Waterborne Exile (19 page)

Peveril opened the counting-house door to find Marwick waiting there with Birtle.

“You have the market takings?” Marwick looked… watchful. Did he suspect Peveril of creaming off the profit from the stall fees? Good luck to him proving it.

“Aye. They’re down again. Still quiet.” He dropped the purse on the table between them.

“So I see.” Marwick picked up the purse, hefting it thoughtfully.

“You can go and count them for yourself if’n you don’t want to take my word for it – it won’t take more’n a minute or two, there are so few traders.”

Marwick gravitated towards the door as if tempted to do precisely that. “I expected the footbridge would bring more people in.”

Old fool. “The story going round is a bunch of traders have taken their goods to Ellisquay and chartered a ship to Lynesreach.”

“But that would be prohibitively expensive.”

“It’s what I heard.” Peveril shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be profitable. Folks still got to eat either way – there’s not many can afford to wait for a new road bridge.”

Marwick turned away from the door again. “You make a fair point there, Captain.” He studied Peveril just too long for the soldier’s comfort. “A fair point.” He passed the purse over to Birtle. “Bring the ledgers up to date. The captain and I have a suspicious death to investigate.”

Peveril followed Marwick up the side of the street. He’d already guessed where they were going, but the old man walked painfully slowly. Sure enough, he turned in at the lodging-house where the young apprentice had lived.

The room smelled of decay, unrelieved by the air from the window which had been opened wide. Flies buzzed hopefully around the body. Marwick pressed a handkerchief over his face and gestured towards the bed.

“What do you make of it? Looks to me like that youth who was complaining of cutpurses the other day.”

Peveril scratched his head and made a play of studying the lad. “Can’t be sure. Was his hair not longer?” He could swear Marwick was watching him closer than usual.

“He gave this as his address.”

“Did he, now?” Peveril leaned closer. “You may be right at that.” The visible parts of the lad’s face had taken on a bloodless pallor.

Behind the handkerchief it was hard to tell if Marwick was convinced by his response or otherwise. He looked from Peveril to the dead youth, then a fly buzzed against his face and, distracted, he swatted it. “He appears to have been strangled.”

“If’n his pay was stolen like he said, it figures he might have been looking to earn summat to cover the rent.”

“A bit drastic.” Marwick’s eyes were on Peveril again.

“Wouldn’t be the first.” Peveril shrugged. “It stinks in here.”

“Now that’s what I expect from you, Captain. Not concern at the ills of the oppressed in our fair land.”

“Eh?”

“Young people who can’t pay their rent; traders who can’t feed their families. When did you develop a social conscience?”

“I grew up poor. I’m doing all right now, but that don’t mean I forget how it was.”

“I can imagine.” It was Marwick’s turn to shrug. “Meanwhile, someone strangled the lad. No one was seen about the place who shouldn’t have been. I want you to find out where he was and who he spoke to since he lodged that complaint about cutpurses. He was up to something that day. I’m not altogether convinced he wasn’t part of some gang – trying to set up their rivals with a false report, perhaps. As you say, people will do all sorts for a bit of extra money.”

“Sounds more’n likely. An’ him with good prospects, too.” Peveril didn’t need to assume a pious expression as Marwick was already headed for the door.

“Ask around, Captain. Find out what you can.”

Bleaklow scanned the sizeable crowd on the harbour-side. Where to begin searching in a town the size of Sylhaven? There must be a dozen taverns on the street leading up from the harbour alone. The ferry captain had been adamant she’d crossed on the ferry and not boarded another, so this was where his search must begin. Bleaklow fingered the miniature portrait stowed safely in his pocket. It had been removed from the expensive mount and set in a more modest locket: nothing said runaway royal like the elaborate gold filigree of the original. Her mother had been distraught when she’d seen the portrait – taken for Drelena’s eighteenth birthday – set in its new, humbler frame. Bleaklow had tried to offer words of comfort, without, he hoped, revealing the depths of his own guilt in the whole business. Goddess, if he’d not given in to temptation and kissed her that night. Or, worse yet, turned his back on her when she would have had him wait. He’d failed the king he served, the mother who doted upon her daughter, and the daughter herself. He’d failed every one of them. And so he’d find her, to assuage his own guilt. And then, no doubt, she’d tell all about that stolen kiss and his worthless carcass would hang off the yardarm of the royal vessel until the gulls stripped his bones clean. It wouldn’t take them long. Certainly less time than it was taking him to find the errant Drelena.

