Waterborne Exile (35 page)

The sun was high in the sky when they drew near to Scarrow’s Deep, riding through sweltering heat. Dust caked Alwenna’s lips. It was Erin’s turn to carry the baby – they’d wrapped her in linen torn from their undergarments to protect her from the sun – while Brett rode his horse alongside. They’d all agreed Alwenna had enough to do just staying in the saddle. Even that simple task was almost beyond her. She was startled from a half doze by the shout of a watchman at the entrance to the valley; another instant and she’d have slipped from the saddle. As it was, pulling herself upright jerked the stitches across her belly. She pressed her hand to her newly slack stomach. She wasn’t really about to spill her innards over the ground, it just felt that way. Or so she hoped.

Ahead of them, Rina had stepped out of her doorway, peering down at them with one hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the sunlight. Pieten came running down the slope to hold the horse’s head as Alwenna dismounted, with Erin’s and Brett’s assistance. She waited, hunched over, for the biting pain across her abdomen to subside before she could begin to walk up the slope to where Rina waited, arms folded.

“You didn’t stay away long, then.” Rina’s eyes moved to the bundle Erin carried.

“No.” Alwenna’s voice was hoarse. Speaking felt like too great an effort. “We have need of freemerchant hospitality once more. I trust you will not turn us away, if only for the sake of the child.”

Rina’s mouth twisted. “The child is blameless. You will have whatever you need.”

Because of the child, and only because of the child. Her expression made that clear.

“I thank you for your generosity.” Alwenna raised her hand to her shoulder in the freemerchant gesture and Rina responded in kind.

“The healer Jenna has returned. I will send her to you.”

The cave chamber was much as they had left it, albeit with a deeper drift of dust across the floor. Erin shook the faded blankets outside before Alwenna lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the spasm of pain as her stomach muscles tugged the stitches.

Brett appeared a few moments later, clutching a wooden box. “Ma says you can have use of this.”

Alwenna stared at him blankly.

“It’s a cradle. She’s looking out some bedding for it, too.”

“That’s kind of her.” It was certainly unexpected.

“She’s soft for children, and babies especially.” Brett grinned. “You’ll see.”

Vasic’s new queen was not content. She wandered from room to room in the private quarters in a restless fashion, examining everything, but, Weaver suspected, in reality seeing nothing. Marten accompanied her, keeping up a flow of idle chatter in an attempt to divert her from her melancholy. She paused at a glazed cabinet where various items were displayed, many of them gifts which it was diplomatic to keep in a prominent place.

“What about these? Such lovely pieces of jewellery and pottery, and right there in among them a dagger. It seems terribly out of place. It’s not even sheathed.”

“It is a particularly fine dagger, is it not?” Marten stepped alongside her to study it.

Weaver kept his eyes straight ahead. If the freemerchant was playing foolish games with the new queen, it was none of his business.

“It looks a particularly deadly dagger, if you ask me.” She stooped to study it closer. “Why, I think I can see dried blood on it – right there in the engraving.”

Marten inclined his head. “It is true, it has proved deadly in the past. There are those who say it will bring ill luck on the bearer.”

“Why on earth would Vasic keep such a thing? Was it a gift from some important diplomat?”

“It was a gift.”

She looked up. “That’s the shortest sentence I’ve ever heard from you, freemerchant. Now I’m convinced there’s a story behind it. How do you know?”

“How, my lady?” Marten glanced over his shoulder at Weaver, the only guard in the room. “The answer is simple enough: I brought it to him.”

“You did? But why?”

“I could not throw myself upon the king’s charity empty-handed. I had to prove I could be useful to him.”

“And so you brought him an ill-fated dagger?”

Marten spread his hands apologetically. “I had to work with what was at hand, my lady. And you will admit it is a most beautiful thing.”

She peered into the case. “It is, at first glance. But when I look more closely it makes me uneasy.”

“You have good instincts, my lady. You would not, I think, venture to handle such a thing.”

“No, I would not.”

“Then you are wise beyond your years.”

“Do you think so?” She looked up at Marten again. “If I were wise I would ask you to explain why you gifted such a fell thing to my husband.”

