Waterborne Exile (27 page)

“Are you Marten, the freemerchant?”

“I may have been once.”

The boy’s mouth dropped open in uncertainty. “But… I have a message for Marten, the freemerchant.”

“I am Marten, born a freemerchant of the Peninsular Kingdoms.”

The boy drew in a deep breath. “Then I am to tell you the king will grant you an audience in his private chamber at noon tomorrow. You must present yourself in the antechamber with time to spare, for the king will not be kept waiting.” He’d clearly memorised the words.

“Noon tomorrow?” This was progress.

The boy nodded, an expectant look on his face.

Marten dug in his scrip for the smallest coin he could find and handed it to the boy. It was not difficult finding a small coin, for he had precious few large ones at present. He held the coin out to the boy, then paused. “You, with your memory for messages and names… You might be able to tell me who the old priest is, and the soldier with him? They were sitting up there, with the priestess.”

The boy’s mouth dropped open again. “They’re here on the king’s business, so I’m not supposed to say.”

“Ah, I understand that.” Marten dug in his scrip and found a rather larger coin, exchanging it for the one in his hand. “Attending the king as you do, you must hear a great deal about his business. As will everyone else in his chamber at the time. I daresay if you don’t tell me, one of those other people will.”

The boy licked his lips. “It’s true, sir. I hear a great deal.”

Marten smiled. He who had once charmed kings so they fell in with his plans was reduced to working his wiles on page boys. “You’ll go far at court if you please the right people.” He twisted the coin between his fingers.

“The priest you spoke of is the prelate Durstan, come from the east to offer the king a mighty army. The soldier is named Pius. He is untiring in battle and impossible to defeat.”

“Is that so? And this prelate makes these claims?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy glanced at the coin anxiously. Marten handed it to him and he pocketed it with a mumbled word of thanks before hurrying away.

Marten took up his tankard and drank deeply. The ale was poor stuff, but probably more palatable than any wine that might find its way this far down the table. He set the tankard down, pondering the boy’s words. Untiring in battle and impossible to defeat? It seemed Weaver could be suffering the effects of something far worse than a morose mood. Perhaps the Lady Alwenna had been right after all, in mourning his loss. And if the former king’s man had gone beyond recall, Marten did not want to be the one to give her that news.

Gatekeeping was a profitable business – far more so than soldiering. Peveril only wished he’d woken up to the possibilities years ago. No more night watches, or uncomfortable dawn patrols. Instead all he needed to do was sit in a comfortable guard room – by a warm fire if the weather was inclement – while a succession of hopeful citizens came to him and begged him to lighten their purses so they might gain an audience with the king. And he had Marwick to thank for this change in his circumstances. Birtle kept a creative record of the transactions, of course. He listed all the petitions they brought to the king and quietly pocketed a portion for himself. Their association continued to be a lucrative one, as people seemed to be coming round to the way of thinking Vasic was their monarch, for good or ill, so they might as well gain what they could from him. Peveril suspected any such gain would be minimal.

It was easy money, gained from gullible folks. Except for this one in front of him now: some merchant from Brigholm. He’d given his name as Jervin, although Peveril doubted it was genuine. The so-called merchant’s eyes were cold and calculating; they spoke to Peveril of a childhood spent in the slums, scraping to get by, crossing whichever lines were necessary to survive with the only constant allegiance to himself. If eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Jervin faced an eternity in torment. All this Peveril could understand – and even empathise with.

Jervin refused to divulge details of his business with the king, although he had little difficulty parting with the usual amount of coin to smooth his way.

Peveril steepled his hands thoughtfully. “His highness is pressed for time at present. He is due to leave Highkell shortly and is able to consider only the most urgent cases. If you cannot give some indication of your concern then it makes it difficult for me to plead your case with the king.”

“I have other business to transact while in Highkell.” Jervin regarded him with a glacial stare. “How long will the king be away?”

