Waterborne Exile (22 page)

The prelate snorted. “We will see how worthy you truly are. Your fast begins at sunset tonight.” He strode away, his sandals paf-paffing into the distance. She waited until she was sure he was out of sight and out of earshot before she straightened up. May the Goddess forgive her for the lies she had told. Nine lashes on nine days. Nine times nine. That was a great many. Punishment and more for her falsehoods. Might she not prefer to join her brother in a shallow grave after all? Was that not what she deserved?

This had to be the place the servant had told him about. Bleaklow stood in the street across from the
Royal Hart
. Now he was there he found himself strangely reluctant to step inside. Drelena wouldn’t thank him for what he was about to do. She was far more likely to hate him, in fact.

As Bleaklow approached the bar the landlord assessed him with a glance. He ordered an ale, doing his best to summon a friendly smile as he did so.

“I’ve been told a girl going by the name of Lena works here.”

The landlord set a brimming tankard down on the wooden bar. “Some folks’ll tell a stranger anything.”

So it was going to be like that, was it? “Stranger? We’re all islanders in these parts, aren’t we?”

“True enough.” The landlord’s expression was sceptical at best.

“I bring news from her family. If I might speak to her, I would be obliged.”

“If such a girl did work here, why should I believe she’d want to speak to you?”

“I’ve known her since she was knee-high. Worked for her family these past sixteen years. I probably know more about her than she’s ever told you.”

The landlord shrugged. “No offence, but I don’t go questioning good workers about all the things they don’t choose to tell me.”

“She does work here then?”

The landlord shook his head. “Even if she did, I wouldn’t be discussing it with customers, islanders or not.”

“But there’d be no harm in telling her I was here and asking after her, would there?” Bleaklow set a couple of coins on the bar.

“And no point in asking me, either.” The landlord folded his arms. “Why don’t you finish up that drink and take your questions elsewhere. You’ll get no answers from me – nor from any of the staff here, neither.”

Bleaklow scooped the coins back into a pocket. “I daresay in your place I’d take the same line. I’m not looking for trouble, just–”

At that moment the door from the kitchen burst open. “Isaac, the cook says–”

Drelena.

She froze, staring at Bleaklow in something close to horror. “Bleaky. Then it was you after all.”

“Drelena. It’s taken some time to find you.”

“I saw you at the harbour, didn’t I? I’d begun to think I’d been mistaken.” With a glance over her shoulder she shut the kitchen door and advanced into the room, drying her hands on a square of linen.

“Now, Lena, if this fellow’s bothering you I can bring the lads out.”

“No, Isaac. There’s no need. I– I’ve been expecting him.” She set the linen square down on the bar. “The cook said to tell you the butcher wants paying. He’s through there now.”

Bleaklow realised he still had one hand crammed in his pocket. He tugged it out hastily, dropping one of the coins on the floor. “Your parents have been worried.” He stooped to pick up the coin. “We all have.”

“There was no need. I’ve been – very happy.”

Yes, he wanted to say. He saw.

The door from the kitchen burst open again, this time another servant girl. “Isaac, the butcher won’t deliver until he’s been paid for last week’s.” She stared in undisguised curiosity at Bleaklow and Drelena.

Isaac raised a warning finger towards Bleaklow. “Don’t you try anything, understand?”

“Isaac. He’s all right. Really.”

“That’ll be why you’re overjoyed to see him.”

“Go pay the butcher. I’ll be fine.”

Bleaklow slid the coin into his pocket as the landlord stamped over to the kitchen door.

“He seems to have taken a dislike to you.” She bit her lip. He’d seen her do that a thousand times before, but this time his stomach curdled with guilt. “You could say you couldn’t find me. Just–”

“You have to come back now, Drelena.”

“I know. But… You could give me a few more days.”

“You know that’s not possible.”

“Please, Bleaky. It would mean a lot to me.”

Goddess, was she going to cry? “Who is he?” He knew, of course. It had been easy to find out about the wealthy merchant.

“He’s a wonderful man. So kind, and…” Her voice caught and she fell silent.

“He’s a merchant, Drelena. You know it won’t do. Your parents–”

“I know. They have other plans.” She folded her arms. “Bleaky, you can’t make me go back.”