Marten smiled. “But, my lady – it is because you are so wise that you do not ask such a question.”

“Because you would not tell me the truth?”

“Because you already know the answer, in your heart. And you know if you were told a dangerous truth, you would feel honour-bound to warn your husband. As long as your answer is no more than surmise and guesswork, the blade is no more than a riddle to divert you in idle moments, and your doubts about it can be dismissed as irrational. And certainly nothing to concern anyone else here at Highkell.”

She glanced once more at the dagger. “Do not speak so lightly of such things, freemerchant. I have this uneasy feeling in recent days–”

The door opened and a man strode in, wearing travel-stained clothing. He approached Drelena then dropped to one knee. “My queen, I have done as you asked, and I bring you this reply.” His accent carried more than a hint of the Outer Isles. He kept his eyes lowered and offered up a sealed parchment scroll to her.

Her hand trembled as she reached to take it from him. “I must thank you, Bleaky. I had thought the task quite beyond you.” She spoke with cold detachment.

The newcomer kept his head lowered, but the fingers of the hand that rested over his knee clenched. “Whatever you ask of me, I will do, your highness.”

Marten watched the exchange with undisguised curiosity.

Drelena frowned at the newcomer. “Well, you had better not grovel there any longer, Bleaky. At your age it cannot be good for your knees.” She turned to Marten with a bright smile. “I do not know if you have met my father’s loyal servant? Marten, may I introduce to you Bleaky. He has served my father’s household since I was a child. Of course, I should call him Master Bleaklow really, but it has been our little joke these past years. He is not prone to laughter. Do see if you can cheer him up.”

She smiled too brightly, then turned away to the stairs. “I beg you will excuse me, gentlemen. This matter requires my immediate attention.”

Bleaklow stood up from where he knelt, his colour high and his movements ungainly, a profound contrast to his courtly demeanour of moments ago. He nodded to Marten. “Sir.”

Marten bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.” Bleaklow studied the freemerchant with undisguised mistrust.

Marten smiled blandly. “It is good that the Lady Drelena should have some familiar faces about her here at Highkell. She is far from home, and, dare I suggest, far from happy.”

Bleaklow grimaced. “That is not my doing, and I’m the last person to make amends.”

Marten spread his hands wide with a slow smile. “My friend, I would never suggest such a thing. I merely sought to alert you to possible changes in the Lady Drelena’s circumstances. I am sure as a longtime servant of her family such things would be important to you.”

“Of course. But the Lady Drelena holds me in dislike since I was the one to bring her here.”

“She does not strike me as a resentful person – quite the opposite. It seems to me she cares deeply for the people about her.”

“What are you implying?” Bleaklow raised his chin.

“Goddess, nothing. Nothing at all. It is an admirable quality in one of her rank – the Lady Drelena will never disdain her inferiors.”

“Well, no, that is true. She has always been…” Bleaklow fell silent, seeming to decide he’d already said more than he ought.

Marten smiled. “The warmth of her personality is infectious, is it not? We are blessed to have her among us at Highkell.”

“Indeed.” Bleaklow bowed stiffly. “Pray excuse me. I have other business to attend to.” Bleaklow hurried from the room.

Marten studied the dagger in the cabinet for a few moments before turning casually to Weaver. “That Bleaklow seems a pleasant fellow. He reminds me very much of you, Weaver. So very determined to do his duty, whatever it may cost him.”

The freemerchant hadn’t changed, then. Still determined to probe until he’d learned a man’s innermost secrets.

“I do not criticise, Weaver. Quite the opposite: I am reminded of myself, too, although I was never so wedded to duty. Not to the extent that you were. Some people – dare I say some ladies? – inspire our loyalty so that we give up our hearts even though our minds tell us we should not.”

Maybe if the freemerchant got some kind of answer he’d leave him in peace. “Yet you still can’t help playing your games, freemerchant?”

“Freemerchant no more, my friend. But in other respects, yes, it is very like old times. Have you changed so very much?”

