Waterborne Exile (2 page)

Tad glanced at her. Were those tears in her eyes? Goddess. She really did care about someone other than herself.

“Where… where do you think he could be?” He eased himself up on his haunches, flexing his arms which were impossibly tired after all the heaving of buckets.

“Where?” She glared at him. “In the throne room, of course. Where else would the king be?”

The king? He stilled.

“Why? Who did you think I meant?” The glare intensified.

“I… I thought you meant our father.”

“Him? How can you be so stupid?” Her lip curled. “That was just a story.”

“But you said… You swore…”

She laughed. A hollow, mirthless sound. “Oh, you are such a fool. I made that up. It was just a story to pass the time.”

Tad pushed away from the wall. “You lied to me.”

“Did you really believe our father would have left us if he was rich enough to live in the palace?”

“But he had to. The King’s Men have to swear an oath.”

“Ma told me once. We don’t even have the same father. Mine was a drunk who didn’t come home one night. Yours was some soldier, too poor to pay her the full rate. That’s why you’re not the full shilling now.”

“I’m still good enough to do your dirty work though.”

Tad spun away and left her there, his eyes stinging. He was sick of being her dupe, sick of doing what she told him, sick of the taunts that he was nothing but her stupid little brother – and all for what? He clenched his fists and his blistered hand stung. He would show her. One day, he would. He’d be properly useful to her, and she’d have to thank him. And when she did he’d curl his lip and say, “I was going to do it anyway – it wasn’t for you – none of it.”

The smoke from the fire had penetrated all along the range of buildings, even the basement storerooms. It scratched at Tad’s throat as he crept through the disused rooms but he fought the urge to cough, even though there could be no one to hear him. The storerooms were all black with it. It was as well most of them were empty. If they’d been full so much foodstuff would have been wasted.

As he progressed the smoke grew thicker, carrying with it a cloying smell, one he’d not encountered before. It took him a few moments to realise the pungent odour was singed flesh. His eyes began to water and he hesitated. His plan wasn’t going to work. The heat may not be so intense this way, but with every breath his lungs burned. He couldn’t reach the throne room after all. But had he heard a movement? He listened, nerves on edge, the fine hairs on the back of his neck bristling. He was not alone in that room.

Somewhere nearby he heard scuffling and a pained exhalation, then a fit of coughing, rapid bursts that the cougher could not suppress any longer. Tad scanned the room. A few barrels, abandoned in the corner, and behind them… a foot? Someone lay prone on the floor behind the slight cover. His first instinct was to run. Except… He inched closer, ready to spring away, head swimming from the smoke he’d inhaled so far, stooping so he didn’t breathe in more of it as he approached the figure. The compulsion was too strong.

The coughing had stopped. It could be anyone lying there, dying or even dead. But Tad was convinced, even in the poor light he recognised the brigandine. It was him: the man he’d believed was their father for a few precious days.

The stench of smoke clung to everything in the infirmary. It prickled her nostrils and abraded her throat. The priestess suppressed the cough that tried to fight its way free of her lungs. She mustn’t draw attention to herself.

Another soldier had died in the night. Only three of those rescued from the conflagration clung to life. Two priests lifted the body of the dead man. She stepped out of the way as they carried him past her to the door. No one paid any attention as she carried a jug of water over to the patients. She replenished the beakers set by their beds, pausing to study each face. One was ruined beyond recognition, his face terribly blistered. He would not see the day out – the Goddess had already marked him for her own. But he was too slight. The next had black hair. He was not burned, but had bloody bandages wrapped about his shoulder. He must have a grievous wound. The third was too young, she guessed him to be not much older than herself, eighteen at best. His face reddened and soot-marked, he lay uneasily on his bed, hand twitching, blistered fingers clenching and unclenching. His injuries were not so grave. With the right care he would live. But Tresilian was not there.

As she turned away from the bed she found herself face to face with prelate Durstan. She hastily sidestepped, but too late. The frown told her she had incurred the prelate’s displeasure. She folded her hands and lowered her head in an assumption of pious obedience.

“Did I not order you to remain in seclusion?”

