Waterborne Exile (16 page)

“And this day, loyal brethren, I bring forward a new sister to join your ranks. She has served the order well and proven herself loyal to the faith.”

Weaver had no difficulty recognising his night-time visitor: the pale priestess. She appeared startled, her tiny nostrils flared as if she was scenting for danger. A suspicious creature, that one. What she suspected of the world said much of what she was prepared to deal out herself. Much, and more. Weaver would never have chosen her as an ally, but the Goddess had seen fit to deliver her to him and he was not about to question the Goddess’s choice. And where had that thought even come from? What Goddess? Had the brethren been feeding him poppy juice again for his mind to wander so?

The prelate was still extolling the virtues of the sharp-faced priestess. No, Weaver decided, the wary look on her face convinced him she had not expected this at all. But she kept her head bowed until the prelate ordered her to kneel before him.

“And now, daughter, I welcome you to our order.” He anointed her forehead with wine. “And I commend you to your new brethren, and I commend your name to your new brethren: You are welcome as one of us, sister Miria. Brethren, bid your sister welcome.”

“Hail, sister Miria, you are welcome among us. And you are one with us. As one we will uphold the order. As one we will follow the faith.” The priests assembled in the room murmured as with one voice.

The priestess stood to take the place the prelate indicated in the front row of the assembled priests. There was a telltale tension to be seen in the set of her head and shoulders, before she turned to face the prelate, clasping her hands and bowing her head in outward obedience to the rule.

After she had received the prelate’s blessing he directed her to a chair where she sat stiffly while her new name was tattooed on her right forearm. The wary look never left her face throughout.

No, she had not expected that.

Peveril prided himself on keeping in shape. Sure he’d gained a bit of bulk over the years, but he’d lost none of the skills he’d acquired in the days of his youth. It hadn’t been difficult to find the room over the cobbler’s shop that the builder’s apprentice, Shott, rented. It had been the work of a moment to scale the rubble stone wall leading to window, and to flick the catch open with a small knife he carried between his teeth. Almost too easy, even if he needed a pause to catch his breath once he’d squeezed through the window and stepped down from the sill, all without making the slightest noise to alert anyone to his presence. From what he’d seen the lad would be at the tavern an hour or two yet – although he’d been amused to notice the youth was staying tight-lipped about his sudden good fortune. Well he might, the young fool.

Finding the necklace, however, proved less easy. A rapid search had revealed it was in none of the more usual places. Years spent as a housebreaker – before he’d been pressed into the army and turned respectable – had taught him the most rewarding places to look. Now he went through them again, more thoroughly, groping around the underside of every piece of furniture, and lifting the mattress right off the bed as well as inspecting the mattress itself for hiding places. Nothing. He went over the room, checking for loose floorboards, but they were all sound and solid. He went through every item of clothing in the chest, though Goddess knew there was little enough of that.

He couldn’t fight off the growing suspicion the lad had been lying to him all along. And if that was the case…

Peveril only heard the footsteps on the landing outside at the last minute. He pulled the kerchief back over his face and ducked behind the door. There was nowhere to hide in the tiny room, but all he needed was the element of surprise. A key rattled in the lock and the apprentice stumbled in, not entirely steady on his feet. But this meant he took a step sideways to recover his balance and that turned him to face the door, and the spot where Peveril had hoped to remain concealed for a few more seconds while he retrieved his cudgel from its hiding place.

Goddess, but his luck was out tonight.

The apprentice gaped at him, his mouth dropping open in shock. There was no time for anything subtle as the lad reached for the door. Peveril dived forward, smashing the lad’s hand clear of the door handle. He ignored the crunching sound from the lad’s finger bones and grabbed him around the throat, silencing his yelp of pain and shouldering the door shut as he did so. He dragged the lad to the floor by the throat and pressed him down, pinning him there with his knee while he shoved one hand over the lad’s mouth. The youth whimpered and clawed at Peveril’s face with one hand. Peveril tightened his grip on the lad’s windpipe, slapping the youth’s hand away from his face, but not before the kerchief covering his nose and mouth was wrenched free. Recognition dawned in the lad’s eyes and some of the fight went out of him. He made a gagging sound as he struggled to draw breath.