How to answer such a question? The truth was, Weaver didn’t know. He didn’t know his own mind. Sometimes, when he first woke, he didn’t even know his own name. But in the end he didn’t need to reply – Marten seemed to have found the answer in his silence.

“No, I thought not.” Marten took a step towards the door, then paused. “You were ever particular about who employed you, Weaver. I might have a task for you soon – something more to your liking than your duties here. Would that interest you?”

“You were ever fond of dangerous games, freemerchant. It could be I’m ready to live a quiet life.”

“But you do not refuse.”

“No, I do not refuse. Not yet.”

“We will talk again, my friend. You may count upon it.” The freemerchant strolled out of the room.

After a moment, Weaver walked over to the cabinet Drelena had been examining. He had to lean down to see the dagger clearly, but he knew it on first sight. The hair on the back of his neck prickled with foreboding. He’d held that blade in his own hand once, and drawn the blood of one he’d sworn to protect. May the Goddess forgive him.

The priestess shuffled the food around on her plate, but she had no appetite. That soldier was there again, watching her from the far side of the table. The one she’d seen with Marwick the day of the champions’ fight. Peveril they called him. Let him try pushing her off the citadel walls the way he had the old man. Just let him try. And he hadn’t even benefitted from Marwick’s death – that skinny Kaith had smoothly taken his place, and the freemerchant had been there to step into his place just as readily. But the soldier didn’t seem unduly dismayed that the recent spate of promotions hadn’t included him. He grinned across the table at her and winked.

At her side the prelate continued working his way through his meal, oblivious to his surroundings. Weaver would have noticed the soldier, but now he was officially attached to the king’s household he no longer joined them at table. Weaver had not been exactly talkative, but at least he had been there, between them often as not. And, bar the one time, Weaver hadn’t been in the habit of calling her “Miria”. And Weaver hadn’t constantly been urging her to put herself in the king’s way. The prelate really had no idea. He was due to return to the summer palace shortly to prepare the order to transfer to new premises Vasic had gifted them. He still seemed to nurture the illusion she could remain at Highkell to discover all Vasic’s innermost secrets. There was little chance of that now.

People had trod more warily around her once she had become Vasic’s favourite – at least for a while. Now she caught those same people looking sideways at her, as if wondering why she was still at court since her fall from favour. Her hope was Vasic might soon tire of his new queen; there could be no doubting the Lady Drelena held him in no great affection. The queen had been unable to hide her disgust at the fight between Rekhart and Weaver. Vasic was not the sort of man to heed such subtleties. A quiet word at the right moment might open his eyes to his bride’s distaste. But it would need to be done with care…

“You were Vasic’s piece, right?” The bench upon which she sat lurched as Peveril sat down beside her, grinning. “You’re likely at a loose end now he’s got himself a new bride.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I have many duties in service of the Goddess.”

“What, Vasic wasn’t the only one? That wouldn’t please him…”

The man must be drunk. At her other side Durstan continued to eat, oblivious.

“It’s no concern of yours.”

“You say that now. I’m a man that’s going places: you could do a lot worse.”

That was one way of putting it. Seemed to her he was a man likely to die an early and violent death. But he’d made it this far and he’d let nothing get in his way… She glanced at him. His appearance had nothing to recommend him, but they had been raised in the same school of life.

He leaned closer. “What do you say? There’s not much goes on round here without me hearing about it.”

“I am sworn to serve the Goddess.”

“So I saw.” His grin was more of a leer. “I see a lot of things. Things like our new queen meeting with that advisor of her father’s in private – he doesn’t know I’ve been watching him, but he’s sweet on her. An’ that freemerchant’s been hanging about, too.”

She studied him dispassionately. “And why should I believe what you tell me?”

“I scratch your back an’ you scratch mine, see? Could be there’s an opportunity for us both, given a nudge to help things along. Vasic wouldn’t hear out the likes of me, but you… well… you might have a better chance.”

“Not while he has eyes for no one else but his new bride.”

“He’ll tire of her soon enough.”

“And you’d have me spread lies about her? Why would I do that?”

“What’s to say I’m not tellin’ you the truth? He sets her aside, you’ll be his favourite again.”

“And?”