The Wounded Guardian (11 page)

The man known as War Captain Rowran loved to sail. Even when he had been in the army, fighting in the mountains, he had dreamed of the sea. It was somehow calming, and he had found himself going for longer and longer trips since he had returned from the war. Out of sight of land, away from people, his problems just seemed to disappear.

That day had been a bad one. He had been having a quiet drink in a tavern and looking forward to an afternoon of sagas when the bard started the show by announcing that War Captain Macord had killed himself, burned himself to death in his own house, so instead of the planned program, he would do a series of sagas about the war and finish with the Song of Bellic. Rowran could feel every eye in the tavern turn to him. He knew he had to get out—and fast.

By the time he made it to his boat, he just wanted to get away from everyone and everything. So he made the fatal mistake of not checking in the boat’s small cabin before hoisting the sail and heading out of the harbour.

Cezar steered Rowran’s boat into a small cove under cover of darkness. The body had gone over the side—except for the heart, which was in its special box, inside a small pack he wore over his shoulder. He planned to ram the boat into some rocks and leave it there for the locals to find the next day. No doubt they would conclude that Rowran had fallen overboard. Now for Captain Oscarl, as Markuz and Onzalez felt Oscarl was the greater threat to Berellia’s ambition and the Fearpriest’s vision. Then he could hunt Captain Martil down at his leisure.

Karia had never been to Wollin. And as she had spent the past few months living in a forest the noise, the
smells and the bustle of the town made her forget about tormenting Martil. She was used to seeing a few sheep or cows. But here, the road was taken up by huge flocks and herds of them, forcing Martil to ride right around them. Crates of chickens clucked on top of wagons; other wagons rolled along piled with hay, fruit, vegetables and other foods the area provided. She watched, fascinated, as Martil steered them around and past the farmers, and towards the gate.

The wall towered above, while the noise of the city made her dig her fingers into Tomon’s mane for comfort.

‘And what is that smell?’ she demanded, holding her nose as they rode into the main street.

Martil explained it was the smell of a town, of thousands of people all living close to each other, the smell of their waste as well as that of the various animals that lived with them.

‘It’s disgusting! How can they live like this?’ She tried to breathe through her mouth.

Martil refrained from adding that the old dustcloth dress she was wearing was far from pleasant, although the bath she had had seemed to have removed the worst of her smell.

For Karia, the town was just too much of everything. Her eyes, her ears and especially her nose struggled to take it all in. Well-dressed men and women walked together, their clothes far richer than anything she had seen before. Labourers and servants hurried past, on their way to serve others. Stallholders bellowed out their wares, while carriages rattled past.

They made her nervous and, strangely, knowing Martil was there made her feel a little better as shopkeepers yelled up at them, desperate for their
business. She told herself it was because Father Nott had liked him, so he could not be as bad as her da, even though he wouldn’t take her back to Father.

Martil was amused by the way the town had first quietened her, then made her move back in the saddle so she was actually leaning into him, as if he was protecting her. It was certainly much better than when she was yelling, or trying to hit him. He racked his brain for something to say to exploit this but she saved him the trouble.

‘Why are all these people here? What are they doing?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, some live here, and some are here to sell their goods. They all need to eat, and there’s nowhere to grow anything in a town, so food has to come here. It is also sold here, and sent to even bigger towns.’

She nodded, wide-eyed. In truth it was not too busy, there was plenty of room on the cobbled streets, and he rarely had to check Tomon to avoid someone in front of him. But she was obviously fascinated by the bustle and the colour. She gaped at the women’s dresses, while Martil enjoyed the respite from questions.

‘Here we are,’ Martil said, spotting the sign of the one shopkeeper he had been looking for.

He rode Tomon across the street and then climbed down, tying the reins tightly to a hitching post in front of the store.

‘Where are we?’ Karia asked as he lifted her down. He half-expected her to run or scream, but the unfamiliar town was having its effect on her and she was trying to stay as close as possible to him.
She may hate me, but I’m less scary to her than a bunch of fat merchants
, he mused.

