Waterborne Exile (10 page)

The lads were clad in smocks and baggy trousers, typical of labourers and probably of an age to be apprentices. It must be their payday. They looked – and sounded – as if they’d been in the tavern for the better part of the day.

“It’s true, I tell you,” the shortest one insisted. He pounded his fist on the table, determined to be heard. It always was the short ones, of course. Always the keenest to prove themselves, the first to step out of line, the hardest to fell in battle. “I tell you. A fine lady was rescued from the rubble there. My mate Barney was fetching water and arrows for the archers on the walls. An’ when everything had gone quiet – like it did, you remember, after the tower collapsed and the stone stopped falling? Well, then.” He picked up his drink and swallowed some down, secure in his audience’s attention. “Like I said–” He wiped his mouth on his shabby linen sleeve. If the colour of the garment was anything to go by this was far from the first time he’d done that. “When it all went quiet the archers went back up on the walls like they’d been ordered, and Barney had to fetch ’em water. An’ he did. While he was up on the wall carrying water-skins a group of riders appeared on the far side of the gorge. Like they’d been passin’ by and just noticed what had happened and were takin’ a good look. Anyway, they rode on an’ Barney fetched more arrows. Then he saw, as he was goin’ back down, that the same bunch of riders had dismounted an’ were going through the rubble, like. An’ he swears he saw ’em pull a lady in a fine dress – like the gentry wear – out of the rubble. He shouldn’ve been hanging around on the wall of course, an’ he got his lug clipped for it, and sent to fetch more arrows. An’ he wasn’t long down those steps when that whole curtain wall gave way an’ took all the archers with it.”

He paused and took another drink, looking around at his enraptured audience. “An’ like, that was it. An’ none of us believed him cos Barney’s always been one for tall tales. An’ there was nothing to say this was any different, ’specially with all the archers from that side dead an’ all when the wall fell down. So no one believed him.

“But,” and he paused for emphasis. “The other day I was working with the master, sorting through the stone, an’ I got to thinking about ol’ Barney’s story. Cos, y’see, we found a place where the rubble had been moved around, and there was like a hollow spot inside, an’ I remembered what Barney said an’ I got thinking: what if ol’ Barney’s tale was true, an’ those folk had really dug a woman out of the rubble? An’ what if that woman had been – well, someone important? Like, really important?

“Cos y’know I didn’t believe Barney at all until we found that spot. An’ while I was sortin’ through the stone, well, can you guess?”

His audience variously shook their heads or chided him for not getting on with the tale.

“No, I thought not. When I was sorting through the stone, picking out the good stuff, I saw something shining. Really shining, like a new coin – I saw one once, at the market when a noble bought a horse off my Da’ – an’ anyway, I poked around a bit, an’ found there was something metal buried there. An’ I dug around an’ pulled it out an’, what do you think?”

“It was a coin?”

“Nah.” Shorty shook his head. “Better ’n that. It was real gold. It was broken, like, but I could tell it was the sort of thing a fine lady would wear. Round her neck, y’know?” He gestured. “Now what do you think of that?”

“I think ye’re ’avin’ us on.” The thickset apprentice who’d questioned him before was unconvinced.

“I swear by the Goddess, may she strike me down if I tell a lie.” Shorty spread his hands wide, grinning.

“So what’d you do with it? You got it now?”

“Course not. I couldn’t carry a thing like that in here, wi’ cutpurses and the like all over.”

“You’re lying.” The thickset apprentice picked up his drink. “An’ it’s your round in case you’ve forgotten. If you’re that wealthy you’ll have no trouble buying it in.”

Shorty tilted his head. “You think I’m lying? Go on then – I can prove it. An’ if I do, you’re buying the next round.”

“Go on then, prove it. We all know you can’t – just makin’ shit up to make yoursel’ sound important. Bet you don’t even have a mate called Barney.”

“He does.” A skinny lad, who’d been listening intently without commenting broke in. “I’ve met him an’ all. ’Prenticed to the fletcher, he is.”

“That proves nowt.” Thickset apprentice was becoming belligerent.

Shorty laughed. “But this will. Here, see? He leaned over, fumbling with one hand in his scrip. The others leaned close and Peveril caught the glint of gold as he held something out for them to inspect. They seemed impressed, as he stowed the item safely back in his scrip.

