Waterborne Exile (37 page)

Vasic glared at him. “And did the queen give you the note?”

He shook his head. “No, your highness. It was her.” He pointed to the priestess.

“I did no such thing, your highness. The poor boy is easily confused – he must have mistaken me for one of the queen’s servants.”

“But it was her!”

“Silence, boy.” Vasic glowered at the boy until he lowered his head once more.

The priestess spoke up again. “Pray forgive him, your highness. His wits are lacking and he often misremembers. This boy told me–”

“I did not! She lies! I–”

A soldier cuffed the lad round the ear. The boy hunched over in miserable silence.

“This boy told me,” the priestess repeated in a calm voice. “He brought me the message and when I saw the queen on the way to dine I passed it on to her, word for word as I told you, your highness.”

“And then what happened?”

“She sent her servants on ahead and said she would deal with this nonsense. I offered to go with her, but she said she would go alone. If I had only disobeyed her…” Her voice broke as if her throat was constricted. Her shoulders heaved and she drew a gulping breath then fell silent, head lowered.

Marten spoke up. “Your highness, the boy is slow of understanding, but I have found him reliable on the whole. Surely the Lady Drelena can tell us if she did indeed send the note?”

A gasp from behind told him he’d said something terribly wrong.

Vasic’s fingers closed over the arms of his throne, knuckles white. “Do you think to jest at a time like this?”

Kaith leaned closer to the throne, keeping his eyes on Marten. “I believe he speaks the truth, your highness.”

“You think so?” Vasic turned his gaze away from Marten.

“I’m sure of it, sire. We will question the servants who would have been in that part of the building – it will be easy enough to prove the truth of what he says.”

Someone nearby cleared their throat. “Your highness, if I may be so bold. I saw the freemerchant going out into the herb garden, just as he said.” Bleaklow stepped forward. “I was on the way from my quarters to the great hall.”

Bleaklow was ashen-faced and his expression even more sombre than usual. Only then did the reason for Drelena’s absence dawn on Marten.

Kaith straightened up. “There we have it, your highness.”

Vasic’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “Freemerchant, you may go about your duties.” He turned to Kaith. “But we will have the truth of this. Have the boy questioned properly – I will know who brought him that note.”

“What of the girl, your highness?” He nodded towards the priestess.

“Release her. She has told us all she knows.”

Vasic withdrew and the courtiers drifted into little knots of people, discussing the news in subdued voices. Marten took Bleaklow by the arm. “I thank you for your intervention – I had not numbered you among my friends.”

“Nor should you, if you caused her so much as a moment’s trouble.”

“Never would I. But by the Goddess, what was all that about?”

Bleaklow studied his face in silence. “It is true, then. You really do not know. Come with me, we cannot speak here.” He led the way out of the throne room at a brisk walk. Only when they had reached the courtyard did he slow down. Bleaklow checked no one was nearby to overhear before he spoke.

“Last night…” He paused to clear his throat. “Last night, the Lady Drelena fell to her death from the old throne room.”

Marten’s gut churned in shock. “Goddess, no. How could such thing happen?”

Bleaklow shook his head. “It was suggested… she had rebuffed your advances, and you pushed her. Had I not seen you myself at the far side of the palace, I might believe that still.” He spoke in haste, as if he forced the words out before he could change his mind.

“You do not know me well enough to see that such a thing is not in my character, but I offer you my deepest condolences, nonetheless.”

Bleaklow didn’t speak for the best part of a minute. “That priestess had them all convinced for a while: it seems to me she wishes you ill.”

“Someone must, to have sent me that letter. Unless it was the Lady Drelena herself – and that I cannot believe.”

“Nor can I.” Bleaklow’s voice was sharp.

The fire had been almost out last night when Marten dropped the note in it. He recalled one edge curling and blackening in the embers before he’d dropped down on his bed in a wine-fogged stupor.

“Would you know her writing if you saw it?”

Bleaklow nodded. “I would.”

Back at Marten’s room, they found a portion of parchment remained in the grate. It was blackened and discoloured, but the handwriting remained legible.