“Tell me where it is, lad.” Peveril pinned the lad’s upper arm to the floor with his other knee. “If I find you’ve been lying to me, I won’t be best pleased. An’ right now I think you have been lying to me. Where’s the necklace?”

Beneath him the lad trembled and gasped.

“Not happy? Then you’d best tell me where to find it, sharpish. I’m not a patient man.” Peveril eased one hand off the lad’s face.

The youth sucked in a shuddering breath, in sharp bursts, unable to speak. His hand flapped.

“No, you tell me now.” Peveril tightened his fingers about the boy’s windpipe again. The boy scrabbled his hand against Peveril’s thigh. Peveril closed his fingers about the lad’s throat.

“I’m all out of patience.”

The boy, panicking, flapped his broken hand, not to strike at Peveril, but towards his own chest.

“Hurts, does it? You’ll be sorrier still that you tried to cross me, you arrogant prick.”

The boy’s eyes widened and his head seemed to spasm as he attempted to shake it, but Peveril had no option now. The boy had recognised him. He closed his second hand about the boy’s throat and clamped it in an unforgiving grip.

Eventually the boy fell still and the spasming of his limbs ceased. Peveril released him, easing the knots out of his fingers. He had the single leaf, after all. It was distinctive. It might be more than enough proof of the Lady Alwenna’s survival.

He searched through the boy’s scrip, pleased to find most of the coin he’d given him still in there. He added that to his own, leaving a few small coins so it wouldn’t be obvious the lad had been robbed.

Dead eyes stared up at the ceiling as Peveril searched through the rest of the youth’s clothing. And there, in a flat pouch on a leather loop about the boy’s neck, hidden inside his smock, he found it. Wrapped in clean linen, a small bundle, unyielding inside the fabric. Suddenly the boy’s flapping gestures made sense. He’d been trying to tell Peveril, all along. He’d probably even had it with him the day he’d sworn he’d never carry such a valuable thing with him. Peveril grinned as he untied the leather loop and placed it about his own neck, still warm from the youth’s body heat. He stood up, easing the knot in his shoulders.

It wouldn’t hurt to cover his tracks.

Peveril heaved the lad’s shoulders up off the floor and dropped him face down on the bed. There was little enough weight to him. He unbuckled the lad’s belt and pulled his leggings down to his ankles, then hitched up his smock, leaving his dead, bare arse exposed to the view of the world. Let it look like a rough game gone badly wrong.

He’d been here long enough, and he had what he’d come for. Peveril refastened the kerchief tighter over his face, leaned out of the window to check all was clear and clambered out the way he’d entered.

The sky was overcast. The sea beneath it churned sullenly. At some point on the horizon the two merged almost seamlessly. As an Outer Islander, Lena had been raised by the sea, knew its every mood, every timbre, yet today the familiar left her sombre. Despite herself, she shivered and leaned closer into Darnell’s embrace. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

“The water level. You see the marker there for high tide?” He pointed down to a wooden pole fastened to the harbour wall. At some point in the past it had been painted white, but it was now faded and peeling.

“Yes, but I can’t see any tide markings on it. Have they all worn off?” His arm about her shoulders was comforting. She didn’t want to be standing out here with him. She wanted to be back in his bed, glorying in his body, glorying in the terrible hunger that overcame her whenever they were together. She didn’t want to be standing here on this cold harbourside, watching the creeping sea with a sense of dread that spoke to her very bones.

“They haven’t worn off – they’re underwater already. There are three hours and more to go until high tide.”

“But… It’s not even a spring tide, surely?”

“No. It’s not.” Darnell stared out across the harbour. “It’s been happening steadily over the years – ever since I settled here. Every year, the tides have climbed higher and higher up the harbour wall. But this is the worst I’ve seen it.”

And three hours to go to high tide? Lena looked down at the rising waters. The lower level of the harbour was submerged already, along with several of the steps leading down to it. The water washed back and forth, revealing then concealing another step. Even as she watched the tide climbed higher so the surface of the step could no longer be seen, except through a shimmering layer of water. She slid her arm about Darnell’s waist and they watched and waited together as another step was gradually overtaken by the sea.

