Path of Revenge (72 page)

Bregor interrupted them. ‘You’re sure the servant woman was your sister?’

‘Without a single doubt.’ Anomer did not use his Voice, but the effect was the same.

‘Ah,’ the Hegeoman breathed.

Noetos growled under his breath.
Finally he believes. After all my arguments, all the time we spent debating, he delivers the crowning insult.

Five days after crossing the bridge over the Saar River, nine days in total north of the chandlery under Saros Rake, Noetos and his companions stood at the crest of a grassy hill and looked down on Raceme. Beyond the walled city the harbour glittered, though to the east a summer storm grumbled and complained, throwing the open sea into shadow.

‘Big place, in’t it,’ Dagla said.

A weight of memory settled on the fisherman’s shoulders as he gazed at the familiar walls and towers of Raceme Oldtown. His eye was drawn above the cliffs, beyond the battlements, to the old Summer Palace, where he had spent so much of his childhood. The Palace seemed smaller than he remembered, a little more worn, grown old. As was the whole city; in the shadow of the approaching rain, Raceme lacked the sparkle he recalled. The town hunched over itself, as though ducking to avoid a beating.

Noetos set his feet on the first of the six flights of stone steps he knew so well. Hundreds of years old, each step had been worn smooth, dipping in the centre where most of the people had placed careless feet, like the fisherman did now. Each step seemed to take a season off his life; he knew how many were in
each set, and worked out that, if it were true, he would arrive at the Suggate, the only way through Raceme’s wall from the south, at about sixteen years of age.

He stepped off the last set and looked back. He’d left his companions well behind; simple proximity to this place had energised him. ‘Come on!’ he called, ignoring the sharp looks this garnered from people using the stairs, and waved to Bregor and the others.

Easy, fisherman,
he told himself.
Your wife died a week ago. This behaviour does not become you.

He curled a lip.
None of my behaviour becomes me.

Raceme had grown in the last twenty years. Houses had been built outside the walls, most constructed using timber as opposed to the whitewashed stone within the city proper. Conditions looked poorer here, certainly poorer than he remembered in Raceme itself. Perhaps the city had cleansed itself of its lower classes by forcing them beyond the wall; it was the sort of thing the councillors would do, conservatives that they were. Or had been.

A strange dualism settled on the fisherman. He had become two people: a boy, eager to explore, to seek out adventure, to learn, to whom everything was sharp-edged and filled with wonder; and at the same time a man, world-weary and with aching heart and blurry eyes. He was young and old, happy and sad, full and empty, home and in a strange place.

‘Are we going in?’ Anomer asked.

‘Oh, of course,’ Noetos muttered, coming to himself. Or perhaps his two selves walked in step for a moment. ‘Bregor has the coin. The council will want payment before we can pass through Suggate and enter the city.’

Anomer passed the message on, and before long Bregor was negotiating with city officials.

‘Fifty? Fifty!’ The Hegeoman’s voice echoed in the narrow arch of the Suggate. ‘We wish only to visit, not
to buy property!’ Noetos craned his head forward, hoping Bregor would not make trouble.

‘We ask for such a sum to ensure visitors to Raceme have sufficient means to afford the food and accommodation offered here.’ Noetos didn’t need to see the official’s face; he could imagine it from the words and the tone of voice.

‘Taking fifty will ensure we no longer have the means!’

‘Then, sir, you should enquire of lodgings in the Shambles, through which you have but recently passed. I understand the epidemic of lice has all but abated, and as long as you are not frightened of roaches you should be able to get a decent night’s sleep.’

‘But fifty is seven per person!’

‘Aye, and that represents a thirty per cent discount.’

‘Tell him about the special citizen exemption,’ came a woman’s voice from the back of the small toll booth set into the Suggate arch.

‘Ah yes, the exemption. If you can induce a friend or relative who lives in the city to accommodate you, we will waive the charge—as long as he or she presents him or herself here before you enter the city.’ The official sounded as though he was enjoying himself.

‘That’s stupid,’ Bregor complained. ‘How would my relative know I was here?’

‘You could pay a fee of ten, go and find your relative, bring him or her to this window, and receive your discount then.’

Noetos had endured enough. ‘Here’s your fifty,’ he said, stepping forward and slapping the coins down on the stone sill. ‘And ten extra for your trouble. Good day.’

