Exile's Children (15 page)

“How do you know?” she asked gently.

“My mam was drowned,” he said gruffly. It was difficult to talk about it even then, so many years later, but it was the only acceptable reason he could offer. He couldn't mention his dreams, the fluid visions that had haunted him since childhood, his mother's death by water only enhancing their terrifying import. It was his dreams that had always told him that. Turning back to his companion, he added, “She went out on a fishing boat, and there was a storm, and she was drowned. So I know!”

“Oh,” she said, “I'm sorry.”

He shrugged, swallowing noisily. “It was a long time ago. I don't hardly remember her, but it made me scared.”

“But we'll be on a big ship,” she said, trying to comfort him. “Much bigger than a fishing boat. I'm sure it will be safe.”

“On the ocean?” He shook his head miserably. “There are storms and sea monsters. And they get becalmed and everyone starves, or goes mad because they've no water.”

“How do you know?” she asked again.

“Because,” he said, “I do. How do you know they don't?”

“I used to work in a tavern,” she said,” she said, “and sometimes sailors came there.”

“Sailors lie a lot,” he said.

“And sea captains,” she said, “who are respectable and don't lie; they told me about it. And if they could, then they must've crossed the ocean, no?”

He thought about that a moment, then frowned and shrugged again. She still held him, though not so close, and he did not want to quit her embrace. Nor did he wish to seem a sniveling coward in her eyes, but that was hard—he was still very afraid.

“I suppose so,” he allowed. “But I don't want to go.”

She laughed at that, not mockingly but softly, as he remembered Aunt Dory laughing when he brought her some childhood fear. It was a comforting sound, and he felt a flash of anger. He was no child, to be fed soft words and meaningless noises.

“I'm not a coward,” he said.

“No, I didn't think you were.”

He felt a little better for that. He suspected she said it only to soothe him, but he liked her the more for it.

“I'm afraid too,” she said, “do I tell the truth.”

Davyd forgot his tears then, and that he was by several years the younger. He straightened his back and said, “I'll protect you.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding absolutely sincere. “Perhaps we might protect each other?”

“Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “What did you say your name was?”

“Flysse,” she said. “Flysse Cobal.”

He held out a hand and they shook as best the manacles allowed, sealing their bargain. They were both encouraged: it was good to find a friend in hardship.

“When do you think we'll”—Davyd hesitated: he still did not like to think of the imminent future—“… sail?”

“I heard a guard say soon,” Flysse answered him. “They're waiting for some other prisoners. When they arrive, we depart.”

“I hope they take a long time. The longer the better.”

Flysse laughed at that. The sound was odd in this miserable place, like a hurdy-gurdy in a graveyard. Davyd found his smile become genuine. He saw faces turn their way, most frowning as if the owners wondered at their sanity, and he began to laugh himself, defiantly.

He thought perhaps he
was
a little crazed, for the memory of the dreams remained and he knew past any doubting that his dreams told the truth. Danger waited for them on the open sea. He wondered if he
should tell this newfound friend, but habit bade him not. In his life he had learned more of mistrust than of faith, and it occurred to him that Flysse might buy her freedom with revelation of a Dreamer. Likely the thought was unworthy, but even so—wiser for now that he hold his tongue. Did he come to trust her fully, perhaps then—but not now, when careless words might save him from the sea only to give him to the flames. It was an unpleasant choice, but the fire was certain; the sea … Well, while the dream had threatened horrors, it had not
specifically
foretold his death, so perhaps there was hope. He clung to that straw like a drowning man.

Two more days they waited in discomfort and ignorance. They were fed, albeit poorly, and were free to move about the hall, but most remained huddled in their places as if staking some claim to that sad patch of ground. When the guards came in with their food, the briefly opened doors admitted a wafting of air that smelled of the sea and tar and wet rope, reminding them they were held in the harbor quarter. Davyd thought the hall must once have been a warehouse—faint through the overlaid scent of unwashed bodies there were more exotic odors of spices and tobacco—and the few windows were set high and very dirty. It was still, he supposed, a kind of warehouse, save now its contents were human—living goods awaiting shipment across the ocean. He thought he might have lost his mind were it not for Flysse.