‘We’re at a dressmaker’s. And we’re going to get you some clothes. Come on.’

He guided her past two well-dressed women and a servant who staggered behind them, his arms laden with goods, and into the shop.

Menner was proud to boast that he was the finest dressmaker in Wollin. Of course, the fact there were only three dressmakers in the town, and the other two were run by old women who had never been to Norstalos City, let alone designed fine outfits for the gentry, was one he did not add to the story.

He would have liked to stay in Norstalos City but the truth was, he was an even better gossip than he was a dressmaker. And after he had repeated a couple of salacious stories about Duke Gello, he had received a visit from some of the Duke’s personal guard, who were not interested in the latest colours and styles of doublet but were happy to inform him he would find himself wearing his own entrails for a necklace if he did not leave the city by the end of the week.

Wollin was the town furthest from the Duke’s western lands, and he had found a profitable business here, selling clothes and dresses to the wives of rich farmers and merchants. The standard of gossip, however, was sadly lacking. He had just sold two dresses to one of his regulars when the bell rang and an interesting pair walked into his shop. A warrior and his daughter, by the looks of it. The man was obviously a Ralloran, judging by his tunic and trousers, while the girl was wearing…Menner shuddered. It looked like an old rag. Still, the man was wearing two swords, so it paid to be polite.

‘Welcome to Menner’s! How can I help you?’ He stepped out from behind his counter, letting them see how he was dressed in the latest fashion from the city, a bright yellow tunic, with puffed sleeves and a low collar, over orange trousers.

Karia stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘We need clothes for a girl,’ Martil announced.

Menner took the fabric of Karia’s tunic between finger and thumb and almost recoiled in horror before recovering swiftly. ‘My dear sir, you have come to the right place! We can have her dressed in the latest fabrics, and the latest fashions!’

‘She’s not going to meet your Queen. I need two pairs of tunics and trews and three simple dresses. One pair of warm shoes, one pair of leather shoes and one pair of sandals,’ Martil growled. Karia, meanwhile, was trying to hide behind one of his legs, peeping up at the strangely-dressed man whenever she thought he was not looking at her.

Menner smiled. ‘Of course we can do that for you, but so much, it will take time, and there will be a need for a deposit…’

Martil had no intention of spending any more time in Wollin than was absolutely necessary. He produced a thick gold coin and tossed it idly into the air. ‘I need them by tomorrow.’

‘While I wish we could help, it simply cannot be done.’

A second gold coin joined the first and Menner’s smile became, impossibly, even more broad.

‘Well, for a special customer such as yourself, we can always make an exception. Let me take some measurements. But before I start, perhaps I can offer you a drink? You have ridden a long way, no doubt?’

‘A drink. And something for the girl to eat,’ Martil agreed.

Menner hurried off into a backroom, returning a moment later with a small plate of cakes, a jug of fruit juice and two goblets. Karia was still not sure about someone dressed like this but could not entirely hide her interest in the food.

Menner passed her a goblet of juice and smiled as she took a long gulp.

‘Thirsty work, shopping, is it not?’ he smiled.

She said nothing, just watched him warily and took one of the small cakes.

‘Say thank you,’ Martil prompted, but she just shrank away from both of them.

‘There’s no need. A little girl like that, bound to be shy.’ Menner smiled, then produced a small chalkboard and several lengths of thin rope marked with knots at regular intervals. ‘Could you hold out your arm for me, please?’

Karia obviously had no intention of doing so. Martil could see a wrestling bout or, worse, a screaming match approaching, but had no idea of how to stop it.

Menner did. He had designed clothes for many small girls, in fact he saw it as a lucrative and essential part of his business. Get them used to buying his clothes young and they would come back for the rest of their lives.

‘Would you like a nice doll to play with?’ he asked with a smile.

Karia could not help but be intrigued, and even gave a little smile in return. Menner opened a cupboard and took out a simple woollen doll wearing a dress. He sat down on the floor and offered it to Karia, smiling as she almost snatched
it from his hand. ‘She’s yours now. What will you call her?’