“Forgive me, sire. I was concerned for those injured in the fire.” She risked a glance up at the prelate.

Durstan studied her with a severe expression. “My orders to you were very clear. Until we know if you have been Goddess-blessed you remain in seclusion.”

Dare she? The prelate had been well enough pleased with her visions while Tresilian lived. “I… I had a troubling dream, sire. One of the patients in the infirmary – as he slept, an evil force reached towards him. I… I feared for his wellbeing.”

Durstan’s brows snapped together, his lips curling. “Indeed?” He took half a step away then paused, looking back at her. “Which patient?”

Which patient, indeed. “The young one, sire.”

Durstan’s lips twisted. “It was ever thus. The proper thing would have been to inform your confessor and he would ensure prayers were offered up for the young man. You will not walk among the brethren again, unless you are proved free of taint. Return now to your chapter-house. If you are seen within the bounds of the palace again you will be punished.”

She lowered her head. “Forgive me, sire.”

Durstan walked away without a backward glance. The slight unevenness in his gait was more apparent than usual and he carried his weight awkwardly on his right leg. He carried his right shoulder infinitesimally higher than his left. She willed the broken creature to trip, to fall. To see him spreadeagled over the flagstones in ignominy… He stumbled, and her heart leapt with glee, but he recovered his balance and, muttering a curse, continued to the black-haired soldier’s bed.

The soldier roused and sat up, clutching his injured soldier.

“I have been told you witnessed a number of riders escape during the fire.”

“Yes, sire, that is right. Three riders, two of them women. I did my best to stop them–”

“Well, girl. Do as the prelate ordered you.” One of the hospital orderlies waited in the doorway, arms folded as he watched her. His expression was not unkind, but she knew him of old. He’d heard the prelate’s command and this would be the last time she could sneak unseen into the infirmary. She’d need to find someone else to keep an eye on things. There were times when it was useful to have a brother so much younger than herself.

Weaver woke to darkness. Something dug hard into his hip and his ribs. When he breathed in, pain seared his lungs. He drew a deeper breath and was lost in a paroxysm of coughing. There was no air… He pushed his shoulders up from the hard surface he lay upon, discovering worn stone slabs beneath his fingertips, polished smooth by the passage of countless feet over the years. Disoriented, he tried to work out how he had come to be in the dungeon at Highkell once more. But these stone slabs were clean. A different sort of decay filled the air here: that of dry emptiness, of doors never opened or closed, and of air unchanged. This was a space unused, not overfilled. And the stink of smoke overlaid it all.

He sensed he was alone in the darkness here. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom and he could make out the outlines of barrels stacked nearby. This was no dungeon: this was a storeroom. Some cellar, perhaps, although it was not as dank as he might have expected of a room dug out beneath ground level. It took him a moment to realise the odd rasping sound was his own breathing. Now he began to think about it, the pain with each inward breath seemed to grow stronger. He slumped forward as another burst of coughs racked him. When he was finally able to straighten up he discovered the room was lighter than before. And a slight figure was standing over him, watching, something held carefully between his hands. The lad looked vaguely familiar – Weaver could recall seeing him about the summer palace over the past few days.

With a hesitant smile the boy crouched down. “I brought you water. It’s fresh, I drew it just now.”

Weaver tried to draw a breath but could summon no air and no words – either for thanks or for questions.

“Drink. It will help.” The lad held out the cup with that same hesitant half-smile. Weaver raised one hand and pain tore through his lungs. It took longer before the coughing passed off that time. When he was done the boy still waited there, anxiously clutching the water. He offered it again, raising it to Weaver’s lips and he was able to drink at last. It tasted sweet, laced with something Weaver couldn’t identify, but the moisture was welcome and he had to fight the urge to gulp it all down. The boy lowered the cup for a moment. “Good?” he asked, hesitantly.

Weaver could only nod. His head began to swim. The boy raised the cup to his lips and he swallowed more liquid down. After another pause the boy repeated the action, tilting the cup so Weaver could drain the last from it. The pain in his lungs was easing, but he felt a cold sweat break out across the top of his shoulders and his forehead. The room slid out of focus, wavering as if seen through a heat haze, then Weaver knew no more.

