Waterborne Exile (7 page)

Maybe it was for him to make his own opportunity.

Lord Convenor Etrus of the Outer Isles gestured to the serving boys to bring him more wine.

“And for our esteemed guest.”

His esteemed guest tilted his head politely. “You are too kind, Lord Convenor.”

Both men were still the safe side of drunk, after several courses of food, several hours of drinking and a few meagre minutes spent discussing the real object of the dignitary’s visit.

Bleaklow, seated further down the table watched in fascination. The Lord Convenor Etrus, of course, was a well-built – if not outright bulky – man and his frame could absorb prodigious amounts of alcohol. But the dignitary from Vasic’s court was best described as skinny, tall with it, to be fair, but he hardly seemed to have the bulk to absorb the half of what he’d put away that day. Bleaklow watched in admiration as the pair of them danced in delicate conversation around the issue at hand. His admiration for his liege lord increased – even though he had not thought such a thing possible in peace time – with every carefully-calculated sentence. And given the matter foremost in both the men’s minds, he could only admire his lord’s forbearance the more. No one looking on could guess at the weighty matters preying on his mind at present.

Bleaklow could only admire the sheer stubbornness of the two engaged in diplomatic wrangling over the table, as they negotiated peace terms in the most roundabout of ways. Long may that peace last: it was imperative that these talks with King Vasic’s representative went well. Vasic had a reputation for being too easily offended and since his reach had extended to include Highkell and all of Highground around it, it behoved Lord Etrus to keep on his good side. Even if it meant offering up his beloved daughter as marriage material.

“I look forward to meeting your daughter, my lord. It is a great disappointment that she is unable to join us this evening, for her looks are already spoken of with great favour in Lynesreach.”

“We are as disappointed as you, Sir Kaith. It is unfortunate she should become indisposed.”

“It is often the way after a large gathering such as your nephew’s recent wedding. People meeting from all corners of the land, after all, bring new illnesses in their wake.”

Did Kaith know? Bleaklow listened intently as his lord calmly deflected the gambit.

“Indeed. We can travel so far, so fast, yet we cannot outstrip contagion. Would you care for more wine, Sir Kaith?”

Sir Kaith accepted graciously. Bleaklow began to suspect he was pouring half of it down his sleeve, but could see no evidence of it. There was even less evidence of Kaith having consumed all that wine in the first place. Was he one of those who drank so much he never sobered up? A strange choice on Vasic’s part to handle such delicate business, if that were the case, for all the man had polished manners and breeding.

“Will I have the opportunity to speak to your daughter tomorrow, perhaps? I heard many compliments on her good looks from the wedding guests who had already returned to the mainland. She was quite the topic of conversation, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Goddess, he knew. He must know. Or why hint so bluntly? Bleaklow held his breath as Etrus considered his answer.

“She favours her mother for looks – except, as I’m sure you would agree had you been able to meet her – she exceeds her mother’s beauty at that age.”

“I await our introduction even more eagerly than ever. It is a great shame her illness prevents her travelling to court on this occasion.”

“A great shame,” Etrus replied smoothly. “Fortunately the portrait artist has almost finished her likeness and you will be able to take that to King Vasic, so he may judge for himself whether or not reports of her good looks have been exaggerated.”

Kaith bowed and nodded, and pursued the matter no further, but there had been some sharpness about his eyes that led Bleaklow to suspect he knew rather more about the Lady Drelena than he chose to admit. He would require careful watching for the remainder of his stay at the palace. Bleaklow had already caught him poking around a wing of the palace where he had no business being. Lost, he had claimed.

Shortly after that Kaith claimed tiredness and withdrew from the feasting hall. Bleaklow watched him make his way down the length of the room, his steps perfectly measured and even. Consummate courtier and consummate drinker. Bleaklow nodded to a manservant who waited near the door. The manservant indicated acknowledgment with the slightest tilt of his head and followed Kaith out, keeping a discreet distance. The fellow wouldn’t be poking his diplomatic nose anywhere it wasn’t wanted tonight, that much was sure.

