Waterborne Exile (17 page)

From upriver Rekhart heard the unmistakable splashing of oars deployed by tired hands. This would be his barge, at long last. He’d be able to stow the goods in Jervin’s warehouse and be tucked up warm in his own bed before another half hour was out.

He gave his hands a last rub to warm them through and paused to check his knife was snugly in position on his belt, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Many of Jervin’s business associates were less than savoury.

The barge nudged up against the side of the dock with a gentle thud. Rekhart caught the line the captain threw over and secured it about the nearest bollard. A moment later a figure stepped up from inside the barge and leaped easily over to the dock.

“You’re Jervin’s man? Not seen you before.” The voice was a woman’s, of low timbre, but unmistakably a woman’s.

“I’m Jervin’s man.” The words seemed to stick in Rekhart’s throat. But not for much longer, he wanted to add.

The woman eyed him with curiosity. Her long hair was wild and unkempt, and she had a front tooth missing. “Aye, well. If you say so, you likely are.” She grinned. “Best get this done then. You got my money?”

“I have. You can count it in the warehouse.”

She shrugged, chewing on a mouthful of tobacco and spitting on the ground. “You’re the cautious one. Makes no odds to me.” She turned and shouted back to the barge. “Wait there, Tam. No unloading till I’ve counted up.”

She walked with Rekhart to the warehouse, clearly knowing the way already. He unlocked the door and they stepped inside. He soon regretted his decision to conduct their business behind closed doors rather than out in the open – some time must have lapsed since any of the woman’s garments had been washed, let alone her person. He didn’t delay in handing over the fat purse Jervin had given him.

She opened it there on the spot and counted through it, taking her time. Then she counted out half a dozen coins and handed them back to him. “You give that back to Jervin, an’ you tell ’im the load’s not complete. I’ll not charge him for goods I can’t deliver. And you make your mark on this ’ere paper so’s I’ve proof you took it from me. I’ll not have Jervin chasin’ me for short delivery.”

The woman looked pointedly around the warehouse as Rekhart signed a receipt for her.

“We ’ad some trouble wi’ this lot on the river. Be glad to unload ’em. You got the cellar key, too?”

“Yes, of course.” Rekhart drew the key from his pocket, wishing the woman wouldn’t stand so close. In truth he’d forgotten about it, but Jervin had instructed him this consignment must go in the cellar. A particularly expensive vintage, he guessed. He unlocked the solid door, to be greeted by a rush of rank air, fusty and damp. He hoped the wine barrels were well-sealed.

The woman had already set off back to the barge and he followed her, grateful for the relatively fresh air outside, despite the usual dockside smells.

“Let’s have ’em, Tam.”

A stooped figure clambered up on deck of the barge, while the captain had set up a gangplank to allow them to unload the goods. Rekhart hoped it wouldn’t take long. He was ready for his bed. And if they thought he was about to help with the fetching and carrying…

He stopped, one foot on the gangplank as one small figure after another emerged from the cabin behind the individual known as Tam. This was no trick of the moonlight: the stooped figure was leading a string of children from the cabin, their hands bound, each one tied to the child in front like so many mules. He stepped back as Tam tugged at the leader and they shuffled one by one along the gangplank, past Rekhart and onto the dock. For the most part they kept their eyes downcast. One gave Rekhart a wary glance, as if they would sooner not walk so close to him, lest he lash out.

“Wait. What’s this?” Rekhart turned to the woman.

“Nine of ’em. I gev you back coin for the other, like I said. Get ’em inside, Tam. Cellar’s open.”

Tam grunted and tugged at the leader of the string of children, who stumbled after him. The rest followed, their steps uncertain as if they’d spent a lot of time crammed into a tiny space. And from Rekhart’s scanty knowledge of barges, they must have.

“But… they’re children.” The eldest couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve.

The woman turned back from paying off the barge captain and walked off the gangplank. “Aye. An’ all fit an’ healthy. You’ll not catch us passing off substandard goods, no–”

“Oy, wait!” The captain emerged from the cabin. “You’ve left one behind.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “An’ I told you, you gev ’em bad water. It’s your problem.”