“A matter of weeks, I believe. Perhaps a month or more. I will do what I can to bring it to the king’s notice, but can make no promises – he has little time to spare at present.” And little good humour, for all the time he spent with his new favourite. The skinny priestess must know some uncommon tricks.

“Then do what you can. If necessary this matter will keep until I speak to the king in person. I trust you will notify me upon the king’s return, with an early appointment.” Jervin’s tone made it clear this was not an idle request. “I am lodging at the
Crown
.”

Jervin was a man with expensive tastes. To contemplate spending a month or more there, he must be well-heeled indeed – or supremely well-connected. Both, in all probability.

“Very well, we will inform you of an appointment upon the king’s return. Make a note of it, Birtle.” He bowed politely as Jervin made ready to leave. “If you require anything from me in the meantime, just ask for me here by name: Captain Peveril. I will do whatever I can to assist you.”

Jervin looked him up and down with that cold stare. “Captain Peveril. I will remember that.”

Peveril exchanged glances with the scribe after the merchant had left. “Tread warily with that one. He’s not a man to cross.”

The king was late. Marten had been cooling his heels in the antechamber a good half hour before, finally, the king strolled in accompanied by his retinue. Marten studied them without being too obvious about it: he recognised only Marwick, who’d been prominent in Highkell society for many years. He’d seen the tall skinny fellow before, too, although he could not put a name to him.

It was he who approached Marten now. “You are Marten the freemerchant?”

“My name is Marten.”

“Then the king will grant you his attention now. Be sure you use his time well, or he will not forget.”

The tall man led Marten to the door of the chamber where the king now sat, waiting. The room was otherwise empty. The air struck chill as if the place had not been warmed through in days.

“Highness, this is the freemerchant, Marten.”

“Very well, Kaith. You may leave us.”

Marten bowed low, in best court style. Now he was playing courtly games once more he regretted having left all his finery behind. It belonged to his old life as a freemerchant and had no part to play in his new life, but in this place he had no doubt a man would be judged on the worth of his clothing.

“Highness. I am honoured to be granted an audience.” He noted Vasic’s finger tap impatiently on the arm of his throne. The king’s rumoured impatience was true, then. If he’d had the forethought he might have questioned Alwenna about the king – she knew him better than most. She might also have wondered why he was taking such an interest in the upstart monarch…

“You spoke of a valuable artefact?”

“Indeed, I did, your highness. It is an item that I believe may hold some particular importance to you.”

“Importance? That is a bold claim.”

“But not ungrounded, your highness. This artefact was once in the possession of your late cousin, Tresilian. It is a dagger – a particularly fine one.”

Vasic’s brow creased, but Marten had his attention now. “Do you intend to talk all day, or to show me this dagger?”

Marten bowed, slipping the bag from his shoulder. “I have it here with me, your highness. If it might be of interest I shall be only too happy to show it to you. I would not have you misconstrue my producing it when in such close proximity to your person.”

Vasic glanced to the door – it stood open allowing those in the antechamber to see the exchange, without being close enough to overhear. There were guards posted at either side of that door, alert for any command from the king. “You will find my understanding significantly stronger than my patience, freemerchant.”

Any physical likeness to Tresilian was superficial at best. Yet there was something about his manner that reminded Marten of Tresilian’s changed nature at the summer palace. That was something that deserved more thought… Vasic drummed his fingers on the chair arm.

“Well?”

Marten removed the cloth-wrapped bundle from the bag, unwinding the cloth that hid the dagger. It had been opened since they’d tied it up securely by the stream the day they’d left the summer palace. Picked over by the freemerchant elders, and rejected…

Vasic was a more appreciative audience for the dagger. Yet it would be so easy to end this now. Vasic was the single largest obstacle between Alwenna and the throne. Marten could remove him, right now, and her way would be clear. She would be undisputed ruler of the Peninsular Kingdoms. And Marten would be unlikely to get as far as the doorway before the guards felled him. This was not the moment to act on impulse. He’d always played the long game… And yet, handing over the dagger to Vasic was difficult. Was it exerting influence over him the way it had over Alwenna? That was fanciful nonsense, surely?

