Shadowrise (27 page)

“Gods curse and blast this whole muddle, Mother, you will
be quiet and listen!
” He dragged her back inside and closed the door, then leaned against it to keep her from escaping. “This girl is blameless and so am I—well, I have done nothing to her, anyway. There is no baby. Do you understand? There is no baby!”

She looked at him with astonishment. “What, have you done your foul deed already, killed one of the gods’ innocents, and now you wish me to nurse her through it?”

He hung his head, praying for patience, although he was a bit uncertain as to who might be the best recipient for the request. Zosim, his own patron godling, was notoriously uninterested in that particular virtue, or in fact by virtue in general. In the end, Tinwright offered his prayer to the goddess Zoria, who was reputed to be good with things like this.

If she will even hear me, now that I have so long delayed her poem.
But how could he help it when his muse, Princess Briony, Zoria’s earthly avatar, had disappeared?
That was the beginning of my downfall. But I was raised up such a short time only! Zoria, surely I deserve a little pity?

Whether it was the goddess’ doing or not, after a moment he did feel a little calmer. Elan was beginning to stir as if she swam upward from great depths, her eyes still closed, her pale face troubled and confused.

“Listen carefully, Mother. I have rescued Lady Elan from someone who means her harm.” He didn’t dare tell her that the man he had saved her from was Hendon Tolly, the castle’s self-appointed protector: his mother had a deep and unreasoning reverence for all kinds of authority and might march straight out and denounce them both. “She is sick because I had to give her a medicine to spirit her out of the palace and away from this man’s clutches. She has done nothing wrong, do you understand? She is a victim—like Zoria, do you see? Like Blessed Zoria herself, driven out into the snows, alone and friendless.”

His mother looked from him to Elan with deep suspicion. “How can I believe that? How can I be certain you are not making a fool of me? ‘The gods help those who fill their own fields,’ as the book says.”

“
Till
. Till their own fields. But if you don’t believe me, you can ask her yourself, when she awakes.” He pointed toward the corner of the room and the tiny table set by. “There is a basin and cloth. She needs bathing, and . . . and it didn’t seem proper I should do it. I will bring back some food for both of you, as well as some more blankets from the palace.”

The idea of blankets from the palace clearly intrigued her, but his mother was not going to be convinced so easily. “But how long must I stay? Where will I sleep?”

“You can sleep in the bed, of course.” He had opened the door and he was partway out already. “It is a big bed. Very nice, too. The mattress is full of soft, clean, new straw.” He took another step back. He was almost out. Almost . . .

“It will cost you a starfish,” she said. “Every week.”

“What?” Outrage boiled up in him. “A silver starfish? What sort of mother tries to pickpurse her own son?”

“Why should I work without wage? If you do not wish to help me, your own blood, you can hire some girl from one of those taverns in which you’ve always spent your time.”

He stared at her. She wore that look he hated, her flush of anger from earlier now turned to one of victory—the look that said she knew she’d get her way. Did the gods really speak to her? Could she somehow know that Brigid had sworn she would no longer help him, that he was backed into a corner with no escape, at risk of his very life?

“Mother, do you realize that if somehow the word gets out that the Lady Elan is here, the . . . the man who seeks her will have me killed? Not to mention what he will do to her, this poor innocent girl?”

She had her long arms folded across her chest now. “All the more reason why you should not begrudge me the pittance I ask. No price is too great to pay for this girl’s safety. I cannot believe any child of mine would balk at such a small matter.”

He stared at her. “I will not pay you a starfish every tennight, Mother. I cannot afford it. I will pay you two each month until she is well enough to leave. You will also be fed and have this room to call your own.”

“I will have a room and bed to share, you mean. Share with this unfortunate woman, carrying the gods only knows what contagion, the poor thing. Two and a half each month, Matthias. Heaven will reward you for doing what is right.”

He couldn’t imagine heaven cared very much about half a starfish a month, but he needed her more than she needed him, and she had sensed it, as she always did.

“Very well,” he said. “Two and a half every month.”