Bleaklow studied it with a frown. “It looks much like her hand, and yet… I cannot imagine her forming her sentences in such a way. She was ever direct.”

The Lady Drelena’s body lay in state in the great chapel. Marten went down there alone that evening, expecting to find the place deserted, but Bleaklow was sitting there, keeping vigil. Marten would have turned away and left him in solitude, but Bleaklow looked around. Even by the candlelight it was possible to see his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.

“Forgive my intrusion. I wished to pay my respects when it was quiet.”

Bleaklow nodded, but that was all his reply.

Marten approached the stone slab where her body rested. From this angle, her face appeared near-perfect, marred only by a large bruise on her temple. Only now was it possible for him to believe her life had truly been cut short. He knelt, murmuring words to commend her to the care of the Goddess and the Hunter. He doubted she would have minded a freemerchant blessing – her confidences on her unease at being so far from home told him they had at least that in common. Marten stood, leaning over to set a hand on her forehead in farewell, and he froze. The one side of her face was as perfect as in life, but the other… It had been bound up with care, but it was impossible to hide the fact one side of her skull had been smashed beyond recognition, the right eye socket clearly empty beneath closed lids.

He turned away, bile rising in his throat, and fought to master himself.

“They say now she must have taken her own life.” Bleaklow’s voice was hoarse. “Suffering homesickness, and shame at her feelings for a common freemerchant.” There was a note of accusation in his voice.

“Then they are fools. She would never have done such a thing.” Marten turned back to the open coffin and looked closer at that great bruise. It extended back beneath her hairline, across the side of her head. He steeled himself to look again at the crushed wreckage of the other side of her face.

“Forgive me, Bleaklow… I know this must distress you, but can you tell me, if she fell on her right side, how did the left side of her face come to be bruised?”

Bleaklow stood up unsteadily. “Why… I… I don’t know.” He winced as he looked on her face and his hand trembled as he reached out to examine the bruise. “This, here? It… appears someone struck her before she fell. But, who would do such a thing? She could have had no enemies.”

“It is unthinkable.” Marten had difficulty speaking. “Yet, someone did. Whoever it was, they sought to implicate me every step of the way.”

“You were conveniently attentive to her.” Bleaklow’s words weren’t an accusation.

“She stood in need of friendship. The entire court should have been at her feet in adoration.”

Bleaklow turned away.

Marten looked one last time on Drelena’s broken features. It was abhorrent to think someone had been prepared to extinguish so vital a being simply to damage his reputation. Whoever it was, he had to move quickly.

Weaver was pretty sure Vasic was drunk again, even though it was still early in the day. But this time the king was not slumped in his seat maudlin drunk, as he had been the past few days, but resentful, angry drunk. Spoiling for a fight drunk. Weaver knew the signs: the set of Vasic’s jaw, the tic in his cheek, the steel in his eyes. Whether the king had the mettle to act on the impulse was another matter: he was the kind who avoided damaging his own hide whenever possible. He’d sooner beat a man who was shackled down than take one on as an equal. Weaver knew this from personal experience.

Today, Kaith had persuaded the king to hear some of the more urgent petitions. A week of strict mourning was enough, he’d insisted: long enough to hold matters of state in abeyance; long enough to demonstrate a proper regard for the deceased; long enough for a king to display proof of weakness. Any longer would be to invite trouble.

And so Vasic had sat through a succession of petitioning citizens. The last had been Jervin, again seeking action against the group of rival merchants who were undercutting the prices of those who paid their full dues.

Weaver studied Jervin’s face: his portrayal of an outraged taxpayer was convincing. His outrage may indeed be real, if he’d failed to bring these traders to heel by other means. If Weaver hadn’t known Drew was languishing in a cell thanks to information laid by Jervin he might have been fooled entirely. Even the fog in Weaver’s brain couldn’t obscure the certainty that Drew had been a loyal friend, both to Weaver, and to the lady whose name he could not – or dared not – recall.