Bleaklow was taken aback to hear himself addressed in a low voice by the Lord Convenor. “I beg your pardon, sire?”

“I take it you have no further news for me?” Etrus turned piercing brown eyes upon him – startlingly like his daughter’s. He was staring at Bleaklow as intently as she had stared the night of her cousin’s wedding, when he’d come to his senses after exceeding the bounds of propriety.

Bleaklow blinked and lowered his eyes. “I fear not, sire. I continue to make discreet enquiries, but can find no word of her whereabouts.”

“Then be more forthright, Bleaklow. This charade has gone on long enough. We need to find her now.”

Tad couldn’t find his sister in any of the usual places. He’d even tried the infirmary, in case she’d been released from her seclusion and not thought to tell him. It was when he’d given up and was crossing the quadrangle on his way back to the kitchen wing that he caught sight of her, on the far side of the cloister, hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Hey, wait!” He turned and ran across the yard. He would have called out her name, but their old names had been set aside when they joined the order, a symbol of their rebirth in purer, chaste forms. In truth, he was no longer sure what hers had even been. He had sometimes wondered if she’d even had one. She had all the memories of their childhood home before the order, and she’d never mentioned their old names at all. As for himself, he was well enough suited with Tad. She’d often spoken about the name she might take upon becoming blessed by the Goddess; most of her choices had been long and complicated until she’d settled on the name Ilsa. He’d not bothered to point out to her that in the end it wouldn’t be her choice at all, but a name would be bestowed upon her by the order.

Even after he shouted out her chosen name she hurried on her way without giving any sign of having heard him, so he had to sprint to catch up with her.

“Wait up!” It took him a moment to catch his breath.

She watched him gasping, with a frown creasing her forehead. “I haven’t any time to waste, Tad. I’m in a hurry.”

“I– I just wanted to…”

The frown deepened.

“I… need to ask a favour. I need your help.”

She folded her arms, her mouth tightening in a straight line. “And what idiotic thing have you done this time?”

Tad hesitated. “You know when you wanted me to search the fire?”

“You mean when you refused to help me?” Her lip curled. “And now you want me to help you?”

“It’s not the same. This is different. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important.”

“Really important? Oh, you fool. I already know.” She smiled, that humourless smile Tad knew so well. His stomach sank down to his tattered boots. “You’ve got that soldier hidden away in the cellars.”

She spun away from him, laughing. “What did you imagine you could do for him? What do you even know about healing? I know more about it than you could ever hope to learn. If you’d come to me in the first place I might have been able to save him. But it’s too late and he’s dying. He might already be dead.” She turned to face him again, face composed in a holier-than-thou expression. “But of course you didn’t, because you’re a fool. And now he’s bound to die because of you.”

She spun away again and hurried off along the cloister. Tad realised with a sinking heart she was heading straight for the prelate’s offices. How had she even found out? Had she used that sight the order guarded so jealously?

And worse still, was she right? Was the soldier really at death’s door? Goddess, let it not be so.

Tad turned back to his original destination. If she refused to help… She already had… But… Was she going to report him to the prelate? He trailed reluctantly back to the kitchen wing.

The cook looked up as soon as he stepped inside the door. “Lad, there’s pans need scouring. Where do you think you’ve been all this time? Your break was over long ago. You’ll do extra tonight when we’re finished and scrub the floors right through.”

Tad bowed his head. “Yes, sir.” He trailed through to the scullery, disconsolate, calculating how soon he could slip through to check on his patient. A great pile of pans waited by the sink – he might almost believe the cook had dirtied extra ones on purpose to hold him back.

As it was, Tad had only started on the second pan when the prelate arrived, accompanied by the head cook, with three of his subordinates in his wake and following behind them, hands clasped demurely before her, his sister. Perched on the wooden block that raised him up to reach the sink, Tad could only turn and watch as they opened the door to the storerooms. The cook glanced a warning his way, making a sharp gesture with his head towards the sink and Tad turned back to the pans in his care, risking the odd surreptitious glance over his shoulder.