“And to show earnest . . . ?” she asked, holding out her long hand.

“Earnest? ”

“You want me to take care of her, do you not? What if I must go to the apothecary?”

He turned over his last starfish.

 

He walked beside the rickety piers at the northwestern end of Skimmer’s Lagoon, kicking a lump of dried tar. The smell of fish and salt hung over everything. Despite the horror he had just called down on himself to buy freedom of movement, he was in no hurry to get back to the royal residence.

Matt Tinwright only realized later that in that very moment the gods had surely heard his provocative words and had begun to laugh. It must have been the richest jest they had heard all day.

“Hoi,” said a large shape that had stepped out to block the walkway in front of him. “Hoi, what a surprise. I know you! You’re the limpcod I owe a beating to.”

Tinwright looked up, blinking. Standing before him were two big men dressed like dock roustabouts. Neither was the remotest bit pleasant to observe, but the nearest one had a pale, doughy face that struck him as sickeningly familiar.

Oh, heaven, what a fool I was to tempt you! It’s that cursed guard from the Badger’s Boots—the one who wanted to pound me into jelly for stealing his woman.
The thick-bodied man wasn’t dressed as a soldier now, though. Was that good? Or bad?

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me, sir . . .” he said, looking down as he stepped to one side. A hand as big as an Orphanstide ham shot out and curled in the collar of his jacket, stopping him midstride and holding him rigidly in place.

“Oh, I think not, neighbor. I think I know you well enough—though I didn’t know who you’d be when we were sent looking for you. Now my question is, should we beat the guts out of you now and risk the silver we’re to be paid for delivering you?” He turned to his almost equally ugly companion. “Do you think His Nibs’ll still pay us if we bring this sack of shit in with a few broken bones?”

His comrade seemed to be giving it real thought. “The big man has a bit of a temper and I wouldn’t want to cross him. He wanted this one alive, that’s all I know.”

“We can say he stumbled and fell into the wall a few times,” suggested Tinwright’s tormentor, grinning. “It won’t be the first time one of our prisoners went and had a wee accident.”

Prisoner? Big man? What was going on here? Until this moment, Tinwright had only felt the sickening anticipation of a beating. He had survived a few of those, although the thought terrified him. But this sounded like they actually planned something worse.

Tolly?
Were they collecting him for Hendon Tolly? Had Elan’s tormentor found out what he had done? Matt Tinwright’s heart was suddenly beating so fast he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. “Honestly, you have made a mistake.” He tried to squirm away but the guard reached out his other big hand and buffeted Tinwright so hard on the head that for long moments he could see nothing but a glare of white light, hear nothing but a loud ringing sound, as if his head had become a giant bell tolling the hour. When his wits returned he was being dragged through the streets, his feet stumbling and scraping as the two men all but carried him.

“Anymore talk and I’ll happily do that again twice as hard,” said the pasty-faced one. “In fact, next time I’ll just twist your stones until you shriek like a wee girl. How will that be?”

Tinwright stuck to silent prayer. Zoria heard from him, as did Zosim, the Three Brothers, and every other deity he could think of, including some he might have made up for his own poems.

Instead of them taking him toward the castle, though, it quickly became clear that the unpleasant men had some other destination. They frog-marched Tinwright down a succession of narrow streets, then across the bridge to the east side of the lagoon, finally arriving at a tavern on pilings that jutted right out over the water. The place had no name on it, only a long, rusted gaffing hook hung above the front door. It was dark inside, and when they first lifted him roughly across the threshold Tinwright felt as though he were being carried down into the frozen throne room of Kernios himself. He could not help noticing that it smelled more like something belonging to the sea god Erivor, though, as the cold, damp airs of the place rose and surrounded him, a miasma of fish and blood and brine.

All the tavern’s clients seemed to be Skimmers. As he and his captors walked through the low-ceilinged main room the boatmen turned to watch with heavy-lidded, incurious eyes, like a pond full of frogs waiting for an intruder to pass so they could resume their croaking song.

