The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (19 page)

“No. There’s a rudder which angles the boat upstream, and then the current pushes the ferry across the river on the cable.” Hew frowned. “At least, that’s what the stablehand at the inn said. I don’t quite understand it myself.”

“Huh.” The prince shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The packhorses were loaded onto the flat-bottomed ferry. Innis stayed close to the prince, scanning the riverside. She saw a couple of women with baskets, an elderly man pushing a handcart. A youth with hair even redder than Ebril’s leaned against a wall, watching something downstream, chewing a hunk of bread.

She followed his gaze. Logs were being unloaded into the water. Tree trunks bobbed as far downstream as she could see. “Where are they going?” she asked, pointing.

Prince Harkeld shrugged again. “Ankeny’s major cities lie on the north coast. At a guess, there.”

They dismounted and led their horses on to the ferry, Gerit circling overhead, a faint shimmer of magic coating his feathers. The boat cast off. Innis examined the jetty. The red-haired youth was idly watching them, but even as she looked, he turned away in disinterest, still eating his breakfast. The nose of the ferry swung into the current. They began to drift towards the opposite shore.

The woodcutters had been busy on the eastern bank, too. A half-mile-wide strip of logged land stretched on either side of the road. “More tree stumps,” the prince said glumly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

K
AREL ROLLED OUT
of his bunk, dressed in plain trews and shirt and cloak, tied his money pouch to his belt and tucked the list of purchases into his pocket. All around, men slept. He heard someone snore, heard someone mutter, heard someone fart. He collected a grace pass from the duty commander and the coins he was owed. Copper pennies, not silver groats like the other armsmen were paid, because he was earning freedom with his service.

He showed the pass at the gate, walked under the portcullis, and out onto the furlong of bare ground between the palace walls and the town of Rakhamn. The sleet had stopped, but the wind still came from the south, bitterly cold, cutting through his cloak.

Karel inhaled deeply. The air was different out here. He couldn’t taste the bondservants’ misery with each breath, couldn’t smell their fear.

He crossed the bare ground, striding fast, hugging his cloak around him. Breath plumed white from his mouth, whipped away by the wind. The paved marble road the nobles and high courtiers used was a hundred yards to his right, linking the main gates of the palace and the town. This track, for armsmen and guardsmen, lesser courtiers and artisans, was of packed dirt, crunching frostily beneath his boots. He glanced to his left, narrowing his eyes against the biting wind. Half a furlong distant was the road the princess would escape on, where wagons lumbered between the palace and the town all day and long into the night. A wagon laden with barrels moved heavily along it now.

Rakhamn was stirring. Smoke rose from chimneys. The shutters being thrown open looked like eyes blinking awake.

Karel headed down the cobbled streets to the harbor. Twice a year he walked this route, twice a year was free for a day. The whitewashed stone houses were familiar, the market square with its covered well and the bell where the hours were rung out, the shops with wooden signs hanging above the doors—baker, shoemaker, weaponmonger, apothecary.

The street curved, widened, opened out onto wharves. Here was the ocean. Karel filled his lungs with sea air. He tasted salt on his tongue, smelled fish, seaweed, wet ropes, woodsmoke.

Beyond the sheltering arms of the breakwater, the sea stretched wide in the bay. It was the same sea that lapped Esfaban’s shores, yet so different. Cold. Gray. Nothing like Esfaban’s clear blue-green waters.

Within the harbor, fishing boats jostled alongside merchant ships and naval vessels. Nets hung, drying, and gulls swooped and screamed. The smell of the nets was familiar, the sound of the gulls, the slap of waves on wooden hulls. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was home. Except there would be warm sand beneath his feet, not slabs of cold stone.

Karel shook off the memories of Esfaban. He scanned the moorings, counting the merchant vessels—fourteen—and the naval ships—five. He inspected the merchant ships, his gaze halting on one smaller and narrower than the others. A two-masted schooner. To his eyes, it looked to be the swiftest ship in the harbor.

He turned into a waterfront tavern. A copper coin bought him a half-tankard of ale, a plate of stew, bread and cheese. He ate slowly, studying the other patrons. Sailors, most of them, looking as if they’d been up all night. He bought another half-tankard, fell into talk with a bleary-eyed sailor, and by the time he exited the tavern he knew a lot more about the ships in the harbor. His eyes skimmed the vessels, halted on the schooner. The sailor had implied the crew were little better than privateers.

Karel walked along the wharf and stopped to chat with a man mending nets. Talk about fishing led to talk about boats, and the fisherman willingly gave his opinion of the merchant ships. “Wallow like a sow in mud,” he said, dismissing three of them. “And them’s as slow as a turtle swimming upstream.” Four of the ships, he allowed, were fairly smart, and two had some speed in them, but the schooner was the only one that could really fly.

“Faster than them?” Karel asked, pointing to the naval vessels.

“Do fish piss in the sea?”

Karel took that as a yes. “Has it been here long?”

“Three, four days.”

Karel let the conversation drift back to fishing and left the man ten minutes later. A stroll up to the main square told him that the apothecary’s shop was now open.

He retraced his steps until he came to a two-storied building squatting on the waterfront.
The Lucky Sailor
. Half-tavern, half-whorehouse. He’d been here once, on his first grace day as an armsman, and never since.

Karel pushed open the door. The taproom was dimly lit, warm, smelling of ale and food, sweat and woodsmoke. A fire burned in the wide grate. Despite the early hour,
The Lucky Sailor
was doing good business. A dozen men sat at tables or leaned against the tapster’s counter.