All except the thickset one, who pulled a sour face. “That’s nowt. You could’ve picked up a scrap like that anywhere. Lying on the street, most likely.”

“Lay off, Rog, it looks right enough to me,” the skinny youth butted in.

“No. He’s a lying scrunt. You lay off.” The mood of the lads changed as abruptly as weather on a March day and they erupted in a boiling mess of fists and shouts, brawling until the landlord ejected them from the premises.

But Peveril had seen enough. He got leisurely to his feet and followed the pack of apprentices out. Their day’s carousing seemed to be at an end as they trailed off in ones and twos in various directions, mopping bloodied noses. He followed Shorty at a discreet distance. He wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that go by.

Peveril waited until the lad turned away from his drinking companions to walk down an empty street. This was his chance. He straightened his uniform and slicked back his hair, thankful he hadn’t bothered changing when he’d come off duty. He lengthened his stride so he could catch up with the lad’s somewhat erratic progress.

“Evening, lad. You’ve got a slight stagger on there.”

The lad was startled and sidestepped sharply, spinning round to face Peveril. Wary, this one.

Peveril spread his hands wide. “Hey, not what you think. Jus’ bein’ friendly, like.” It wasn’t often his broad Highkell accent was useful to him these days, but just now it was a blessing straight from the Goddess.

The apprentice set his jaw in a stubborn line. “Don’t think you can mess with me. I’m stronger ’n I look.”

He likely was, being a mason’s apprentice. “I’m not lookin’ to mess wi’ you. Just got a word for the wise, is all. Heard you talkin’ back at the
Miners’
, y’know. Couldn’t help it, cos you were a bit loud, ’n all.”

The lad was still poised for flight. Peveril could flatten him right now and take the fragment of jewellery, but there was bigger game to be had here. And Peveril was nothing if not ambitious. “That was an interesting tale you had.”

The lad didn’t relax his vigilance one iota. It would take a great deal of finesse to reel this one in. As a rule, Peveril thought such niceties a waste of time, but for once, this time, it might pay dividends. He smiled in what was meant to be a winning style but the lad took another step away from him, clenching his fists.

“No need to take on, lad. Don’t you recognise the uniform of the palace guard when you see it?”

The lad’s frown deepened, but he looked Peveril up and down and his stance relaxed ever so slightly. Peveril saw the line he must take. “There are those at the palace who’d be keen to hear that story you told tonight. Wealthy, like, an’ keen enough to pay you well for it. An’ if’n you’ve proof of it, they’ll pay a deal for that, too.”

“An’ what’s it to you if they would?”

Peveril gestured to his uniform once more. “I work at the palace, too. The way it is there, if’n a man serves well and is useful, he gets remembered, an’ he gets rewarded. If’n I take your story to my master, I’ll be rewarded, an’ you’ll be rewarded. But only if you can prove it.”

The lad’s chin jutted out again. “I can prove it.”

“Well then. Come to the palace tomorrow mornin’ and ask for Captain Peveril. Bring your proof an’ we can do business. Mind you don’t go blabbin’ all over town about it though, or there’s them as is low enough to take the tale to the palace themselves, an’ help themselves to what you’re carryin’. If’n I was you I wouldn’t give them the chance. Jus’ keep your lip shut and be there tomorrow mornin’. Me, I’ll deal fair wi’ you. Ask for Captain Peveril.”

“Cap’n Peveril.” The lad nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Peveril smiled. This was too easy. “An’ watch your step on the way home. You’re lucky it was only me overheard.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.” The lad waited for Peveril to turn and walk away before he resumed his journey, the stagger a little less evident than it had been before.

“You are awake? Good.” The bright-eyed woman moved over to Alwenna’s side. “I have rarely seen such power as yours before – and I have seen a few in my time, believe me. Rogen fears it of course. I can understand if you do not have it in your heart to forgive him.”

Forgive a man who had spoken so coldly of putting a knife between her ribs? When she was guest at his campfire… Alwenna’s head ached and her mouth was dry. But she could recall everything so clearly… There was none of the fog of waking from the sight. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. That was because that had been no vision of the sight. That had been a… what? A thing she had done. It had been real. She had torn a boulder from the cliff and brought it careering down the slope to their meeting place.

