Kushiel's Justice (65 page)

There were a few close calls nonetheless. With sufficient notice and a good wind, Skovik was able to avoid most of them, but when we came up hard and fast on a wallowing chunk of ice, we had to take to oars, rowing frantically to help change the boat’s course, while his men balanced perilously, shoving at the ice with their barbed pikes.

Those were terrifying moments, the grey water rushing past our hull, the boat lurching precariously as Skovik’s fellows leaned on their pikes. The first time it happened, I thought for sure we were doomed. Wood scraped along the ice, groaning. I was on the side nearest the floe, so close I couldn’t even put oar to water. The pikemen shoved and grunted. Seawater sloshed over the railing, soaking our feet.

And then we were past it, sailing onward. The floe spun lazily behind us, barely visible, awaiting its next unwitting victim.

“By Lug the warrior and the Black Boar himself,” Urist said with heartfelt feeling. “I swear, if I get my feet on Alban soil, I’m never leaving again.”

We all felt it. But there were times when it was glorious, too, in a stark way. The nights were grueling and unpleasant, but the days could be lovely. Our luck with the weather held. We sailed through a world of empty sky, grey water, and ice. Farther north, we saw seals from time to time, although not often. They were comical creatures, ungainly on the ice, but graceful in the water, with dark, plaintive eyes and whiskered faces. Skovik and his men eyed them with regret, but with nine people in the boat, there was no room to take on additional stores if they’d gone hunting. I wasn’t terribly sorry.

Later, as we went farther south, the ice ledge began to retreat and there were fewer floes and more birdlife. Great flocks of gulls and terns wheeled overhead, and we saw ducks and geese taking wing from the water.

“Spring’s coming,” Skovik observed.

It seemed hard to fathom. I’d lost all track of time. It felt to me as though it had been winter forever and would always be winter. He was right, though. By midway through the second week, we’d travelled far enough that the cutting wind no longer bit quite as deep. The ice ledge shrank farther; fifty yards instead of a hundred, betimes less. We were able to sail close enough to the coast that folk in the towns there waved to us as we passed.

And then one day we approached a port we didn’t pass.

“Norstock,” Skovik said briefly.

I wouldn’t have recognized it from the sea. The harbor where Urist and I had booked passage with Captain Iosef was still frozen solid. We trimmed our sails, gliding gently until we bumped up against the ledge. Skovik’s men reached out with their barbed pikes, securing the boat. They prodded the ice, testing, then dared scramble over the side, one holding the boat in place, the other grinning as he stamped on the ice with his sealskin boots, making sure it would hold.

Skovik tossed a pair of lines ashore, while Ti-Philippe struck the sails and lashed them. As the only experienced sailor among the lot of us, he’d been a valuable companion on this journey. One by one, we disembarked. We’d gotten fairly good at it by now, although I was concerned about the thickness of the ice ledge. Joscelin and I made sure Phèdre and Urist were well away before we attempted to haul the boat atop the ice.

A good job we did, too. When we hauled on the lines, the boat’s prow rose out of the water and lurched onto the ledge. The ice crumbled beneath it.

“Back, back, back!” Skovik shouted.

It needed no translation. Half terrified and half laughing, we scrambled backward, digging in our heels and falling over one another, tugging on the lines, chased by the receding edge of ice. For a time, the boat forged a channel of open water. At last the ice grew thick enough to support its weight, and it slid atop the ledge with casual ease, resting there. We hauled it a few more yards until we were sure it was safe.

I flopped down on my back. “Name of Elua!”

“So.” Skovik’s face appeared above me. “Here you are.”

“Here we are,” I agreed wearily.

He smiled beneath his mustaches. “We go now to find brave men to sail north to Vralgrad with us and hunt along the way.”

I got to my feet and extended my hand. “Safe travels to you.”

He clasped it. “And to you.”

I appreciated the sentiment. We’d made it safely to Norstock, for which I was grateful, but it meant we were back on Skaldic soil. I thought we stood a good chance of finding safe passage to the Flatlander border—Maslin had managed it alone, and the area seemed open to trade and well under Adelmar’s control. Still, we were on foot, with a good deal of baggage. Somehow, I doubted we were going to find eager assistance in gaining transportation back to Maarten’s Crossing.

And I doubted Adelmar of the Frisii would be glad to see us when we did.

S
IXTY-EIGHT

I
WAS WRONG
.