He bought a half-tankard and stood at the scarred wooden counter, sipping slowly, eying the other patrons, keeping his hood up. A girl in a low-cut gown crossed to him. “Wan’ come upstairs w’ me, sailor?” she asked, her eyes half-focused. “Two pennies f’ an hour.”

“Later.”

The girl pouted and drifted towards another customer.

Karel watched a sailor come down the stairs, buckling his belt. The man crossed to the tapster, opened his money pouch, emptied it. A thin copper half-penny fell out.

Karel waited until the tapster had poured the man an ale. “Leaving port soon?”

The sailor shook his head. “Not till next week.”

Shame
. The man would have been perfect. Drunk, but not too drunk. Short of money. And not Osgaardan.

Karel sipped his ale. Sailors entered the tavern, climbed the stairs to the wenching rooms, reappeared fastening their belts, ordered ale, wine, spirits, food. Some had too much money for his needs, some were too drunk, others too sharp-eyed and alert, or spoke with Osgaardan accents.

It took half an hour before he found what he was looking for. The sailor was less than half-drunk, genial, had spent his last pennies, and was leaving Osgaard tomorrow.

Karel bought the man an ale and invited him to sit at a table, choosing one in the darkest corner of the room. “Good bedsport upstairs?”

The sailor took a long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nice ’n plump,” he said cheerfully. “Just how I like ’em.”

“Shame you can’t buy yourself another hour.”

The sailor shrugged philosophically. “One rut’s better than none.”

“True,” Karel said. He let his tone grow thoughtful, “You know, I could see my way to slipping you some coins... if you do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I need to buy some items from the apothecary.”
And I need not to be seen doing it. “
He won’t serve me because I look like an islander.”

The sailor grimaced. “Osgaard. My least favorite kingdom. You’re lucky you’re not one of them slaves they have here, whatever they call ’em.”

“Bondservants.”

The sailor took a slurping mouthful of ale. “Sure, I can do that for you.”

Karel took the list from his pocket. “Here.”

The sailor unfolded it, read it squinting, and raised his eyebrows. “All-Mother’s Breath? Need to knock someone out?”

“I’m a tooth-puller.”

“Tooth-puller?” The sailor screwed up his face. “Rather you ’n me.”

Karel shrugged. “Someone’s got to do it.” He unfastened his money pouch and took out four silver groats. Three, he slid across the table. The fourth, he held between thumb and forefinger. “This one’s for you, afterwards.”

The sailor grinned, drained his tankard, and stood. “Where’s the apothecary?”

Karel told him. “And remember, no mention of me.”

“My word on it.” The sailor hitched his belt higher up his hips and exited the tavern, whistling.

Karel sat, counting the minutes, sipping his ale. Had he been wrong in his judgment of the man? Would the sailor return? Or would he decide that three groats in his pocket now was better than one later?

He’d just decided that the sailor wasn’t coming back, when the man returned, a grin on his face and a small bundle wrapped in hessian under his arm.

Karel bought him another tankard. He checked no one was watching and unwrapped the bundle. He put the emetic and its antidote to one side, unfamiliar with them; he’d have to trust the apothecary was honest. The packet of dried leaves was pepperwort. They had no odor, but tasted strongly of pepper, burning his tongue.

Karel rinsed his mouth out with ale, glanced around the taproom again, and unwrapped the dried Horned Lily root. Four tubers, like shriveled pink carrots. They
looked
genuine. He picked one up, sniffed it, took a bite from the end. He recognized the taste from his armsman’s training, slightly sweet. Karel chewed and swallowed, glancing idly around the taproom while he counted to one hundred. Then he uncorked the vial of All-Mother’s Breath. He sniffed cautiously. The scent filled his nose, pungent, vanilla-like. That was familiar, too.

Karel recorked the vial. “Did he ask about this?”

“He did.” The sailor winked. “I said I was the tooth-puller on our ship.”

Karel laughed, relaxing. He rewrapped the bundle. “Here.” He gave the man a groat. “Thank you.”

The sailor fished in his pocket and pulled out four copper pennies and a silver half-groat. “Your change. I forgot.”

Karel took the half-groat. “Keep the rest. As payment for your honesty.”

The sailor grinned. “I’ll spend it now. Good day to you.”

Karel’s smile faded as the man went upstairs. He’d climbed those stairs once himself, three years ago, holding the first coins he’d earned. He’d climbed those stairs and paid his pennies—and found himself unable to choose a whore. They weren’t bondservants, terrified and trapped, they were paid for spreading their legs, but their eyes had seemed to stare right through him.

How could he bed a woman with eyes like that?

Karel stowed the bundle beneath his cloak, looping one of the strings around his belt, and headed out into the cold.

He walked the length of the wharf, examining the vessels. At the eastern end, coal was being unloaded. Bondservants labored, cringing from the overseer’s whip. Beyond the breakwater, the river that ran beneath the palace flowed into the bay, carrying the palace’s sewage. The wind carried the stink to him. Gulls wheeled and swooped, shrieking.

Karel turned and retraced his steps. He stopped to talk with sailors he met.
Which ship are you from? When are you leaving?
Casual, friendly questions. His eyes returned time and again to the two-masted schooner. It was almost noon. He had to make a decision, had to act. Which ship should he choose?

A rowboat pushed away from the schooner. Oars dipped, splashed.