Waterborne Exile (28 page)

“So you contend the dagger is inimical to me?”

“It may be, highness. And, knowing of the dagger as I do, I have also heard rumours that the high priest Durstan was seeking to recover the dagger. Given the power his order wield, I would fear the consequences if they were to gain possession of it. None could hope to keep it safer than you – you who are ruler of the combined Peninsular Kingdoms.”

Vasic turned over the dagger, studying it closely. Marten had little doubt he recognised it as the one he had used to dispatch his own cousin: it was too distinctive.

Vasic pursed his lips. “And the Lady Alwenna? Have you news of her? You claim to have conversed with her.”

“Not in recent days, your highness. But she was in good health when last I saw her.”

“And how am I to know your bringing me this dagger is not some trick of hers? She turned it on the priest from Vorrahan when he held it in his hands – I saw it happen with my own eyes.”

“I have heard others speak of that day, highness. Terrible though it was, I doubt she could achieve anything from so great a distance.”

“So she is at a great distance now?”

“She was when I last saw her, your highness: she has left the Peninsular Kingdoms entirely, with no intention of returning.”

“Has she, indeed? You are very careful not to commit yourself, freemerchant.”

“I pass on only information I know to be true. It is safer for all that the Lady Alwenna remain a great distance removed from that dagger.”

“And so you brought it to me?”

“You are her closest surviving kinsman, and so you have a stake in this. It seemed only right that you should know.”

“Indeed?” Vasic set down the dagger on a small side table and clapped his hands. A servant appeared at the door. “Summon Marwick to attend me.” He looked over at Marten again. “I shall reward you for bringing the dagger to me.”

Marwick hastened into the room. “Your highness?”

“The freemerchant here has brought me a valuable item. Reward him with a fat purse for his trouble. And put your mind to considering how we might find a use for a man with his skills upon my return from Lynesreach.”

They had been dismissed. Marwick bowed low, and Marten followed suit before following the courtier from the room. He couldn’t blame the king for being cautious: both of them knew what had happened last time the blade had crossed Vasic’s path. But leaving the dagger there was harder than Marten had ever imagined possible. The dagger had been the focus of all his thoughts and plans on the journey to Highkell and he felt its loss as keenly as if it had been one of his own children. His only consolation was it could do no harm to Alwenna now, nor could she do any harm with it.

“Don’t be a fool – no one will even recognise you, not when you’re with me. I didn’t bring you all the way here so you could hide in this room the whole time.” Jervin dragged his shirt on over his head. “The king’s not even here, now – do you imagine anyone will remember a single prisoner who escaped months ago? You don’t even look like the same person any more.” The mattress shifted as he got to his feet.

Drew gnawed on his thumbnail. Jervin was right – who would be likely to recognise him here? He’d been shut in the dungeon most of the time. And those he’d travelled east with were not here to be seen with him, so what had he to lose? Vasic might have known him, but Vasic was gone to Lynesreach to meet his new bride.

The king would know him, he was sure of it. There had been an unpleasant intimacy about the way Vasic had leant over him as he applied the branding iron… Drew had been so convinced he ought to come to Highkell, but now he was here the certainty had deserted him.

Jervin had pulled on his trousers and boots. “Do you plan to sit there all day?”

Drew shook his head. “No. I’ll come out with you.”

“Then you’ll be needing these.” Jervin scooped some trousers up off the floor and threw them at Drew.

The market square would once have been teeming with people eager to examine the traders’ wares, but today it was sparsely occupied. Drew wandered among the stalls trying to take a desultory interest in the goods, but there was little to catch his attention. Jervin had soon tired of the exercise, and had left Drew with Rekhart as he went to discuss what he had described as a small business matter. Rekhart was in subdued mood, contributing so little to the conversation Drew had given up and walked in silence. Jervin had made this trip out to be a bold adventure – sallying forth into the town where there was a price on Drew’s head. But… No. It was a dull business. Drew should never have accompanied him here in the first place – his presence was a constant source of acrimony. Jervin was displeased that he’d been unable to see the king before his departure for Lynesreach, and that made it difficult for everyone about him.