It didn’t take long to discover it. Skovik and his men headed into town, but it took us a while to get our gear unloaded and sorted. We’d barely finished and begun trudging across the ice ledge toward the town when the harbor-master of Norstock came out to meet us, a pair of armed guards at his side.

All of us dropped our packs and tensed.

“Don’t.” Phèdre shook her head when Joscelin’s hand rose to reach for his sword-hilt. “They’d have brought more men if they meant violence.”

She was right.

The harbor-master was a tall fellow in his late fifties or so. He had a deep scar that sliced his cheek and dented the bridge of his nose, and he looked to have seen his share of battles. But his grey eyes were calm and his manner was unthreatening. When he addressed us in Skaldic, Phèdre stepped forward and replied fluently in the same tongue. I watched her expression shift to one of bemusement as they spoke. He gestured in my direction several times. I tried to make out what they were saying, but after long months in Vralia, I couldn’t summon the wits to follow in my rudimentary Skaldic.

“He says they’ve kept an eye out for you, Imriel,” Phèdre said. “On Adelmar’s orders.” She sounded puzzled. “It seems he’s had a change of heart. He’s offering assistance.”

“Why?” I asked.

She put the question to the harbor-master, who gave a brief reply and a shrug. “Orders,” Phèdre reported. “He doesn’t know why.”

“Could be a trick,” Joscelin observed.

“What would be the point?” Phèdre spread her hands. “He’s got a whole town at his back. There’s no need to trick us.”

It was no trick. The harbor-master gave all of us a curt bow, then gestured to his men. They approached to assist us with our packs, making careful gestures to indicate that this was goodwill and not thievery.

“Huh.” Urist leaned on his walking-stick. “Passing odd.”

“Mayhap Queen Ysandre pressured him,” I suggested.

“To help
you
?” Urist’s gaze slewed around at me. “Not likely, lad. My money’s on Drustan. Don’t know how he took the news you’re bedding his daughter, but at least it’s his niece you’re avenging.”

I hefted the sack with Berlik’s skull. “There is that.”

The harbor-master, whose name was Ortwin, was as good as his word. He and his men led us to an inn, one of the only ones still open during the winter months. We weren’t exactly welcome—the innkeeper looked unhappy at our presence—but no one offered any threat. We kept to ourselves and passed an uneasy night there, and woke on the morrow to find that Ortwin had assembled a company to escort us to Maarten’s Crossing, with guards and mounts and pack-horses.

I asked Phèdre to thank him for his kindness, since she’d be able to express it far more eloquently than I would. She did. The harbor-master made a long speech in reply. At one point he nodded toward Joscelin, sitting impassively atop his loaned mount, the hilt of his sword jutting over his shoulder. At another point, he touched his own scarred cheek. Phèdre listened gravely to his words. She leaned down in the saddle to clasp his hand, speaking a few quiet words in Skaldic.

“What was that all about?” Hugues asked when we departed.

“Forgiveness.” She glanced at Joscelin. “He knew who we were.”

Joscelin raised his brows. “And forgave us?”

“He said he’d known peace and war, and peace was better,” she murmured.

“Can’t argue with that,” Ti-Philippe offered.

Even so, it all seemed somewhat too good to be true. We rode warily, keeping a sharp eye on our escort. There were six of them and six of us, but the Skaldi might reckon the odds uneven, since our numbers included Phèdre, who was no warrior, and Urist, who was injured. They would be wrong, of course. Urist was uncomfortable riding astride, but an aching leg didn’t render him less dangerous. And then there was Joscelin, who might well have taken on the entire company by himself.

But no.

There was no trouble. We crossed the narrow peninsula in good time. Ortwin’s escort delivered us to the gates of Maarten’s Crossing before the sun had set, and the guards posted outside the wooden stockade fence admitted us without a challenge.

Urist grunted. “That’s a change.”

The area where we’d made our camp was deserted save for a few fur-traders, who shot us dour looks. I wondered if it meant that Talorcan and his Cruithne, and Kinadius and the last of Clunderry’s men, had given up and gone home. But when we made our way to the inn where a few of us had lodged—Halla’s place, with the sign of the rooster—we found it wasn’t so.

There were only two of them; Kinadius and Brun, who was one of Urist’s veterans. Kinadius was there alone when we arrived, chatting with one of the innkeeper’s daughters while she stirred a pot over the fire, his back to the door. I watched her eyes widen as we entered, and she fell silent. He turned out of curiosity and simply stared, open-mouthed and blinking.

“Prince Imriel?” he said cautiously. “My lord Urist? Is that you, or have I gone mad?”