‘And a pleasant day to you, sir, and I hope your bagman gets better soon,’ was the cheery response.

‘Let’s find an inn,’ Noetos suggested to his men once they and their mules were within the city. ‘I don’t anticipate being here more than a day or two, but we do have to purchase supplies, so we cannot afford the best accommodation. I wonder if the Man-o’-War is still operating?’

‘Likely,’ Tumar said. ‘Was last time I was here, anyway. Couple’a year ago.’

A woman gave them directions, and within minutes they stood outside a three-storey whitewashed building with a green-tiled roof, a wooden sign in the shape of a jellyfish hanging above the orange door.

‘My father knew the man who once owned this establishment,’ Noetos said to his son. Then, to them all: ‘Let’s get settled in here. No funny business or drunken antics, lads; the militia here are very strict. You’ll get a night in the stocks and we’ll have to pay handsomely to have you released. Trust me, time in the stocks in a port city is not a pleasant experience. You don’t know you’re alive until you’re being pelted with rotten fish guts. I’ll sort out an arrangement with the innkeeper, though there shouldn’t be too much trouble: the place looks half-empty.’

The innkeeper was not the one his father had known. In fact, this innkeeper hadn’t heard of his predecessor. He gave Noetos and his companions the entire second floor, which was accessed by a series of wide but rickety steps. Four large rooms would sleep them all in relative comfort.

‘No wonder it was cheap,’ Bregor said. ‘It’s built out over the stables.’ The stench was dreadful.

‘It’s only for a night’r two,’ Seren reminded him. ‘Not half as bad as Papunas’ wind, rest his soul. Smells build up in a mine, this is nothing. No windows in mines.’ He opened the shutters, knocking a bird from its perch.

‘Ah, salt air ’n’ pigeon shit,’ Dagla said. ‘Perfect.’

The seven men gathered in the private taproom on the third floor. The public bar down below had already become rather crowded, and prices for guests were slightly cheaper in the smaller, quieter room. A lone barmaid took their orders. While they waited for their wine and ale, they took their chairs and sat in a semicircle by the window, which framed a view of Raceme Oldtown, showing cobbled streets leading down to the port and the ocean beyond.

‘Could get some rain,’ Seren said, easing off his boots.

‘Nah, that storm’s been out there fer ages,’ Gawl said. ‘A small one.’

‘We don’t usually get to see storms unless they’re right overhead, o’course,’ Dagla added.

Noetos looked closer at the masses of clouds billowing into the grey sky, then at the grey rain-curtains the clouds wore like skirts. Faint lightning flickered in the gathering gloom.

‘The storm appears small because it is so far away,’ he said. ‘It is enormous, and it is coming this way. We will have wind and rain aplenty tonight.’

Their drinks arrived, and for a time they dispensed with talk. Later, they spoke quietly of what direction they might take in their journey north, and whether it was better to go by land or sea. After some time the men took their meal in the taproom. Stew and turnips, the quantity and quality both impressive.

‘Here!’ Dagla cried, calling them over to the window. ‘In’t that Omiy?’

‘Looks like him,’ Seren muttered. ‘Turn around, you loose-head.’

Gawl puckered his lips as if to whistle.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Bregor said, raising his hand. ‘If it is him, he’ll be looking for us. Let him go.’

‘’Tis him all right,’ Dagla said.

‘Then keep back from the window until he’s gone,’ said Noetos.

‘Look at the storm now,’ Anomer breathed.

All eyes left the street and traced the ragged clouds up, up and further up. Much closer now, the true size of the storm was apparent. The westering sun painted the foremost clouds a pale yellow-tinged white, while those that followed took on various shades of darkness. At that moment a flickering tongue flashed across the sky; the ensuing thunderous boom took ten heartbeats to rattle the inn’s shutters.

The barmaid came over to the window. ‘Storm’s coming,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘My job to shut the windows.’

‘It won’t be here for a while yet,’ Noetos said reasonably. ‘We’ll close the shutters when we’ve finished—what are those?’

The fitful sun flicked a few stray rays across the sea at the base of the storm, illuminating a series of white sails scattered across the water, all filled with the wind bringing the following tempest.

‘Fishing boats coming back to harbour,’ Anomer commented. ‘I hope they make it.’

‘No,’ Noetos said. ‘Not fishing boats. Oh, Alkuon, it’s the Neherian fleet.’

