Beyond the Wall of Time (46 page)

A death ended their second day north of Mensaya.

Lenares had been acting strangely most of the afternoon, walking beside Torve for a while, then ducking back among the crowd
of refugees who still trailed them. The girl was normally fidgety, but this behaviour was excessive even for her, and odd
for a leader. Clearly she was experiencing some difficulty. The third time she did this, Stella followed.

She passed by refugees walking with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped. A few of the women had babies on their hips.
Older children trailed after them, faces blank with weariness. Some of the men seemed to have enough energy to talk, but most
were silent, drained. Thus they paid the price for being in the vicinity of the battle with Keppia.

Lenares strode to the rear of the group, then took a legs-wide stance, her arms folded, chin forward. A scruffy man with a
week-old beard stumbled into her.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, his head down.

“I remember you,” Lenares said to him, her eyes narrowing.

Lifting his head, the man blanched and ducked away.

Her eyes bored at him. “You captained a ship. A slave ship. I sailed in it.”

“You’re mistaken, young lady,” said the man, as men and women trudged past them. “Mistaken. I ain’t never captained no boat.”

Stella was no expert on Bhrudwan dialects, but the man’s coarse accent sounded phoney. And if there was one thing Lenares
never was, it was mistaken.

“I see truth,” she said. “It’s my gift. You were a sea captain, and you still are.”

“What is your line of work?” Stella asked the man.

“I’m a farmer,” the man answered, still reluctant to raise his head.

“What crops?”

The hesitation was just a moment too long. “Sheep, lady. I farm sheep.”

“A hard life,” Stella said equably, raising an eyebrow to Lenares. The girl took the hint and bit back the question she was
about to ask. “How many in your herd?”

Again the hesitation. “Twenty.”

“Really? That many? How many workers do you employ to deal with that number?”

“Four—no, five.” Eyes flicking nervously in search of rescue; the man knew he was under suspicion. “You a farmer or somethin’?”

“My husband was responsible for a number of sheep farms,” she said. “But he never sailed on anything bigger than an outrigger.
Nor would he have needed any assistance to care for twenty sheep. He certainly couldn’t have afforded help on the money he’d
make from them.”

Time to end this, before the man became violent. “Go fetch Noetos,” she said to the nearest listener, thinking to place a
stout sword between herself and this impostor.

The man cried out, raising his head to show a face made pale by her words. “No, lady,” he said. “I will leave. Let me leave.”

Stella caught the eye of two men who had halted to watch the entertainment. “Hold this man,” she said. She’d meant to ask
rather than command, but her queenly habits intruded at the most inopportune moments. Fortunately the men nodded, each taking
one of the ruffian’s arms.

“Why do you wish to leave?” she asked the frightened impostor. “What have you to fear from Noetos?”
How do you even know him?

“Perhaps I might bring some light to bear on that,” said the fisherman himself.

He nodded thanks to the woman who had fetched him, then, as she was bowing herself away, rethought and took her arm. “Hold.
Fetch Cylene for me, goodwife, please.”

“No need, Noetos,” came the girl’s voice.

It seemed the travellers had noticed the halt in the march and had come to see what the trouble was.

“Ah, yes,” Kannwar said a moment later. “I had forgotten about this man. I am surprised he hasn’t tried to run before now.”

“What is this?” Stella asked, faintly annoyed. The remaining colour had drained from the man’s face and he looked about to
vomit with fear. “How many of you know this man?”

“Everyone who sailed on the
Conch
,” Cylene replied. “This is Captain Kidson.”

“Ah.”

Noetos had told the story of their sea voyage by the fire yesterday evening. Having listened carefully to the tale, and heard
Moralye and Cylene describe the latter’s escape from the wreck, she was inclined to echo Kannwar’s question: why had the man
not fled before now?

“All the confirmation I need,” Kannwar said, a mask dropping over his urbane features. Despite herself, Stella froze with
fear; she, more than anyone here, knew what would happen once that mask appeared.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Noetos snarled at the Undying Man. Truly, the fisherman had far more courage—or much less
wisdom—than anyone Stella had met.
Or perhaps he remains very angry.