“Close your mouth, lad,” Urist said. “You look daft.”

“Did you . . .” Kinadius blinked at me. Sudden tears brightened his eyes. “Is it done?”

I nodded and touched the bag. “It’s done.”

He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. “Thank you.”

After that came the usual chaos attendant on such reunions, with a hasty rush of news exchanged, everyone talking over one another, while at the same time we endeavored to arrange for lodgings. Phèdre took over that part, speaking quietly to a dazzled—and rather delighted-looking—Halla. As I had noted before, the women of Skaldia didn’t bear the same deep-seated hostility toward D’Angelines as the men did. I suppose women everywhere understand the folly of war better than men, since they are less likely to be blinded by the desire for glory in battle.

Between one thing and another, the six of us were soon situated at Halla’s, downing bowls of stew and tankards of ale while her indefatigable daughters heated bathwater for us. Brun emerged from the room he shared with Kinadius, greeting us with taciturn pleasure.

While we ate, we learned that Prince Talorcan had indeed withdrawn in bitter disgust. After being ousted from Vralia and forced to retreat backward through Skaldia, he’d found himself unwelcome in Maarten’s Crossing.

“It was a bad journey,” Kinadius said. “Adelmar had given us a token of safepassage, but it didn’t work so well when the Skaldi saw us in retreat. Those northern tribes are fierce. We got in a few skirmishes. Lost a few men.”

“Any of ours?” Urist asked.

“Cailan,” Brun said briefly. “Took two of theirs with him.”

The wise-woman’s son who had bound my wounds. They’d always said he was a fierce fighter despite his gentle touch. I felt a deep pang of sorrow and regret.

“Adelmar heard the tales. It didn’t happen in territory under his control, but he wasn’t willing to let Talorcan stay, not with a big company of warriors.” Kinadius shrugged. “Talorcan was in no fit mood to make an argument Adelmar would hear.”

“Foul-tempered,” Brun agreed.

Kinadius gazed into his tankard. “Mmm. Said some things I daresay he regrets.”

“To Adelmar?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “About you lot. After we saw your company on the way, my lady,” he said to Phèdre. “That was a cunning trick you pulled.” Phèdre made no comment. Kinadius took a gulp of ale. “Anyway, he said since it was a D’Angeline got his sister killed, it seemed the gods had decreed it was up to D’Angelines to avenge her.” He gave me a direct look. “No one in Clunderry thinks that, my lord.”

“He’s right, though,” I said quietly. “In a way.”

“Aye, and he’s wrong, too. I was there,” Kinadius said. “I saw the bastard’s claws dripping red with Dorelei’s blood. I saw him kill Uven. Saw him lay you open like he was gutting a fish, Imriel. Guilt’s one thing. We all share a measure of it, don’t we, my lord?” he asked Urist. “All of Clunderry’s garrison.”

“We do,” Urist said, kneading his aching leg.

“Well, blame’s another matter,” Kinadius said. “And I know damned well who’s to blame for Dorelei’s death. And if Talorcan thinks he’s any more distraught over our failure to avenge her than I am, he’s wrong.” He flushed, but continued doggedly. “But I knew you’d do the right thing, Imriel. You and Urist.”

I met his eyes. “My thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything but break my damn leg,” Urist said wryly.

“So.” Kinadius blew out his breath. “No one from Clunderry wanted to desert you. We wanted to stay in case you sent for us, in case you needed us. I met with Lord Adelmar and convinced him to let me stay with a single companion. Best I could do. We drew straws and Brun got the honor.”

“Lucky,” Brun agreed.

“I’m glad you did.” I clapped Kinadius on the shoulder. “But I’m curious. Seems Adelmar’s had a change of heart. He sent word to Norstock that we were to be given aid. Given what you’ve told me, it makes less sense than ever. Any idea why?”

Kinadius shook his head. “None in the world.”

I should have guessed, I suppose; but it seemed like I’d been at the farthest reaches of the earth for a long, long time. Over the course of a personal, very private quest, I’d grown unaccustomed to thinking in terms of intrigue and the far-flung web of connections that bound me. That would have to change, of course. The moment I set foot on Terre d’Ange, I’d be immersed in politics whether I liked it or not. Still, here and now, it seemed very far away. The silence and isolation of the Vralian wilderness had sunk deep into my being.