There was nothing on the final row of market stalls but a couple of fabric merchants. A young woman stood at one, studying the bolts of fabric. The hair on the back of his neck rose with apprehension. He’d never seen her before, to his knowledge, but there was something about her that made him uneasy. Her hair was so fair it was almost colourless. Her face was equally pale, there was something bloodless about her. And that face was the one that had been haunting his sleep in recent weeks.

Abruptly Drew turned away and bumped straight into a tall man who was crossing the street.

“I beg your pardon.” Drew was intent on putting as much distance between himself and the priestess as possible.

“Well, now. You’re the last person I expected to find here.”

Drew recognised the freemerchant by his voice rather than his appearance. It took a moment to recall his name. “Why, Marten. We met briefly on the road east.”

“That’s right, young Drew. And of course, I know commander Rekhart of Brigholm.”

“Commander no more, but I never forget a face.” Rekhart offered his hand to Marten, who shook it.

“Just as I am a freemerchant no more. Perhaps we will find a common cause here in Highkell.”

“Perhaps.” Rekhart’s tone was non-committal.

“Our mutual friend, Weaver, is in town, too. You may already have seen him?”

“Weaver? No I haven’t, but I would be glad to speak with him again.”

“I’ve seen him at court, although I haven’t yet had the chance to speak with him.” Marten gestured towards a nearby kopamid house. “But we needn’t stand around out here, will you join me for some kopamid?”

Rekhart shrugged, but Drew agreed with alacrity. The chance to speak with someone outside Jervin’s immediate circle was more than welcome.

Marten poured the kopamid into the utilitarian beakers favoured by this particular kopamid house. It was situated on a side street just off the main town square, set up above the pavement by a short flight of steps. Patrons might watch passers-by from the window without themselves being observed. Marten had chosen the seat that gave him the clearest view of the town square, Drew noticed. Weaver had told him little about the freemerchant, so he was interested now to see the man for himself. It had been clear that Weaver did not trust the freemerchant, even though the former king’s man had been working for him when they last met. Like everyone else, Drew had heard the many rumours about events surrounding the destruction of the summer palace. This could be his chance to learn more about what had happened.

“To your health, gentlemen.” Marten raised his beaker and drank. “I’ve been told the blend they use here is the best in Highkell. Nothing brings clarity like a good, hot shot of kopamid.”

Clarity. Yes, that was something Drew had been lacking in recent weeks. He sipped at his drink. Marten was right: it was a good blend. But now he had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin – or how much he ought to reveal to the freemerchant of what he already knew – even though, or perhaps because, it was very little.

“You spoke of our friend, Weaver – at court, I believe you said. Does he work now for the new king?” Drew set down his beaker on the wooden table top. It bore ring-marks from dozens of hot beakers that had been placed there over the years.

“Not for the king, no. But he is his guest, along with members of the order lately travelled here from the Marches.”

“When last we met, he was working for you.” Drew picked up his beaker again, keeping his eyes on the freemerchant.

“That is so. I have suffered some reverses since then.” Marten met Drew’s gaze levelly. “My royal sponsor of several years’ standing proved in the end to be unworthy of the trust his most loyal servants had placed in him.” There was no trace of bitterness in his voice, yet Drew guessed events had not unfolded as simply as the glib reply suggested.

“I beg your pardon, but I can be slow on the uptake. You speak of ‘him’, but I must assume you do not mean Vasic?”

“That is correct. I speak of Tresilian, late king of Highground and ruler of the Marches in his wife’s stead.”

Drew glanced at Rekhart, who appeared as much at a loss as he was to understand this. “But… Tresilian died when Highkell fell to Vasic’s army, surely?”

“Yes and no, young Drew. Yes and no. You may have heard tales of the mystic arts studied in the Marches in the distant past. Mystic arts so dark they have been forbidden for many years and are practised now only in the utmost secrecy?”

“I have.” Rekhart spoke up. “It was said some of the royal family were caught up in the rituals. From time to time the city watch would find… evidence that suggested the tales were not entirely fabricated. But no one asks many questions when a vagrant dies suddenly.”