Goddess, was she running mad? She could remember every detail so clearly. The slow but inexorable descent of the boulder. And the glee in every fibre of her body as it sent showers of small stones cascading before it. For a moment that same glee coursed through her veins at the recollection of the ensuing chaos, but she damped it down ruthlessly. The bird-woman still watched her, eyes bright and curious, belying her years.

“You have a forgiving nature, I think, Lady Alwenna?”

“I believe I did, once.”

“But no more?”

“I was brought up to believe forgiveness was a strength. But the more I see of the world, the more I am convinced it is a fatal weakness.”

“And you have seen some things of the world that few others have, I think?” The woman watched her intently.

“You are referring to the grey brethren?” Alwenna knew the answer, but she asked anyway. Just how perceptive was the old woman?

“Yes.” She nodded. “I am referring to the grey brethren. Once-dead men who walk among us again.”

She knew – this woman understood. Suddenly Alwenna had the urge to unburden herself. “But they don’t just walk. They talk and reason, and pursue their goals as if they had never died. Except…”

“Except, my lady?” The prompting was gentle.

She was revealing nothing the elder did not already know, Alwenna was convinced. “My husband, Tresilian. He was changed. His nature was altered, so deeply I could not at first believe it. Neither, I think, did Marten. Before, Tresilian was always kind. It was he who taught me so much about forgiving, before I learned to master my temper. He was loyal, and a true friend as we grew up. Even when he returned from battle he had matured, and perhaps hardened, but he was in essence the same steady character – kind to a fault.”

“You think of kindness as a fault?”

“In a monarch, perhaps? It is better not to reveal too much of the kindness at your heart.”

“Perhaps.” The elder did not appear convinced. “Tell me more about Tresilian. It might help you, as well as the rest of us. Any detail, however tiny, might be key to understanding what should best be done.”

Alwenna tucked her knees up beneath the blankets, wrapping her arms around them and leaning her chin on her knees. Her thickening midriff meant it was not quite as easy as it had once been. But she needed to talk about Tresilian now. She’d allowed herself no room to deal with what she’d witnessed at the summer palace, and she sensed this woman would not judge her as many might.

“Even the death of his father – which hit him so badly at the time – he dealt with that and he was still the same understanding man. I sometimes thought him old beyond his years, but I suppose he had little choice once his father had died.”

“He was killed on campaign in the Marches?”

“That’s right. Putting down a simple rebellion. After all he’d been through…” Alwenna recalled his disfigured face, last glimpsed through the smoke at the summer palace. She glanced at the woman.

“Go on.”

“His father… He was one of the grey brethren. I– I saw him in a vision first, then… that last day, he was among those who burst into the throne room. We fled, Marten, Erin and I, leaving Weaver to hold them back.” She’d almost forgotten someone else was listening to her words. “I thought he would turn and follow us in an instant, but he never did. To this day I don’t know what happened to him.”

“I have heard of this Weaver – a warrior of some repute.”

“I knew none braver.” Alwenna took a deep breath to gather herself. Some things she would not share with the inquisitive elder. It was more than possible she’d heard the rumours already, and guessed the rest. Or Marten may have told her. But he said he had not and Alwenna preferred to believe him. Doubting Marten had not thus far been helpful to her. That day in the king’s chambers she’d sensed that Marten was crucial to her survival and she to his. She should ask the elder woman about that. But Jenna’s next words drove all thought of Marten from her mind.

“There may be ways of finding out what happened to this soldier. There are certain rites. Not practiced here, for they are frowned upon. But there are people who could help you find out. Freemerchants of a sort, who chose a different path many generations ago.”

“Who are they? Could I send a message to them? Where might I find…” But she already knew the answer. “In the mountains to the north.”

Jenna nodded. “In the mountains to the north. I think you’ve sensed their presence ever since you arrived here, have you not?”

Alwenna nodded, slowly. “Tell me more about them – please. I know this is important.”

“You finish telling me about Tresilian – for that is equally important – then I shall tell you what you wish to know. You say you saw Tresilian’s father among the grey brethren?”