“Oh?” The mildest of responses. “Are you suggesting that this man”—he nodded in the direction of the ship’s captain struggling
in the grip of the two locals—“is not one of my subjects?”

“Of course I’m not. As a lord you are free to dispense justice as you see fit. But I presume you do not spend your life—your
long life—travelling from town to town, holding court and executing justice upon every offender in the land? You leave justice
to those affected by the crime, as my grandfather did before he lost his lordship.”

Stella had wondered when that little historical fact might be raised. She had seen the fisherman’s grandfather die, writhing
on a stake as the flames consumed him, refusing to the last to concede a point of principle to the Undying Man. The wholesale
burning of the Red Duke and his followers had been at least partly a display to frighten Stella as she languished in captivity.
She hoped the Red Duke’s grandson knew nothing of this last detail.

“Ah, your grandfather,” Kannwar said, and Stella held her breath. “You deserve an accounting for that, I think, but not right
now. Instead, let us devote ourselves to making an end of this thief and murderer.”

“And slaver,” Lenares added.

“Slaver? He used his ships to transport slaves?” Cylene’s eyes had widened in shock.

“He was the captain of the ship that took me south to Elamaq.”

“I thought you didn’t remember much of—yes, sorry, sister.”

Time and again Lenares had proven her accuracy in such matters; Cylene would soon learn not to question it.

“So, Kidson,” said Noetos. “Slaver, smuggler, murderer, thief. Are we all agreed?”

The man’s face worked for a moment before he could force the words from his lips. “Aye, I was a smuggler. Confiscate my ship
if you must. But I know nothing of the other crimes.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” said Lenares, that fearsome look of concentration making every bit as commanding a mask of
her face as that of the Undying Man. “The ship I sailed on was the MF
Periwinkle
. I remember the name on the front of the ship as they led me on board and told us what was going to happen to us.”

“You told me you had a ship with such a name,” Noetos said flatly.

“I have sailed on her,” Cylene breathed.

“The girl could have heard that name anywhere!” Kidson cried. “Miss Sai, did you ever see any slaves on board my ships?”

“No,” the girl admitted.

“I have met you before,” said Kannwar unexpectedly. “Six years ago you came to Andratan to apply for a recently vacated licence
to carry goods to and from Andratan. What was the name of the ship? Ah yes, the
Nautilus
. As I recall, those whom you paid to refit her reported some interesting discoveries in her lower holds.”

“Everyone had to run at least one slaver!” the man shouted. “A fleet is an expensive business!”

“You were told when you received the licence what happened to the previous licensee, and why.”

Kannwar did not elaborate, but Kidson clearly knew what was meant.

“So, a smuggler and a slaver.” Noetos put his hand on his sword hilt.

“And a murderer,” said Kilfor.

“I’ve murdered no one!”

“Tell that to young Dagla,” Noetos growled, and Stella recoiled at the depth of the man’s fury. Noetos seemed to have raised
anger to something almost supernatural. “The boy your first mate struck down. He died on the docks at Long Pike Mouth. Your
fault.”

“And tell it to those you refused to rescue from the wreckage of your ship,” Kilfor added.

With suitable interjections from his father, the plains-man told the story of their discovery of the wreck and how they had
rescued those trapped in the holds.

“He shut them in before the ship foundered,” Sauxa summarised. “Then he ignored their pleas and left them to rot.”

Anger coursed through the crowd at these words.

“Enough,” said Noetos, and at his command everyone fell silent.

The man certainly has a presence about him
, Stella thought.

“Time for judgment. Cyclamere, give the man your blade.”

“I’m no swordsman,” Kidson said, his hands shaking. He had the look of death in his eye.

Stella had seen such a look many times before, as criminals tottered their way to the gallows. Stories were told of the bravery
of condemned men, such heroes even sparing time to shower the watching crowd with witticisms, but in her experience hangings
were all about naked fear, blood and piss and the crack of the neck as a man’s life ended. As necessary as such events were,
she detested executions.

More than anything, they remind me of my immortality
, she admitted to herself; but though a final rest would be welcome, the accompanying terror was not something she wished
to embrace.