They wanted to hear the story, of course. I told it in such a way as would satisfy them. The long, arduous quest. Berlik’s penitent end, his head bowed for the sword. Blood on the snow. I didn’t tell them I had fallen to my knees and wept.

By the time I’d finished, a message had come from the great hall. Our arrival had been noted. Adelmar of the Frisii summoned three of us to audience in the morning; Phèdre, Joscelin, and me.

“What do you think?” I asked Phèdre.

She had been quiet for most of the evening; all of them had, letting Alba’s concerns take precedence. “I think we don’t have a great deal of choice,” she said. “Adelmar may be angry at the trick we played him, but I don’t think he’s fool enough to make an issue of it. He’s an ambitious man, and we at least managed to pass through Skaldia without reprisal. And you’ve done naught but follow his suggestion.” Phèdre rose, stooping to kiss my brow. “I think we’ll find out on the morrow, so we might as well get a good night’s sleep.”

She was right, of course.

After our sojourn with Skovik and his men, it was still a great luxury to fill our bellies with hot food, bathe with warm water, and sink onto a straw pallet instead of sleeping in the bottom of a boat, covered with canvas. I slept without dreaming, and on the morrow, we presented ourselves at the great hall.

It was all very, very different from my first experience there. For one thing, there were no pilgrims awaiting audience. I daresay the Habiru had sense enough to wait until spring to travel through Skaldia. For another, the petty official who had made us wait before bowed obsequiously and ushered us immediately into Adelmar’s presence.

He wasn’t alone.

As before, Adelmar received us in his study. This time, it had been tidied. There were chairs set forth around a round table, and a jug and winecups set on it. The couple with him rose as we entered. He was a portly, prosperous-looking fellow; fair-skinned like the Skaldi, but with dark hair caught back at the nape of his neck with gilded clasp, and a neatly trimmed beard. His wife was a plain woman of middle years, unprepossessing, but there was a gentle shrewdness to her face. Both of them wore expensive, well-made attire. To my eye, it looked more fitting to wealthy merchants in Tiberium than travellers in Skaldia.

“Prince Imriel de la Courcel,” Adelmar said smoothly in Caerdicci. “We are pleased to see you well.” He wagged his forefinger at Phèdre and Joscelin. “Your ladyship, my lord, I fear you have played me a naughty trick. And yet I will forgive you, since no harm came of it.”

“I’m sorry, my lord Adelmar,” Phèdre apologized. “The matter was urgent.”

Joscelin merely shrugged.

“So I perceive, now.” Adelmar smiled. “You were a mother bereft and fearful. ’Tis my fault I did not recognize it as such, and not a threat to Skaldia. You must understand, your reputation precedes you.”

Phèdre raised her brows. “Oh?”

“Oh, indeed.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “ ’Tis of no mind. Please, meet my guests; Ditmarus of the Manni, and his wife Ermegart. Over the course of several long winter nights, they have heard your strange tale, and were anxious to meet you.”

We exchanged greetings. I glanced down at Ditmarus’ hand when he clasped mine. He wore rings on every finger. On his middle finger, there was a signet ring. It bore the impress of a lamp. It was a familiar image.

“I see,” I said slowly. “Well met, my lord.”

Ditmarus’ grip tightened briefly. “Among the Manni, we seek to accomplish much the same as Adelmar seeks here for the sake of Skaldia.” His Caerdicci was polished and impeccable. He gave me a bland smile. “Trade and prosperity. So much better than war, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” I said politely.

Phèdre tilted her head. “Do the Manni seek trade with the Frisii? I would not have thought the trade routes made it easy. Your lands lie to the south and share a border with Caerdicca Unitas, is it not so?”

“Oh, yes.” Ditmarus turned his bland smile on her. “Still, Skaldia is Skaldia.”

“We heard reports of the empire Lord Adelmar was building in the west, and a new empire arising in the north.” Ermegart smiled at Adelmar with friendly interest. “We were . . . curious.”

“There are ways in which we might aid one another,” Ditmarus added.

Joscelin rolled his eyes.

I wished I could, too.

What exactly their mission was, I could not say. I daresay there was an element of truth to it all. A new vision of Skaldia had arisen from the wreckage of Waldemar Selig’s dreams. Ditmarus and Ermegart belonged to the same tribe that had spawned Eamonn’s wife Brigitta, and there was a certain hard-eyed pragmatism there. Adelmar had consolidated his hold on a considerable chunk of southwestern Skaldia. He’d made alliances with the Flatlands, with Vralia; even tentative overtures to Alba. It made sense that they would investigate.