Marten held out the dagger, as if the tattered cloth was some kind of presentation cushion. At least it meant he didn’t need to touch the jewelled hilt. Vasic sat forward, eyes on the dagger.

“This was Tresilian’s, you say?” He leaned closer, one hand reaching towards the hilt. “And you know this how, freemerchant?”

Whatever Marten might have said in the heat of the moment, he
was
a freemerchant – to the core. This was why he was doing this. He must not lose sight of his goal now. She would understand… hadn’t she expected as much all along, and mocked him for his self-delusion while he was waiting for an audience? Or had that whisper been some effect of his guilty conscience? “It was identified to me by one who held it in her hand.”

Vasic looked up sharply. “What mean you by that? Speak plainly.”

“By the Lady Alwenna’s account, your highness, you already know this blade well.”

“What could you possibly know about that, freemerchant?”

“Sire, I know only what the Lady Alwenna told me herself. This blade fell with her when the tower collapsed, and was found nearby when she was dug free of the rubble.”

Vasic studied the freemerchant for a moment, then reached out and picked up the dagger by the hilt. He seemed relieved as he turned it over in his hand, admiring the craftwork. The jewels glinted in the light from the window, but nothing more. Then it was true: Vasic may have wielded the blade before, but it did not know his hand. There had been no other way to discover this.

“So… The Lady Alwenna gave you an account, you say? She survived the collapse?”

“That is correct, sire.”

Vasic studied his face. “How is it possible that none should know of this?”

“I imagine there must have been a great deal of confusion at the time, your highness.”

Vasic turned his attention to the blade again, turning the dagger over in his hands, admiring the play of light on the jewels. There appeared to be nothing sinister about it. “There have been rumours, of course, but none from credible sources. Your tale, however, with the weight of this dagger behind the testimony… I find it more plausible.”

Marten bowed. “Highness. I am your humble servant.”

“Are you, indeed?” Vasic studied him, his brow creased in a frown. “How selfless an act on your part, to bring me this dagger.”

“I hope, your highness, it will prove how useful I may be to you.”

Vasic raised one eyebrow. “In what way, precisely?”

“In these changing times, your highness, a man must look to his future. Freemerchant ways are sliding into antiquity by failing to change with the times, yet I have learned much on my travels. I know languages and far-off places that few have seen for themselves. I have conversed with kings as well as commoners; I can conduct myself honourably in court or agreeably in a poor man’s hovel. Doors, in short, are open to me where they would be closed to other men. Highness, I would serve you. I offer that dagger as evidence of my utility.”

Vasic weighed his response. “And you seek no reward for this?”

“I am not a greedy man, your highness. It is worth a king’s ransom, but I do not ask for that. I would however be grateful for a modest salary in recompense.”

“Would you, indeed?” Vasic turned to studying the dagger again. “Precisely how did you come by this?”

“It was recovered from the rubble when the Lady Alwenna was dug free, highness.”

“Yes, yes, you told me that before. Was it you who dug her free?”

“No, your highness. I was not present. At the time I was in the Marches, discussing the supply of provisions to the old summer palace there.” He paused. “I believe you have here one priest who goes by the name of Durstan. His order have been based there in recent years.”

“Is that so? And are you aware of their work?”

“Indirectly, your highness. My contact there was steward to the prelate Durstan, whom I never met in person. But I have seen the results of his work firsthand.”

“And?”

“Their work is remarkable. They can make dead men walk, restore them to life as whole as if they had never fallen.” Better not to bring Tresilian’s name into this. “I understand that blade has been used in their rites. It is at once powerful and dark – and now we come to my reason for bringing it to you, your highness.” He hesitated. Was he right to do this? “If that blade were to be turned against you its power would be multiplied threefold, because of its history with your kinsmen.”

Vasic digested this revelation with suspicion. “And?”

“Highness, I thought you might seek to keep it safe, where none can touch it, to ensure it cannot be used against you.”