“How high will it get? Will it stop?”

“I reckon it will top the harbourside this year, and flood these streets. And it won’t even take a storm to do it.” Darnell nodded over his shoulder.

Lena turned to look, trying to visualise the familiar scene overrun, submerged in sea water. All the goods that were stacked waiting for hauliers to take them away, the crowd of people waiting to board the ferry that had just arrived from the Outer Isles. The passengers were filing off it now, carrying bags and bundles, negotiating the gangplank with varying degrees of ease. And the very last passenger moved leisurely behind the others, his bundle rather smaller than theirs. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself, but it wasn’t until he stepped onto the harbour wall that a shock of recognition ran through her. And, as if he sensed it, the newcomer looked directly at her.

Bleaklow.

Darnell must have felt her tense, for he was distracted from his contemplation of the sea. “What is it?”

She twisted round to put Darnell between her and Bleaklow. “This place, it chills me today. Let’s go back to your house.” She knew a sudden desperation. She had no idea if Bleaklow had recognised her in that instant: why should he have, after all, her hair cropped short, wearing a commoner’s garments and entwined in the arms of another man. There had been no recognition in that instant his eyes had met hers. But why else would her father’s servant be here, if not to search for her? She tightened her arm about Darnell.

“Let’s go back right now. I want to feel alive. I want you to love me.”

Darnell hesitated, troubled. “What is wrong? Not that I don’t welcome your suggestion… But–”

“Wrong? Oh, don’t ask me to explain. I just have this sense we may not have so very long together.” She tugged at his hand. “Come with me now.”

Darnell needed no further invitation as he caught her sense of urgency and they wasted no time returning to his house.

Rekhart shivered. He’d been standing out here in the cold a good hour or more already and the barge was late. If it didn’t turn up soon he’d a good mind to tell Jervin just where he could shove his latest errand and go home to the warmth of his bed. A chill mist had crept up from the river, occluding the clear sky which promised frost before dawn. Goddess, he’d better not still be waiting here by then. Where was the accursed barge?

Rekhart stamped his feet and blew on his fingers in an attempt to warm them. He’d long ago finished the contents of the small flask he carried. He was tempted to slip away and replenish it at the nearest tavern, but the only money in his scrip right now belonged to Jervin. And every coin of it was destined for this contact of Jervin’s who was travelling on this abominably late barge. Of all the things he might have been doing on his first night off duty in ten days – well, this was not what he would have chosen. There wasn’t even a night watchman here tonight to keep him company. But he’d have cleared the last of his debt soon and there’d be no more hanging about on cold docks waiting for whichever shipment of goods Jervin had due in. No, by the Goddess, there wouldn’t. He’d learned his lesson.

Rekhart shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his surcoat. Alongside the key to the warehouse he could feel the pouch containing his dice. He still carried them, fool that he was. They were what had led him into this in the first place. He’d had some vague idea of keeping them as a reminder, but instead they were a source of constant temptation. He drew the pouch out of his pocket and untied the loop that fastened it shut. He tipped the dice out, turning them over in his hands. They were a fine set, carved from quality bone, with no chips or blemishes. Absentmindedly he rolled them on the flat top of the harbour wall. All twos and ones.

No use to anyone. And what did he imagine he was doing with them now? As if rolling sevens would change anything.

Rekhart scooped the dice up and stuffed them back into the pouch, fastening it tight. The surface of the river was still, the current running deep and unseen. Moonlight spread over the water, calm and accepting. On an impulse Rekhart drew his arm back and hurled the dice pouch out over the water. The pouch sailed far beyond reach of the harbour lights, then dropped into the water with an unremarkable plop. Ripples spread from the point where it sank, setting the moonlight dancing.

It was as easy as that. He would turn his life around and close this sorry episode. Maybe three, four more nights to do and he’d have settled up with Jervin. And then… There was that merchant’s daughter from the trade quarter. He’d spoken to her at the spring fair. He saw her sometimes, fetching and carrying from her father’s market stall. She always had a shy smile for him. Perhaps–