She remained determinedly cheerful, so that he must match her and pretend he was no longer afraid. He hoped they might be indentured together, when they reached Salvation—if they survived the Sea of Sorrows.

For her part, Flysse was grateful for the company of this odd boy, and—though she hid it—as much shocked as intrigued by his tales of robberies and rookeries, of pockets picked and locks undone. He was, unashamedly, a thief; indeed he was rather proud of his larcenous skills, which sat ill with her honest upbringing. Yet as he told her of his sad childhood, of a mother barely remembered and of the woman—Aunt Dory—who had raised him, she could not help but feel sympathy. He seemed to her less a genuine criminal than a luckless victim of unkind fate. In Cudham a home should have been found for him, a place to sleep, and honest work. He might well have had no more than a corner of some hayloft, but the folk of her village would have seen him fed and clothed, not left him to his own devices.

Such a reminder of home saddened her, for she knew she would never see Cudham again, and likely her parents never know her fate. She
wondered if they would assume her dead, or—far worse—believe she had forgotten them, seduced by the city. She did not believe word would ever reach them of her exile, and with that thought tears threatened. Then it was Davyd who comforted her, with tales of daring thievery and colorful accounts of folk who seemed to her quite bizarre, so that before long she smiled again and listened eagerly to his yarns.

So the days passed until, around noon on the third day, the last of the exiles arrived.

Davyd and Flysse were deep in conversation. Flysse was speaking of the summer fair in Cudham, which seemed to Davyd a marvelous thing. She broke off as the doors opened and six men were ushered in. They were unshaved and dirty and none too steady on their feet, as if walking were a thing they had forgotten. The doors banged shut behind them and they stared around, blinking and squinting in the poor light.

Five were dressed in the clothes of ordinary workingmen, but the sixth was in gentlemanly attire; and though his coat was soiled and his boots scuffed, and his chin as stubbled as the rest—save for one giant fellow who sported a voluminous beard—he managed an air of elegance that set him apart. He looked about with narrowed eyes, his lips pursed in an expression of distaste, as if he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings not at all to his liking. Flysse thought she had never seen a man so handsome.

“I wonder what he did to end up with us.”

Flysse blushed as Davyd spoke, thinking her observation overly brazen; but then she saw that she was not alone in remarking the newcomer. He was, after all, the only man present to wear such finery, or such an air of disdain.

“Looks like a toff,” Davyd murmured, and chuckled. “And if he keeps his nose in the air like that, someone's likely to dent it for him.”

Flysse thought that should be sad—it seemed to her a very attractive nose.

“Nice clothes,” Davyd remarked, watching as the stranger picked a way between his fellow prisoners in search of a space. “I wonder if he managed to bring any coin?”

“How could he?” Flysse asked, turning toward Davyd whilst still managing to watch the man from the corner of her eye. She found herself hoping he might find a place beside them, then berated herself for such silly notions. He was clearly a gentleman fallen on hard times, and unlikely to consider her worthy of notice.

“It can be done,” Davyd assured her from the depths of his worldly wisdom. “It all depends on who you know, who your friends are.”

“What good would money do?”

Davyd winked and told her, “Guards can be bribed—to give you extra food, light work, that kind of thing.”

Flysse nodded, thinking not for the first time that she was an innocent in such matters.

“But I reckon not,” Davyd continued. “A toff like that—why, if he had any coin, he'd surely have bought himself a barbering, likely had his boots polished …”

There was a hint of regret in his voice, and Flysse gave him all her attention. “And if he had?” she asked. “What good to you?”

“To
us,
” Davyd corrected her, and waved expressive fingers.

“You'd pick his pockets?” Flysse was shocked.

Davyd grinned and shrugged, quite unabashed. “Likely not,” he said ruefully, “while I've got these cuffs on. But are they removed …”

“You'd steal his money?” Now Flysse frowned, prompting Davyd to a perplexed expression.

“I'd make our journey as easy as possible,” he declared. “What's wrong with that?”