He didn’t dwell on the possibility he might never find her. Until she was safely restored to her family, his life was worthless. And once she was, well, if his life was forfeit, so be it. It would be no more than he deserved.

He certainly hadn’t expected the shock of recognition when he’d scanned the faces – almost without thinking – of the people on the harbour wall. His gut knotted when his eye fell on the fresh-faced young woman, wrapped in a long cloak as well as the arms of some man. When her eyes fell upon him and moved away immediately he was sure he had been mistaken. He had to be mistaken. Drelena would never have looked so coldly past him, would she? Goddess knew it had only been a kiss, but…

The woman in the cloak and the man with her had turned away from the harbour. The cloak obscured the way she moved. And the man’s arm remained tight around her. Bleaklow couldn’t be sure. And what were the odds of seeing Drelena the instant he set foot on land? He shouldered his bag and hurried after them, before they were entirely lost in the crowd.

For a heart-stopping moment he thought he’d lost them in the bustle of the market square, but he saw them again, hastening off down a side street that led slightly uphill. Why hurry like that? Did it mean it really was Drelena? Goddess, he hoped not. The way she clung to the man’s embrace… It couldn’t be Drelena. He had to have been mistaken. Much as he wanted to find her, he didn’t want to find her in another man’s arms.

The couple turned off to the right at the end of the street. He speeded up, reaching the corner just in time to see them entering the forecourt of a well-to-do merchant’s house. The man – a merchant, he presumed – leaned solicitously over the woman, casting an arm about her shoulders. She leaned into him, raising her face to his and they kissed with such urgency Bleaklow felt awkward for intruding on a private moment.

An instant later and Bleaklow was left standing alone in the street, wishing the sea would rise up and swallow him. That would be the best end to him now. If he’d found Drelena, it was the hollowest of hollow victories.

He ought to knock on the door straight away. Announce himself and his business and tear her from the arms of her lover, then board the next ferry back to the Outer Isles. Between them they could swear none of this had ever happened – perhaps she’d keep secret the kiss he’d stolen from her, if he kept secret the kiss he’d just witnessed… And everything might be as it ever had been.

Bleaklow straightened his surcoat. He could do this. He must do this – he’d sworn to his liege lord that he would. He took a couple of steps towards the house, before he noticed movement at one of the upstairs windows. Drelena and her lover, caught in an urgent embrace, breaking apart to divest one another of their clothes before moving out of sight.

All his worst fears confirmed. Goddess, he couldn’t.

“Hold out your arm.” There it was again, that peremptory note in the priestess’s voice. It didn’t matter how many times she told him their fates were tied together, Weaver would never believe her. Each time she visited him, he weighed his options. His strength was returning, he had little doubt if he chose he could break her slender neck and put an end to her petty interference once and for all. Maybe he would rot here forever, like she said, but he didn’t believe that any more than the other things she told him. She was not to be trusted, he knew that, he’d seen the proof of it for himself, when…

When what? Something prickled at the edge of his consciousness, tugging, insistent. But whenever he turned his mind towards it, there was nothing there. He ought… Had he forgotten? How could he have forgotten?

“Hold out your arm, Weaver.” The priestess’s voice was sharper this time. He could swat her away like nothing more than an annoying fly, but he had to be sure the time was right. He would get the element of surprise only once. Weaver raised his right arm slowly, holding it stretched out before him.

“That’s better. Don’t make me wait again, when I order you to do something.”

She removed something from inside her tunic, fidgeting with the fastening. Weaver’s skin prickled with apprehension. He knew what it was she held: a blade, in an ornate leather sheath. He knew without having to look it was that same three-sided blade that had ended the young kitchen boy’s life. The same blade that had drained his lifeblood.