Why have I been brought here?
Tinwright wondered.
I know nothing of any Skimmers except that tanglewife. I have never done any of them harm. Why should someone here mean me ill?

A tall but bent-backed Skimmer stepped out in front of them. He was old, to judge by his hard, leathery skin, and wore an actual shirt with sleeves, somewhat unusual among men who often wore no clothes on their upper bodies at all, even in cold weather. “What do you need, gentlemen?” he asked in a throaty voice. All the eyes in the room still seemed to be watching them, calm but intent.

The dough-faced guard did not bother to sound respectful. “We’ve got business in the back room, fish face. And you’ve been paid already.”

“Ah, of course,” said the old Skimmer, backing out of their way. “Go through. He’s waiting for you.”

The back room’s door was so low that Matt Tinwright had to bend to go through it. His captors helped him, shoving down on his head hard enough to make his neck crack. When they allowed him to straighten up once more he found himself in a small room mostly taken up by a single large, bearded man sitting at a table of scarred wood.

“You found him, I see.” Avin Brone’s grin made Tinwright think of toothy wolves or hungry bears. “Coming out of his . . . bower of love, eh?”

Matt Tinwright, already terrified, almost gasped aloud. Did Brone know? No—he couldn’t! He must think Tinwright was having some illicit assignation by the docks.

“Don’t know about that, Lord,” said the guard who had expressed interest in helping Tinwright fall against a wall several times. “We just waited on the street you told us and there he was.”

“Good. Come see me later and you’ll get your finder’s fee. Sound work, men.”

“Thank you, Lordship,” the guard said. “Tonight? Shall we come tonight?”

“What?” Brone was already thinking of something else. “Oh, very well. Do you not trust me till Lastday?”

“ ’Course, Lordship. Just . . . we need things.” Doughface turned to his companion, who nodded.

“Certainly, then.” He waved his hand and the two men went out.

The little room was silent for an uncomfortably long time as Brone stared at Tinwright, looking him up and down like a butcher examining the carcass he was about to cut into chops. Matt Tinwright, knees trembling, couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of trick being played on him. Now that the guards had been sent away was he supposed to make a run for it, try to escape? Was Brone seeking an excuse to kill him? No, that made no sense. The time Brone had threatened him was long past and much had changed since then. Avin Brone no longer ruled over Southmarch in all but name—Tinwright knew he had lost his post of Lord Constable months ago to one of Tolly’s allies, the cruel Berkan Hood. The Count of Landsend’s beard now contained far more gray than dark, and he looked, if anything, even stouter than before. Why should he still mean harm to poor Tinwright?

“Why am I here, my lord?” he at last found the heart to ask.

Brone stared at him a moment longer before leaning forward. His frowning eyebrows seemed like they might suddenly leap from his face and take flight like bats. He lifted up his hand, pointed his thick finger right at his captive. “I . . . don’t . . . like . . .
poets
.”

It took quite a while for Tinwright to finish swallowing. “I-I-I’m s-sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Shut your hole, Tinwright.” Brone abruptly slammed his hand down on the table so hard it made the walls of the small room tremble. Tinwright had to acknowledge that he himself might have given forth a small, girlish scream. “I know all about you,” the big man went on. “Cozener. Flatterer. Layabout and ne’er-do-well. What small success you have had comes from your having suckled up to your betters, and most of those were men like Nevin Hewney and his lot, who are the scum of the earth.” Brone frowned hugely; if he had told Tinwright he was going to eat him alive, like a wicked giant in a children’s tale, the poet would have believed it. Instead, the Count of Landsend’s voice became quieter, deeper, throbbing with an anger that seemed to threaten worse things to come than Matt Tinwright could even imagine. “But then you came to the palace. Arrested. Involved with a criminal intent to take advantage of the royal family. And instead of having your head lopped off like the gutter-rolling traitor you are, you were given a gift fit for a hero—the patronage of Princess Briony herself and a place in the court. Oh, how you must have chuckled at that.”