greet them. He took a half step back instead, gaping at Hosh’s face. The boy quickly pulled up his cloak’s hood to hide his disfigurement.

Corrain had grown used to the sailors ignoring Hosh’s misshapen features. After a first day of frank appraisal, the merchant mariners had paid no more heed to Hosh’s scars than they did to their own; deep gouges carved into their forearms by searing ropes or missing fingers wrenched from their sockets as errant winds yanked booms and sails.

‘What’s the rate for a ride to the carillon tower?’ he asked curtly.

One man handed the black bottle to his neighbour. ‘I’d say that would be a silver mark.’

Corrain looked the hireling driver straight in the eye. ‘I’d say we’ll walk instead then.’

Any guard captain worth his bread and beer knew Ensaimin arrogance always sought to take advantage of Caladhrian ignorance.

The hireling drivers laughed and the first man pressed a mock-repentant hand to his leather tunic’s breast.

‘I misspoke myself. That will be a silver penny for you and your companion.’

‘For us both together?’ Corrain queried.

‘Of course. This way, if you please.’ The man lowered the step to the seats at the rear of his gig before climbing up to his perch at the front.

Corrain shoved their belongings underneath the wooden seat as Hosh slid across to make space for him. They were barely seated before the black horse moved off. The ride was smooth across the ochre paviours as the driver headed for a broad thoroughfare running inland. Wagons, hireling carriages and private coaches trundled ahead, two abreast without impeding each other or hindering the vehicles coming the other way. With this wide, flat plain at their disposal, Col’s builders had laid out impressively wide roads.

In the far distance, through the slowly dissipating mists, Corrain could just make out a great column of brick and stone looming over buildings themselves four and five storeys high.

‘That must be the carillon tower.’ He nudged Hosh but the lad was sitting hunched beneath his cloak hood. Corrain couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t relish being stared at by so many passers-by.

Some were sauntering, some hurrying preoccupied. A few men and women were ostentatiously dressed in expensively dyed velvets and furs. Most wore workaday clothes in hardwearing colours. Corrain noted a good number of men wore swords, though a fair few of those blades looked more ornament than useful.

The horse trotted onwards past brick buildings painted in bright colours, vibrant even under the leaden sky. Trees separated the road from paved paths in front of the houses and shops. They must be bright with blossom in the spring, Corrain mused, shady with green leaves in summer and gaudy with autumn reds and golds. For the present, grey-barked boughs clawed at the cold air with barren twigs.

As they drew steadily nearer, he studied the carillon tower. The mighty edifice was evidently the work of more than one builder. Soaring up above the red-tiled roof of a broad building extending across the entire western side of the square, the tower’s topmost two storeys were markedly different in style. Corrain was relieved to note that some of Col’s fabled wealth had bought stone coigns to reinforce the patterned brickwork. Unbraced it could never have been raised so high without collapsing.

The tower overlooked a vast square lined with taverns and inns. An ornate fountain in the centre supported statues of Talagrin, Halcarion, Trimon and Larasion on a central pedestal. Their blind marble eyes stared north, east, south and westwards while water flowed around their heedless feet to fill the broad basin.

The gig drew to a halt and their driver turned around on his backless bench as the tower’s bells began ringing. If there was a count of the day’s chimes somewhere amid the clamour, Corrain couldn’t make it out. The horse stood obediently still, so unbothered by the cacophony overhead that Corrain wondered if it was deaf.

He reached inside his doublet for his travelling purse and found a Tormalin minted silver penny within it. ‘What’s the best tavern for finding scholars in?’ he shouted to the hireling driver.

‘All of them.’ The man laughed before indicating a yellow painted building with red varnished shutters. ‘Try in there.’

‘Many thanks.’ Corrain dropped the coin into the man’s leathery palm and jumped down from the gig. Hosh followed, silent as he retrieved their belongings from beneath the seat.

The tavern was called The Goose Hounds and the front wall boasted a lifelike painting of two well-muscled and shaggy-maned dogs splashing through a marsh. Despite the cold weather, the door stood hospitably open. Inside Corrain found lanterns banishing the winter shadows while fireplaces at either side of the long tap room warmed the drinkers enough to discard cloaks. Corrain undid his brooch as he led Hosh towards a corner table.

‘I’ll ask about sending a message to this Mentor Garewin.’

As Hosh took a seat with his back to the room, Corrain reached out and pulled the lad’s fur-trimmed cloak hood down. Hosh exclaimed before realising that would only draw attention to his injuries.

‘Keep your face turned to the wall if you wish,’ Corrain said quietly, ‘but sitting hooded indoors will draw curious eyes. Do you want someone asking you your business?’

Mute, Hosh shook his head. Corrain headed for the counter running along the room’s back wall.

‘Ale?’ The tapster gestured to barrels stacked to his off-hand. ‘Or wine?’ Bottles were racked twenty deep and twice as wide on his other side.

That was a lot of wine, even for a tavern in the middle of a trading city. Corrain wondered how ready the tapster would be to palm off some highly-priced vinegar on a couple of strangers.

‘Ale if you please. Something to keep out the cold.’ Corrain waited as the man drew two brimming tankards of an unexpectedly dark brew. ‘I was told you could send a message for me, to one of the university’s mentors?’

‘Two silver pence for the ale.’ The tapster held out a hand. ‘Another to send a lad with your message.’

Corrain dropped a couple of coin into the man’s palm and held up a third. ‘Does that buy me paper and ink?’

The tapster grinned. ‘Of course, Master.’

‘Very well then.’ Corrain let the coin fall to join the first two.

The man went to fetch some writing materials from a shelf beyond the racked wine. Corrain sipped cautiously at his tankard, mindful of the unpleasant surprises he’d encountered in taverns on his travels with Kusint. Solurans flavoured their ales with fruit and even spruce twigs. Thankfully this proved to be a rich winter brew, the hearty taste awakening his stomach to its emptiness.

He carried the second tankard over to Hosh. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I am.’ He sounded surprised.

Corrain nodded. ‘I’ll get something to eat.’

He went back to the counter as the tapster returned with paper, pen and ink. ‘Could we have a bite or two of food? Our ship just came in with the tide.’

‘Of course.’

As the man headed through the door to a busy kitchen, Corrain drew the sheet of chaff-flecked reed paper towards him and uncapped the inkwell. The quill would have benefited from trimming but it would suffice. However there was no sealing wax on offer or a candle within easy reach for him to at least make a gesture towards securing his letter. Corrain scratched out a brief note.

Master Scholar, I beg the favour of a conversation regarding an old injury to a loyal friend which has healed awry. Master Herion suggests you may be able to soothe his pain.

Corrain of Halferan

If this mentor was known as a healer, that shouldn’t prompt too much curiosity, however many hands unfolded this note before passing along. His own name might prompt curiosity if anyone here knew of the guardsman returned from slavery to be raised to the rank of baron. Corrain wondered how readily news from Caladhria crossed the Gulf from Peorle. How interested were Col’s merchants and scholars in such tales?