Several uneasy minutes went by before the party returned, two brethren half-carrying the inert soldier between them, supporting his shoulders and upper body while his feet dragged: he appeared unable to coordinate sufficiently to walk between them. In the light of the scullery his face was pale and drawn. He did indeed look close to death’s door. The two brethren dragged him to the outer door, which was opened and closed again by the third brother. The prelate stepped through the door next and his eyes turned to Tad, with not a hint of a smile on his face. The blood in Tad’s veins turned to ice.

The cook stepped through the door behind the prelate, and after him his sister, her features arranged in her best pious expression.

The cook moved over to the sink. “Leave those pots now, lad. The prelate wants a word with you.” He wiped his hands on the cloth he habitually carried, and turned to the prelate. “He’s a good lad, sire. Always obedient. Willing and a hard worker.”

The prelate inhaled, raising one eyebrow. “An obedient worker would not conceal known criminals in his employer’s premises.”

The cook turned back to Tad. “Step down now, Tad. Best not to keep the prelate waiting.”

Tad obeyed, stumbling slightly as he reached the uneven floor. Behind him he could hear gleeful whispers from the other kitchen boys who must be watching at the door. He felt his skin flushing deep red under the scrutiny of the prelate.

“Brother Joran, take the boy and prepare him for questioning.” The prelate seemed almost bored by this turn of events as he gave the order.

The priest took Tad by the shoulder, not ungently, and steered him to the outer door.

The cook spoke up once more. “As I said, sire, I can vouch for the boy’s character.”

The prelate made no reply that Tad could hear. Tad felt a sudden glow of affection for the gruff cook. If he was prepared to speak up for him like that, everything would be all right, wouldn’t it?

Drew woke with a fuzzy head. He’d not felt this rough in a long time. It reminded him of how he’d sometimes felt at Vorrahan, after lessons with Gwydion: tired, while every bone in his body ached and a sharp pain had settled behind his forehead. Beside him, Jervin slept on. Drew pushed himself up from the mattress and swung his feet to the floor, setting them down on luxurious carpet. Jervin had imported it from some distant place overseas. It was woven with rich colours, an abstract design of such complexity he never ceased to marvel at the ingenuity of its creators. Elaborate swirls and spirals and stylised mythical beasts entwined in a never-ending dance around the border. The centre was filled with self-contained panels made up of similar motifs, although the stylised creatures could only be identified in the border, as if they patrolled the perimeter to contain the energy of the pattern. He trod carefully over the carpet, and reached for the ewer to fill the small basin. The floorboards at the edge of the room were cool beneath his feet. Jervin slept on. Drew splashed his face with water. It eased the ache in his forehead, even though it was not as cool as freshly-drawn water.

Behind him, Jervin stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “You’re up early.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” The daylight streaming in around the edges of the curtains told him it was not so terribly early anyway. It was rare for Jervin to sleep in. “You were late last night.”

“Not that late. Come back to bed awhile.” Jervin turned back the covers, smiling lazily. It was a smile that could melt greater resolve than Drew had ever had.

“I– I have a headache. I need some fresh air, I think.” Drew didn’t want to turn him down – in fact he couldn’t think of a time when he had before. “Really. I’m feeling quite off-colour this morning.”

Jervin’s mouth twisted in – Drew hoped – disappointment. But it looked a lot like disapproval from where Drew stood. Goddess knew he’d seen enough of it in his short lifetime to be able to recognise it.

“Maybe later, when I’ve cleared my head?” Drew felt he should make amends somehow.

“Goddess, no. If you’re hatching some dire illness I don’t want it.” Jervin threw the covers back and stood up, stretching luxuriously, displaying every lean, muscled inch of his body. Drew couldn’t help staring: that was one sight he might never get enough of. Jervin picked up his robe which he’d left on the floor the night before and pulled it on, knotting the belt carelessly. He grinned at Drew. “Your loss. I’ll be busy later – I’ve a lot to get through today. I’ll be back late.”

Again. Drew nodded, wincing as his head throbbed at the movement.

“I’ll need to go through the accounts tomorrow. You’ll have the books ready, of course.”