“I did no such thing. The others would be ill, too, wouldn’t they?” The captain gestured towards the line of children vanishing inside the warehouse. “They’re fine, can see for yourself. You want me to run for you again, you’ll take this ’un off, too. I can find plenty work without havin’ to clear up after my cargo.”

The woman shrugged. “’Ere, gie’s a hand.” She tugged on Rekhart’s sleeve and he followed her numbly. She ducked inside the cabin and emerged backwards a moment later, stooped over as she dragged a limp form by the shoulders. “Grab ’is feet, then.”

Rekhart stepped forward and picked up the child’s feet which were trailing on the deck. He guessed this one to be nine or ten. The boy’s eyes opened briefly and he stared at Rekhart with the unfocused gaze of the fevered patient. His head slumped back and he moaned as Rekhart lifted his feet in the air so they were no longer dragging over the ground. The boy’s arms dangled free. At least they’d had the humanity to unbind his hands. The child needed a healer, there was no doubt of that. Who would be safest to consult? He was vaguely aware if the woman moved any further back she’d miss the gangplank at the end of the barge altogether, and get a long overdue washing.

“You ready?” The woman adjusted her grip, raising the boy slightly. Rekhart nodded, likewise raising the inert form so they could lift him onto the gangplank without injury. Then the woman swung the boy’s head and shoulders bodily out over the edge of the boat and let go. Reflexively, Rekhart tried to hang onto the lad’s ankles with the result the lad’s upper body pivoted in mid-air, swinging round before he dropped out of sight and his head smashed against the side of the barge with a sickening, hollow thud. Rekhart couldn’t have said quite when or how he lost his grip on the lad’s ankles, but he was left clutching one worn old boot as the boy sank beneath the surface of the water without so much as a kick of his bare and grimy foot.

The ripples had almost stilled before Rekhart dropped the boy’s boot in after him.

Behind Rekhart the woman guffawed with laughter.

“You want the truth, Marten? The truth is there’s bad blood in that woman’s line and you should sever all connections with her. Is that plain enough for you to understand?” The words were spoken in a low voice, brusque with anger, but Alwenna had no trouble hearing them; it was almost as if she had been intended to all along. She tried to turn away, to close her mind to them, but somehow she couldn’t.

Marten’s boot heels scuffed on the floor of the cave as he paced back and forth. “Damn it, Rogen, we can do better than that. We must. She is key to regaining everything we’ve lost these past weeks.”

“I always knew you were stubborn to a fault, Marten, but blind as well? It’s as well your father isn’t alive to hear this.”

“He may not be, but my children are. Keep your voice down.”

Rogen laughed bitterly. “Why should I? They should know what manner of a man fathered them. By the Hunter, I swear if I’d known then what I know now I’d never have let my daughter be taken in by you.”

“Stop now, old man. You go too far. Your daughter made her own choice and she’s more than capable of telling me herself if she’s had second thoughts.”

“She never will. She thinks she owes you some kind of loyalty because she’s given you no children. Truth is she should find a real man who can get them on her – one who will provide properly for his family and isn’t always chasing around the peninsula on mad schemes that’ll be the ruin of us all.”

For a moment there was silence. Alwenna could no more close her mind to it than she could have climbed out from beneath the rubble that had buried her at Highkell. And now she was suffocating under the weight of the two freemerchants’ anger.

“It’s as well for you, Rogen, I was raised to respect my elders. Because of that I’ll only tell you how wrong you are. I brought the Lady Alwenna here because I believed the elders were best placed to advise her on how to proceed. And there’s been nothing but backbiting and acrimony.”

“You should have known better than to bring a landbound witch among us. Nothing good can come of it. Nothing.”

“I’ve been working towards this for years. You know that. And with Tresilian gone, she’s our only hope of gaining redress. You know that, too. Stop to think, just for a moment, Rogen. For the sake of our people: we can’t go on scratching out a living here, not the way we have been. There are fewer and fewer children born among us. We need to act now, or there’ll be no freemerchants left because the remnants will be scattered to the furthest corners of the Peninsular Kingdoms. And we will have no history, because no one will speak our names.”