“Drelena, I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

“Nonsense. I’ve known you for years. You wouldn’t force me to go back with you. You’d never hurt me. You couldn’t.”

Bleaklow’s gut twisted with guilt. “You’re right. I couldn’t. But Darnell has no such claims to my loyalty.”

She looked at him sharply. “What are you saying?”

Must he spell it out? “You never told him you were daughter of the Lord Convenor, did you?”

“I…” That bite of her lip again, as she contemplated lying. “No, I haven’t. Not yet.”

Bleaklow tried to smile – a reassuring smile. Her expression told him it fell far short of target. “Then I need never tell your father whose bed you’ve been warming while you’ve been here. Come back with me today and all will be well. You’ll see.”

“Or?” There was a glint of anger in her eyes now.

Bleaklow’s stomach curdled. “If you care about Darnell – and I know you do – you will come with me, without fuss and without causing trouble.”

“And if I don’t?” She raised her chin in defiance.

“Then Darnell will be clapped in irons and brought before the Lord Convenor to answer charges of abduction, indecent behaviour, assault against your person… I imagine your father will think of others to add to the list, given you’re his only daughter.”

“You wouldn’t be so cruel.” But there was doubt in her eyes now.

“I told you, Drelena. I will do whatever’s necessary to bring you safely home to your parents.”

“I see. And if I come with you willingly, he will be safe?”

“He will.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.”

She studied his face for a long time; it took all his resolution not to turn his eyes away. Finally, she spoke.

“Very well.”

That was the moment the light in her eyes died. It would haunt him to the end of his days.

Alwenna sat on the flat-topped stone, leaning back against the cliff-face. It was a relief to sit outside in the late afternoon shade, once the sun had moved round behind the escarpment. After the heat and stillness of noon, even the slightest drift of air along the escarpment was a blessing straight from the Goddess.

She was enjoying one such moment of perfect peace when Marten came walking up the slope, a bag slung over his shoulder. This was it, then.

“Marten.”

“My lady.” He hunkered down beside her, his back against the rock.

“You are leaving?”

“I am leaving. I have been waiting only for the heat of the day to die down.”

“Then I wish you well.” She need not tell him her own thoughts had been following similar lines.

“Thank you my lady, that is more than I deserve. And yet… I wish you would join me.”

“Indeed?” She set one hand on her swollen belly. “I doubt I’ll be going anywhere for a while.” The unborn child twisted beneath her hand, as if it knew her words were untrue.

“I can delay no longer. I shall achieve nothing while I remain here.”

The same could be said of all of them. A wave of weariness swept over her. The moment of peace was gone beyond recall.

“We must follow different paths this time, Marten. They will like as not lead to the same place in the end, anyway.”

“Do you dabble in prophecy now?”

“I can think of few things more futile – I shall not make a habit of it.”

“You will be careful, when I am gone?”

She pressed a hand to her bulging stomach. “Right now I have very little option.”

“Even so – you are uneasy, my lady. Promise me you will do nothing rash.”

Alwenna shook her head. “Such a promise would have seen you dead on the floor of the summer palace months ago. I will do whatever’s necessary.”

Marten pushed himself to his feet. “Then I must go without reassurance from you.”

“You’re a grown man, and you’ve managed well enough these past years.”

“Indeed I have. Behold the proof of my success: destitute and cast out by my own people.”

Alwenna smiled. “Free and unfettered. I wish you well, Marten, truly. You will find the courage to do what is right in the end.”

He hesitated. “What do you know? Will you not tell me?”

“I know a thousand things, none of which may come to pass. Ask me what I don’t know, that would be easier to answer.”

“Then tell me what you do not know, my lady.”

No need to lie this time. “We are stepping out into darkness, Marten. I do not know where our feet will land.”

Marten bowed his head. “I cannot argue with that. It is not easy travelling by night, but it is sometimes safer to avoid the heat of the day.”

“You will make a fine prophet one day. May your road be clear, Marten.”

“And yours, my lady.”