As the words left his mouth a bell began to toll, insistent, frantic. It was joined by another, and another.

People appeared at doors and windows; within minutes the same people left their homes, clutching whatever valuables they owned, and hurried up the streets towards Suggate and the hills. Others ran down the streets towards the port: eager sightseers, or determined men with weapons in their hands.

The fisherman pulled the shutters closed with a bang, then turned his stony face on the others.

‘Come on, boys,’ he said, ‘gather your swords. We’re needed down at the docks.’

Gawl smirked at Dagla’s pale face. ‘C’mon, lad,
another chance for the Fisherman’s army to make a name for itself.’

‘I feel sick,’ the boy complained.

Bregor groaned. ‘You’ll have no need of a seal this time. Perhaps I should stay behind.’

‘But Raceme needs clear heads and intelligent minds,’ Noetos said. ‘Come on. If the Neherians take Raceme, there’ll be no safe place for the heroes of Makyra Bay.’

Chaos ruled Raceme Harbour. A groyne of stone protected the inner waters from the worst of the waves; it was lined with people who, Noetos considered, had no business being there. The militia wasted no time with them, instead forming up along the top of the crenellated wall a hundred paces behind the docks. Noetos offered himself and his men to the young commander, who accepted with profuse thanks.

‘My superior has gone to Tochar to be with his ailing father,’ the commander groaned. ‘I could do with his advice.’

‘We faced the Neherians at Makyra Bay and drove them off with the help of the villagers,’ Noetos told him. ‘Had I thought they’d try their luck further north I would have alerted the city authorities as soon as we arrived. I’m only sorry I didn’t.’

‘You any good with that thing?’ the commander asked Noetos, indicating his blade.

‘Good enough, and so are my men.’

‘Very well. I’m sending a contingent of volunteers down to the docks. I’ll make no secret of the fact that you’ll likely end up as fodder for the Neherians unless you’re more skilled than you look, old man. Up to you, but you can go with them if you wish. Now, I have men to deploy. Here’s Captain Cohamma—do as he tells you. You’re conscripted, the lot of you.’ He walked a couple of paces away, then turned back to
them. ‘Oh, yes. Pay is five each per day. Make sure you’re around to collect it.’

Captain Cohamma turned out to be a capable, no-nonsense man in his fifties without a single tooth in his head. This made his instructions hard to follow.

‘Gerron wiffit! Downa docks ’n’ be reddy for me orders!’

Along with Noetos’s army and the contingent of fifty militia, another twenty or so volunteers—many, by their expressions, regretting their impulsive bravado—lined up at the main dock.

The first of the Neherian boats came into view. As a lead craft it was surprisingly small, a dory with a single sail, reminiscent of Noetos’s own boat. Behind it came the multiple-masted ships they had seen off Kymos and Makyra Bay, sails billowing like clouds, gaining on the lead boat.

Unless the small dory was not part of the Neherian fleet. A fisherman taken unawares by the storm, now fleeing the enemy fleet, trying desperately to make it to harbour…

‘Father,’ Anomer said, his face drained of all colour. ‘Father, look. That is your old boat.’

What?

The white dory breasted the swell in the manner he knew so well. Whitewash blackened by the scars wrought by fire. Single square-set sail cracking in the wind. Two figures wringing every last bit of speed from her, one young and broad-shouldered, one old and with a gut, both naked above the waist, their shouts audible as they passed the groyne to the cheers of the spectators there. And a third figure low in the stern, one hand on the tiller, the other hand bailing bilge water.

The first of the Neherian ships, a triple-masted carrack, bore down on the dory as though it were standing still.

‘They won’t be able to fit past the groyne!’ one of the militiamen shouted.

But it seemed the Neherian captain had scant regard for his own vessel, driving it between the groyne and the city wall. A dozen spears were flung from the deck; a number of the spectators fell.

The younger of the two men sailing the dory—Mustar, Noetos could now see—shouted to the older, Sautea, who yelled something in response. They drew near the dock, a few hundred paces in front of the slowing carrack. Perhaps the Neherian captain had some sense after all. Behind the huge flagship, other Neherian vessels came into view. Someone threw a rope down to Mustar, whose muscles rippled as he drew it tight and secured it. Sautea clapped the boy on the shoulder, then extended a hand to the third figure.