“And so be it, if the alternative is to become landbound breeding stock, fattened for some lordling’s profit.”

“Sometimes I forget how old you are, Rogen. But tonight I see it: your age has addled your wits. It’s time you stepped down from the council, before you lead everyone down roads that aren’t clear.”

“I’ll leave the council the day I go to roam with the Hunter and not a day sooner. So it was with my father, and his father, and his father before him.”

And they were all inbred fools, the lot of them. Even though Marten didn’t speak the words out loud they rang clear in Alwenna’s mind. Hadn’t she heard those words before, somewhere? She shivered, and became aware of her surroundings.

She was seated on the bench, slumped over the rough table that was one of the few furnishings in their home with the freemerchants. A few vegetables were scattered about the table. Before her was a bloodstained eating knife, while a small amount of blood had pooled and begun to congeal on the tabletop. She straightened up, pressing her hands on the table for support, and was rewarded with a twinge of pain from her finger. She’d cut it. Must have cut it while she was chopping vegetables. And… what? Had she fainted? The child twisted in her swollen belly. Was this what pregnancy did: made invalids of perfectly healthy women? Was she really such a weakling?

And then there was the dream… Marten and Rogen arguing.

Except she knew it was no dream. The sight had found its way to her despite all her determination to fight it. She had no control over her own body and even less over her own will.

But there was one thing she could do: she could leave this Goddess-forsaken place before her enemies closed in around her.

She pushed herself to her feet, stretched, and moved over to the clay basin to wash her blood from the knife. It was time for her to leave – she could ignore the troubled visions no longer. There were those outcast freemerchants in the mountains. She should have sought them out weeks ago, instead of tarrying here. She picked up the clay basin to tip out the fine layer of dust that had accumulated in it. She couldn’t depend on Marten’s protection, oughtn’t remain here, not while her presence caused difficulties with–

Footsteps scuffled in the doorway behind her. Instinct told her this was danger, and she spun round, basin in one hand, the knife in the other. Rogen stood there, clutching a cudgel, breathing heavily.

“Well, old man? What are you waiting for?”

Rogen took a step forward, flexing his fingers about the grip of the cudgel. “As the Hunter is my witness, witch, I’ll put an end to you.”

“Indeed? This is your legendary freemerchant hospitality?” She twisted the knife about in her hand so she was holding it as she’d seen Weaver and Tresilian do in their training bouts.

“This is how we deal with a threat against our own.”

He had Alwenna cornered, blocking her route to the door, giving her no option. She hurled the clay basin at his face. It caught him a glancing blow, but it was enough to make him duck and she dived forward, grabbing the cudgel and hacking at his right hand with the small knife. He bellowed in anger as more footsteps came running up outside. Goddess, let them not belong to supporters of Rogen.

An instant later Marten burst into the chamber, shouting. “Let her go!” He grabbed Rogen by the shoulders, pulling him away and Alwenna stepped back, hands beginning to shake as she dropped the cudgel. It bounced on the stone floor, rolling over and over until it came to rest against the ever-present drift of dust by the doorway.

Durstan set the account books to one side. The tale they told was not a happy one. To think they had been so close to success, before Tresilian’s queen had been brought into their midst.

“Curwen, put these ledgers away and fetch me parchment and ink.”

The slightly-built priest jumped as if startled. “At once, your holiness.”

The summer palace had been a good place for the order, but without Tresilian’s patronage they couldn’t hope to continue there. They had few enough resources at their disposal now, never mind taking on repairs to the damaged portions of the palace. They needed tithes, a more populous region to draw their supplies from and to pay them their due. Land that could be turned to food and profit. They needed the support of a wealthy new royal patron: he had one such in mind. One who had the resources and the power to find the Lady Alwenna, wherever she may be.

“Thank you, Curwen.” Durstan stirred the ink. It was a poor batch, too watery, but it was all they had at their disposal.

“I will need to undertake a journey of pilgrimage which I hope will secure the brethren’s future. I will be leaving you in charge.”

Curwen bowed his head. “Your holiness, you do me a great honour.”

“I shall expect you to continue our work in my absence. There are, I believe, two soldiers still in the infirmary who are ready for the rebirth rites?”