Karia looked down at the doll with delight. ‘Mine?’

‘As long as you hold out your arm and let me see how big I need to make your dresses,’ Menner said gently.

Karia did not need to think about that for too long. She flung her arm out instantly as she cradled the doll. It had a bright smile, stitched in wool. Her old dolls were long gone but she decided this one would be a special friend.

‘Her name is Dolly,’ she announced, holding out her other arm towards Menner.

He finished his measuring quickly and looked at the figures on his board while Karia tucked into the cakes.

‘I do believe I have a sample dress I could let you have now,’ he offered.

‘What will we do with this?’ Karia exclaimed, plucking at the tunic.

‘We could give it to a beggar, young miss, but I fear even they have certain standards,’ Menner said seriously. ‘The only thing that would want that dress is a large fire. I’ll be right back.’

‘He’s funny,’ Karia announced as Menner disappeared into the backroom.

Martil gave a smile. It had been interesting to see how this Menner had won Karia over, using a combination of bribery, diversions and small jokes.

Menner returned with a pale pink dress, simply cut, with no adornments, but it was obviously clean and that made it perfect in Martil’s view.

‘You may change in here,’ Menner offered, pulling a curtain out and around a circular wooden pole to create an instant small room at the side of the shop.

Karia may have been unsure about the dressmaker but she loved the dress, and simply pulled the old tunic over her head and held out her hand for the dress.

‘Aroaril’s beard! Young miss, the changing room…’ Menner gasped at her but she simply took the dress from his hand.

‘Farm girl.’ Martil tried to shrug off his embarrassment. He would have to explain to her again about the importance of privacy and decency, he realised as he quickly turned to look out the window. Whether she would listen was, of course, another matter.

‘How does it look? Am I pretty?’ Karia asked, as she wriggled into the dress.

Menner recovered his composure and rushed off to return with a large mirror, which she used to admire herself.

‘It looks lovely,’ he assured her. ‘Now all that remains is to choose colours and leave the deposit…’

Martil led Karia out of the shop feeling he had probably paid three times as much as the clothes were worth, but the time he had saved and what he had learned made the purchases worthwhile. If he could handle her mood swings, the journey to Thest would be a little less unpleasant. He was beginning to see this almost as a military campaign. Diversionary tactics worked well here, too.

Karia said nothing, because her mouth was full of the large sugary confection Menner had handed her as they left. Martil had no idea about the right colours a small child should be wearing, so had let Karia pick. Her selection of pinks and purples was immaterial—as long as the clothes did not smell, that was fine by him.

For her part, Karia was too busy looking at Dolly and admiring her new dress to pay more than a few glances to the bustle around them. Menner had recommended an inn, the Crown and Sparrow, which was nearby. In the absence of a better plan, Martil rode there. He felt he was doing that quite a bit lately, just going along with what seemed to be a good idea at the time. Still, it worked out all right in this case; he was not sure what to expect but it proved to be a large, three-storey building that dominated the street. He rode around the back, where a huge stable and courtyard stretched out to the road behind. Not just horses but carriages were kept here, tended by a score of young boys.

Martil wheeled Tomon under the main gate, then reined the horse in as a pair of large men in leather jerkins stepped out, both carrying lead-tipped staves.

‘State your business,’ one declared in a bored voice.

‘A room for myself and the girl, stabling and feed for the horse,’ Martil replied harshly.

‘Hold on, I know that voice!’ the other man exclaimed. ‘Captain Martil, as I live and breathe!’

‘By the beard of Aroaril, so it is! The other boys’ll be jealous we met you!’ the first man gasped.

Martil could not help but smile then, hearing their accents. ‘What are you boys doing so far from Rallora?’

‘Well. It’s a fair bit easier than guard duty with a regiment of Berellian Guards over the next ridge,’ the first man grinned, then his smile faded. ‘And there are too many memories down there.’

The three of them paused then, lost in what that phrase recalled. The guards recovered first. ‘Go on in, Captain. Just flash a bit of gold and the boys’ll
come running. But if you don’t mind, we’d like to shake your hand first.’