Vasic was likewise studying Jervin. “Marwick looked into this before his untimely demise. He concluded it is a matter for the local tax collectors and the city watch – and not worthy of royal intervention.”

Jervin bowed. “Highness, in the Marches the people have been too far from the influence of the throne for too long. If I may be so bold, it requires the oversight of one with greater authority to bring them into line.”

“Are you suggesting I must collect my own taxes now?”

“Never, your highness. But I would suggest you appoint a representative to oversee the matter who knows the Marches and who understands how best to deal with the people there.”

“And where would you suggest I might find such a person?”

“Sire, if I may again be so bold, I stand in readiness to prove myself a loyal servant to the crown.” Jervin bowed again. “I grew up in the Marches and I would not be resented by the local people as one from Highground or Meallgard might be.”

Vasic steepled his fingers, studying Jervin. “You have never set foot in court before this month; why should I trust you to carry out this work?”

“Highness, let the results speak for me. If I do not bring in greater revenue from the Marches over the next year you may deal with me as you wish.”

“Well, you’re bold, I’ll grant you that.” Vasic glanced to where Kaith waited. “What say you, Kaith?”

Kaith stepped forward. “Jervin has already proven himself loyal in the matter of the renegade novice from Vorrahan. I believe his suggestion has much to commend it.”

“Then you may see to the details of his appointment to the crown’s service. The Marches will be brought into line.”

“As your highness wishes.” Kaith bowed.

Jervin withdrew, bowing and uttering words of gratitude. Weaver watched uneasily. If anyone could wring money from the Marches, it would be Jervin. Across the room the pale-eyed priestess followed the scene, her expression impassive. It had not taken her long to insinuate herself into the king’s good graces once more. Not that there was much of grace or goodness about this particular king. The priestess raised an eyebrow, as if she’d divined his thoughts.

“With that we can declare the business of today’s court closed.” Vasic would have stood up at that point but Kaith intervened.

“I beg your pardon, your highness, but there are two more petitioners. They have been waiting some considerable time already for the favour of your attention.”

Vasic sat back, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Then let them waste no further time in speaking.”

The first was a landowner who complained of the depredations of brigands destroying crops and stealing livestock. Marwick had promised a detachment of soldiers to help restore order.

Vasic pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “Kaith, see Marwick’s orders are carried out. And someone bring me more wine.” The final petitioner had to wait as Vasic’s glass was refilled by a servant.

His business was more complex, a matter of a disputed title to land. Marwick had been due to preside over a hearing, but his sudden death had prevented that taking place.

Vasic had had enough. “Kaith, take the details, we will make a decision in due course.” He glared around the room. “You are all dismissed.”

The priestess hesitated at the edge of the chamber but Vasic gestured her away. “All of you. Leave me in peace. And close the doors. Not you, Weaver. You keep your sour face here.”

Weaver resumed the rigid stance he’d held throughout the morning.

When the room had emptied, Vasic stood up from the throne, swaying for a moment, wine slopping over the edge of his glass. He made his way across the dais to where Weaver stood to attention.

“You’ve not got much to say for yourself, have you, soldier?”

“No, your highness.”

“You were stubborn enough back in the day.”

“Yes, your highness.” Goddess knew where this was leading; nowhere good.

“That weasel-faced prelate claims you’ll obey my every command without question.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“And he claims you’re indestructible.” Vasic took another mouthful of wine. “Have you nothing to say to that?”

Saying nothing would be safer. He could still picture the disbelief on Rekhart’s face after he’d plunged his blade into Weaver’s heart, yet Weaver had not fallen. The pain Weaver could hope to forget, but Rekhart’s expression… “I find it hard to believe, your highness.”

Vasic nodded. “You always were more astute than you appear. Even now.” He swallowed the last of his wine and tossed the glass aside. It smashed, scattering a myriad fragments across the wooden dais. “But do you know what, Weaver? I, too, find it hard to believe.” He took a couple of steps across the dais. Glass crunched beneath his boots. “Durstan’s services are expensive. And I have learned of late to take nothing at face value: did I see what truly happened during that fight, or did I see what Durstan wanted me to see?”