“It would be stealing,” Flysse said.

“That's what I do,” Davyd replied. “I'm a thief.”

“And see where it's got you.” Flysse was stern now.

“Aye.” Davyd glanced around. “Here—where I've not much to lose. Except”—he turned his gaze back to the stranger—“perhaps my life.”

“No!” Flysse was suddenly afraid: she'd not lose this new-won friend. “You mustn't. Promise me!”

Davyd was still watching the man. He shook his head absently and said, “I doubt I'll have the chance, even if he does have coin. Look at him. See how he moves?”

Flysse obeyed: he seemed to her most graceful. In her ear she heard Davyd whisper: “I'd wager he's a duelist. He's that look about him.”

Flysse had no idea what a duelist looked like.

Davyd said, “Am I right, he'd make a good friend. And we could use a friend.”

Flysse thought it unlikely so gentlemanly a fellow would have much inclination to befriend an urchin thief and a tavern girl, but before she had time to voice such pessimism, Davyd was calling to the man.

“Hey, 'sieur! We've room aplenty here.”

The man looked toward them. As his eyes met hers, Flysse blushed anew and lowered her head.

“A smile would help,” Davyd whispered.

She refused to look up or answer, and the next thing she knew the
boots halted before her and a deep voice said, “Madam, may I join you?” as if she sat not in this dingy hall all filled with branded prisoners but in a salon, free.

She heard Davyd say, “Of course, 'sieur, and welcome. I'm called Davyd, Davyd Furth. This is Flysse Cobal.”

There was a movement. Flysse looked up from under lowered lashes and saw the man bow. Along the hall someone laughed.

“I am Arcole Blayke. With your permission?”

She nodded and managed to mumble an affirmative. Arcole Blayke said, “Thank you,” and settled himself beside her.

“So,” asked Davyd, “what brings you here, 'sieur Blayke?”

“I killed a man in a duel,” Arcole replied, and chuckled bitterly. “Unfortunately, he had a powerful father.”

“I thought as much.” Davyd sounded triumphant. “You're a duelist.”

Arcole nodded gravely. “And you?”

“A thief,” Davyd said.

Arcole frowned as if this news did not please him and looked to Flysse. “And what was your crime, Mistress Cobal?”

“She struck a lieutenant in the God's Militia,” Davyd answered for her. “He tried to seduce her and she broke his nose, and most of his teeth.”

Flysse saw Arcole duck his head approvingly, then turn a bright smile on her. “Then you've my congratulations, mistress. Such an act deserves applause.”

Flysse could not help but smile back, even as she felt her cheeks grow warm.

“You're not from Evander,” Davyd said.

“No, I come from the Levan,” Arcole replied.

“And,” Davyd began, then halted as the doors opened again and Militiamen appeared, framed in afternoon sunlight, a captain at their head.

“On your feet!” the captain shouted. “You're Salvation-bound.”

Throughout the Council, Morrhyn felt a niggling doubt tug at his mind. He wondered at Chakthi's expression: it seemed to him sly, and he did not understand why the Tachyn akaman drew out the debate. Surely the vital question was the People's response to Colun's alarming news, not the trivial matters Chakthi brought up. What could grazing rights and disputed boundaries count against the possibility of impending invasion? It was as if the Tachyn would have the Council sit longer than any there cared for. And why was Vachyr not in his usual position, behind his father? He sensed the rest growing wearied with the seemingly endless procession of petty matters, but—conscious of the delicate balance of allegiances—said nothing.

It was plump Yazte, in the end, who said what was in all their minds. He raised a hand as Chakthi waxed loquacious on the subject of a stream that boundaried the Tachyn grass and asked bluntly, “Can this not wait? The Maker knows, but we've larger decisions to take, and much to ponder.”

Chakthi said, “I'd have these smaller matters settled that they not trouble us when we come to these greater things.”

To which Yazte replied, “And I'd find my bed. My ears ache with all this talking, and I'd speak privately with Kahteney. Remember, the wakanishas would sit in Dream Council on the morrow.”