He held his arm out straight, without so much as a tremor to betray his recognition. Was she about to end it for good this time? He wanted to live, he needed to live – somehow he knew that, above all else – but… if she did, if she were to plunge that blade into his heart, wouldn’t that be so much easier? Easier than all this uncertainty. Easier than trying to hunt down the half memories that taunted him and fled laughing whenever he looked their way. Easier than forcing himself up off his mattress each morning. Easier than trying to appease this angry child-woman who seemed to at once blame him for every ill in her life, yet promise him untold rewards if he should help her.

She pressed the chill tip of the blade into the crook of his elbow and he reached up with his left hand to catch hold of her wrist. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you a thousand times: we need to help one another.” Her voice was icy. Her arm twisted beneath his grip but he held firm.

“How is this helping me?”

“You are helping me for once. Let go. We haven’t much time.”

“If I am helping you, then you will be in my debt.”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me my business. Let go of my arm.”

Weaver tightened his grip about her wrist. “My blood is my business, not yours. And it’s not yours to take.”

“Let go.” There was the first hint of uncertainty about her voice.

“If I do, then I’m giving you my blood, and you will be in my debt. Admit it, or I’ll snap your arm in two.”

“You don’t know what you’re meddling with here.” Her words hissed between tightly clenched teeth.

He dug his fingertips into her wrist and could feel the pounding of her pulse. “Neither do you, for all your assurance. If you take my blood now, you will owe me.” He released her arm abruptly. “The choice is yours.”

She hesitated, the blade unsteady against his skin as her hand shook. “I will not let you stand in my way.” She made her decision and the blade bit into the flesh of his arm, deep and hard, striking a chill of recognition to his very core. The world seemed to swim about him, to spin, as blood welled about the tip of it and trickled over the inside of his arm.

“You have made your choice. Let the Goddess be our witness.” It was a victory of sorts.

“Keep quiet.” She withdrew the blade from his flesh, pressing on the skin about the wound, twisting it as if she would wring his arm dry of blood. Weaver stood, impassive, as she pressed a small bowl to his arm, directing his blood into it. He’d seen her do this before. The bowl had been different then: larger, polished, glinting bronze and he… he had wielded the knife.

He hadn’t wanted to.

“Be careful.” The child-woman’s voice was sharp. “I mustn’t spill this here or they’ll find out.”

Weaver steadied his arm, watching the blood drip into the bowl with a curious detachment. He didn’t care if his own blood spilled or not. But last time… then he’d cared. But he’d had no choice…

Finally the priestess was done and she bound up his arm with a strip of cloth. This was all familiar, and yet not as it had been before. If only he could recall clearly. It had been important to him at the time, but why, or where…

“Lower your arm.” The priestess stepped back and studied him. “Were you always so slow, or did they break you after all?” She seemed to want an answer.

He lowered his arm. “I don’t remember.”

It was no answer at all, but she smiled, her face losing the pinched look and she suddenly looked much younger. “Do you want to remember?”

Weaver shrugged.

“Do right by me and I’ll help you remember.”

He doubted now she could do that. Whatever she was trying to achieve, she had strayed far out of her depth. “In payment of your debt?”

She scowled at him. “Don’t underestimate me, Weaver. Or it’ll be the last mistake you make.”

She wiped the three-cornered blade clean on another scrap of cloth and slipped it carefully back inside the tooled leather sheath. Weaver’s eyes slid to the place where she set it down on a side table.

“Don’t think of trying to touch it yourself. It knows your blood and it knows you – your innermost thoughts, every lie you told, every secret you ever tried to keep. It knows them all. And you’ll never be able to hide from it.”

“It’s only a knife.” Even as the words left his mouth he knew he’d spoken them before. Or something so close it made little difference.

“You poor, simple fool.” She stepped closer to him. “You don’t understand anything at all, do you?” She pressed her fingers to his lips and trailed them down his chin to trace the line of his jaw. “Hush now, don’t worry about it yet. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the time comes.”

Her fingers carried the scent of blood – his blood – and beneath that something else. When she left him alone in his room he washed his face over and over until he could smell nothing but the pungent soap favoured by the brethren.