Drew didn’t press for more detail – Rekhart’s expression suggested he’d said all he was prepared to on that matter.

Marten stepped into the silence. “Then you may not need me to tell you this dark magic tampers with the very bounds of life and death. Tresilian did indeed die with the fall of Highkell, but he was reborn, through a ritual abhorrent to all right-thinking men. I myself was in his service at that time, but what I saw then convinced me the ritual is one that has been rightly forbidden.”

So far so nebulous, thought Drew. “Reborn, you say?”

“Reborn through blood and pain. Reborn, the order would have it, stronger and indefatigable.”

“But you would disagree?”

“He was strong, and he did not tire…”

“And yet, Marten, you remain reticent on certain matters. You must know your reputation as a talkative man precedes you.”

The freemerchant smiled briefly, without humour, then took another mouthful of kopamid. “I am reticent, Drew, because I am not proud of the part I played in subsequent events. You must understand I had an agreement with the king. An agreement of longstanding. And when the time came to deliver his part of the bargain, he cavilled and insisted I had not played my part to the full. Even though he stood there, alive and vital, strong as ever, he was somehow not the man he’d once been. His character was… much altered. His compassion, which had always been his strength, was gone. In its place… I only begin to understand it myself now. There was, I believe an even deeper magic at work.” Marten’s gaze flicked between Drew and Rekhart. “You remember the blade you dug from the rubble at Highkell?”

“I do. But how can you know of it?”

Marten lowered his voice. “The Lady Alwenna herself told me of it, when she handed the blade into my care.”

“The Lady Alwenna?” Drew leaned forward. “Then you know where she is now? She escaped the fire?”

“You learned of that, then?”

“There have been a great many rumours, but none I’ve heard yet that had the ring of truth to them.”

“Do you doubt me, then, young Drew?”

“I know Weaver did. I shall be guided by him until I learn otherwise.”

Marten’s mouth twisted. “Your choice is not unreasonable. I have not conducted myself with great honour these past weeks. The lady lives, and is in good health. More than that I shall not say in a public place, although I think I guess your question and I can only repeat: she is in good health. But I was telling you of the dagger: it was the same blade that was used to kill the king Tresilian, wielded by his own cousin, Vasic. This, I think, is not news to you?”

Drew frowned. “In part it is. The Lady Alwenna told me what she saw long ago, as we travelled from Vorrahan. But I did not realise that blade was the same one I found in the rubble. And that was the blade Garrad turned against himself?” Goddess, he’d been right to fear the dagger.

“That is correct. It is a powerful thing. I had hoped the elders would know some way to destroy it, to break its power–”

“It must not be destroyed!” Drew spoke up without thinking. “She will have need of it before the end.”

Marten raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Drew nodded, cheeks flushing in embarrassment at his outburst. “It is so. I saw it when I was in a fever.”

“You may rest easy, little brother. The elders held it in such abhorrence they did not want it to remain within the bounds of our community.”

“Then where is it now?”

Marten twisted his beaker on the table. “That I am not at liberty to tell you, other than to reassure you it is where it cannot damage any of your friends.”

Drew knew there was more the freemerchant wasn’t telling him. “Is that by your doing?”

The freemerchant nodded tightly. “My doing, albeit not entirely intentional on my part. While I had the blade in my possession… it was not good for me.”

“She will have need of it, Marten.”

“What is done is done. The blade’s influence is baleful. I cannot yet see my way clearly…”

Drew would have said more, but he remembered his own unease when he came to from his fever in the room at Jervin’s house and realised the blade that had haunted his fevered dreams was among his possessions. And the relief when Weaver and Alwenna had taken it away with them. “Are you able to take a message to the Lady Alwenna?”

Marten shook his head. “It is better that I do not. For many reasons, but most of all because messengers are too easily followed.”

Truth. Drew was clear on that much, at least. Was this the reason he had been so certain he must come to Highkell? He had much to think over. “And our mutual friend, Weaver? A guest of the king who put a price on his head? How has this come about?”