He made his way back down the slope, his pace unhurried. It was the gait of a man embarking on a long journey. As he passed the door that had been his own, his sons came out. The eldest stood off to one side, awkward in his new-found maturity, while the younger two hugged their father. His wife looked on, her arms folded. Alwenna couldn’t see her expression from this distance, but she could picture it: the woman’s lips pressed tight with disapproval, her brow creased.

The youngest boy returned to his mother’s side as the eldest shook hands awkwardly with his father. The middle son, Brett, walked with him to where his horse waited, helping to saddle up, before watching by the meeting tree until his father had ridden out of sight.

She still had one ally at Scarrow’s Deep, at least.

Market days in Brigholm were colourful. Drew wound his way between the stalls laden with goods – some familiar, some exotic – shipped from far off places. He couldn’t be further removed from his provincial beginnings. If the Lady Alwenna hadn’t come to Vorrahan he’d still be trapped there now, stifling under the dour gaze of the grey stone precinct. He wondered how she was faring. Word of a catastrophic fire at the old summer palace had reached Brigholm but there had been no details. But he’d have known if she’d been caught up in that – he was sure of it. Jervin had no time for freemerchants, so he’d heard little gossip. And he was convinced the freemerchants would have word of her. Drew didn’t stop to question such instincts these days – dwelling on such things just led to lack of sleep.

Somewhere about there had to be a freemerchant trader. Drew scanned the marketplace. There were bolts of fine fabrics brought up from Ellisquay, jewellery and pottery from local craftsmen, bags and gloves produced with leather from the tanneries downriver. But there were quite a few empty stalls, too – produce from the south simply wasn’t getting through to Highkell and existing stocks had finally been used up. The only flour to be had was the rough-ground local stuff and even that was scarce now. Prices had gone up at the bakers’ stalls, too. And there weren’t as many people about as he would have expected for that time of day.

Then he saw a familiar face approaching: Jaseph Rekhart. The commander of the city watch must be off-duty for he was not wearing his usual livery. He was startled by Drew’s greeting, but he stopped to talk. Drew saw then that Rekhart’s face was deeply lined and carried several days’ growth of stubble. The city watchman must still be haunted by recent events.

“Are you well, Rekhart?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Then join me awhile for a drink. I was about to stop here.” He gestured towards a nearby kopamid house.

Rekhart appeared to fight some inner battle, but his mouth twisted in something approaching a smile. “That would be welcome, and I cannot pretend otherwise, but… I have no money.”

“I invited you to join me, I don’t expect you to pay. I would be glad of your company – I know few enough people in Brigholm and am always glad to catch up with a friend.”

“I’m honoured to call any friend of Weaver’s a friend of mine.”

It was clear that whatever troubled the city watchman had not diminished in recent days. He was living under some kind of strain. Perhaps now Drew would learn what. It seemed important he should do so, although he was at a loss to explain why. Was it the promptings of his meagre sight, or simply a desire to speak to someone from outside Jervin’s household?

Drew poured the kopamid. The beakers in this kopamid house were plainer than those at Jervin’s home, but still brightly-coloured. The blend of spices made up for any lack of ostentation, rich and aromatic. Drew had found himself taking to the ritual of drinking kopamid as one born to the habit. He passed Rekhart’s drink to him and the watchman took it with unsteady hands, setting it down on the table sharply.

“My thanks.”

“Let us drink to continued good health.” Drew drank from his beaker first; some of the freemerchant ways had caught on in Brigholm.

“I’ll gladly drink to your health.” Rekhart raised his own beaker, sipping a small quantity of the dark fluid.

“But not your own?”

“I’m not a deserving case. Not right now.”

“Surely not. Can I suggest you are being too hard on yourself?”

“I told you when last we met I’d seen and done such things as…” Rekhart clasped his fingers together, to steady them. “Even now I cannot bring myself to speak of them, I have found them so repellent. In truth, that’s why I am glad to encounter you today.”

He fell silent, as if he felt he’d suddenly said more than enough.

“If I can help in any way, then I shall. You can count on my friendship.”

Rekhart shook his head. “You’re a good man… and I hate to put upon you. But… I understand you took holy orders. I… have been thinking of late of joining the precinct, as a way to make amends.” He looked up at Drew then, searching his face for… what? Approval?