Wine goblet in hand, Drelena took up a stance in a quiet corner of the room. The Outer Isles nobility certainly knew how to celebrate. A sweatier, rowdier bunch of revellers she had rarely encountered. She’d seen a few wedding gatherings in recent years, and it was true, all the good ones were taken – had been for quite some time. Her second cousin Edric sat at a nearby table, engrossed in conversation with his wife. It wasn’t entirely obvious until she shifted in her seat that her belly was swelling with their eagerly-anticipated first child. Drelena sipped her wine, watching Edric lean close and murmur something in his wife’s ear. She blushed, visibly, quite a feat in the already overheated room. Yes, the good ones had been taken for quite some time.

Drelena ran her eyes over the gathering. Her parents had been dropping heavy hints of late. There was another cousin, Lassig, from The Sisters, one of their most recent suggestions. He’d had a deal too much to drink and subsided groggily onto one of the benches lining the edge of the great hall, resting his elbows on his thighs, his head lowered. Quite the catch for some lucky girl. Her father’s family was as extensive as her mother’s was not. Between them they must have achieved some kind of balance. It was not that she had any deeply ingrained dislike for matrimony – her parents’ marriage was a happy one, after all – it was rather that she had met no one with whom she could imagine emulating their success. Lassig gave up the unequal battle to contain his drink and vomited copiously on the floor. No, Lassig was not a promising candidate.

It was time. Her veins buzzed with the certainty of what she was about to do. The matriarchs were busy fussing over – or castigating, it was hard to tell at this distance – Lassig. Drelena reached out to set her goblet down among several other discards, but fumbled as she did so, slopping red wine over her sleeve and the bodice of her gown. “Oh, no. How vexing.” She made an ineffectual attempt to wipe the wine off, succeeding in spreading it even further. She suppressed a giggle. One or two of the elders sitting nearby had noticed. She made a play of indecision, then mouthed to the nearest matriarch. “I had better go and change.” The woman nodded, returning her attention to the activity centred on the hapless Lassig.

Cursing herself aloud for her clumsiness in case anyone happened to be within earshot, Drelena slipped from the room. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach as she made her way out past the garderobes.

She was halfway across the old, smaller hall when the door opened at the far end and a man stepped through. The laughter died in her throat before she recognised Bleaklow, her father’s steward. How like him to avoid the feast. Probably working late again over her father’s ledgers. He had no use for lively occasions like tonight’s gathering.

“Good evening, my lady.” He spoke with precision and bowed, correct as ever.

“Good evening. Do you not care to join the others at the wedding feast?”

He straightened up and studied her. The light from the torchères along the walls flickered, making shadows leap across his face, accentuating the height of his cheekbones. “My lady, if you are not there to adorn the gathering, what could induce me to join them now?” He spoke carefully again, almost too carefully.

Goddess, was he drunk? Gallantry from Bleaklow. This was unexpected. For a moment the urgency of her mission was forgotten. This was intriguing.

Bleaklow studied her. “You appear to have spilled wine down your gown.”

He looked so sombre. She would love to shake him out of it, if only for a moment. “Why yes, I have. So clumsy of me.”

“A great deal of wine.”

She smiled. “Yes, it was a great deal of wine. Expensive wine, at that.”

“You should change before you catch a chill.” He studied her a moment more then took a step away, as if to continue his interrupted journey. On an impulse she reached out to take hold of his arm.

“Wait. If you’re going to the feast now… will you wait while I change? I’ll be quick.”

His eye twitched visibly and did she imagine his mouth pressed tighter into a disapproving line?

“My lady… I would not presume.”

“It’s a wedding feast. We’re supposed to be happy, Bleaky. Do cheer up.”

He stared at her, eyes widening in… what? Panic? Or was that something else she read in his expression? Something he tried to keep hidden?

She was intrigued now. “Really, do try. Wait here for me while I change. I’ll be only a couple of minutes. Then we’ll rejoin the feast and dance the night away. I would like that.”