Noetos drew his sword. “Defend yourself or do not: I am about to strike you down for your crimes.”

The crowd stepped back half a dozen paces.

The Padouki warrior’s blade landed in the grass beside the frightened captain.

“You don’t have to kill me! I have ships, three other ships! I can sign papers, give them to you. My office in Malayu has
the deeds!”

“They are forfeit,” Kannwar intoned.

Stella watched it as though it was some mummers’ show, with an equal air of predictability. The man offered a few more bribes,
then begged, such appeals doing nothing but making his end all the more bitter—for his judges as much as for himself. She
predicted almost to the second the moment when the man finally acknowledged his fate, and was not surprised by his desperate
lunge for the sword lying on the grass.

“Stand back,” Noetos said, “lest he take anyone hostage.”

“If I defeat you, I am free?” Kidson asked.

“This is not some children’s tale,” Noetos answered. “If you strike me down, another of your accusers will take my place.
Make no mistake, Kidson, this is your execution, not some trial by combat.”

One last plea. “These accusations are very convenient for you,” the man said, the blade wavering in his hand. “At one stroke
you get my ships, revenge for your friend’s unfortunate death and possession of my slattern.” His eye swept the crowd. “Does
anyone think that is fair?”

“He is pretending to be frightened,” Lenares said. “He is good with a sword.”

“Oh, I know,” said Noetos. “No one carries a sword like the one he wore on his ship unless he knows how to use it.”

It was undoubtedly supposed to be a surprise attack, but even Stella could see it coming. Kidson roared as he slashed at Noetos.
He wielded the blade with vigour, but treated it as though it was an axe, taking huge swipes, each designed to cleave Noetos
in half. The fisherman had no trouble blocking each swing, leaning forward and not giving any ground. Clearly Noetos was not
to be fooled into striking too soon.

Seeing his tactic would fail, the captain changed his grip, then began to fence with it. Much better, thought Stella dispassionately,
though she did not want to see Noetos harmed. There seemed little chance of that: even though Kidson worked hard, running
through a series of underhand and overhand forms, Noetos parried with ease.

Stella was by no means an expert with a sword, but in her seventy years of rulership she had been subjected to many lectures
on the subject and had been taken on countless interminable tours of fighting schools and training grounds.
The captain still does not put forth all his skill
, she realised.
It looks as though he is trying to deaden the big man’s arms.
Indeed, blow after blow rang heavily on Noetos’s blade.

“Stop!” Noetos cried, lowering his sword.

Kidson took one more swing, which the fisherman parried, then froze in place.
Magic.

“I’m not having this,” Noetos said, fury writ even larger on his face. “Someone is supplying me with strength. Who is it?”

No one answered, but Stella saw his children turn their heads away. The fisherman clearly noted their reluctance to face him,
for he said: “Must my every attempt to put things right be interfered with?”

“Blame them if you will,” Kannwar said, “but it was I who gave you strength.”

“You?” Noetos spun round to face the Undying Man. “I’m not sure I believe you. But whether then or now, you are interfering.
Can you not simply let things play out? Must you always shape events to your purpose?”

“You are too important to me to be thrown away in some foolish, misplaced bout of anger. Everyone standing here knows what
you’re about, Roudhos, even though you do not. You cannot strike at me, so you relieve your feelings of frustration by striking
at someone else. Once you have disposed of Kidson you would go on to vent your anger at your children, I have no doubt, or
at anyone else you imagine disagrees with you. Noetos, you have it in you to become the greatest Duke of Roudhos in a thousand
years, but this will happen only if you learn to harness your anger.”

The fisherman’s eyes bulged. He turned away from the Undying Man and lifted his sword, making ready to swing at the motionless
Kidson.

“You’re too late,” Kannwar added. “He’s already dead.”

“What?” The word came out flat.

“Dead. Strangled. I’ve put an end to this risky nonsense. Can no one else sense the urgency of our position?”

Noetos strode up to the figure held upright by the Undying Man’s magic. The lips were blue, the tongue lolling, eyes bulging
but empty of life.