Waterborne Exile (13 page)

It might work.

“Ask yourself how many people there even knew for certain who you were in the first place, my lady.”

That was easy: Marten, who sat next to her now; Erin, who slept safely in their cave further down the hill; Tresilian himself, dead at her and Marten’s hands; Curtis, dead at Weaver’s hands; Weaver, left behind to perish in the flames, may the Goddess watch over him; and Tresilian’s pale priestess, with, perhaps, a few members of the vile priesthood.

“The priestess knew.”

“She – and her kind – cannot touch you here. There are ancient wards about this place to prevent it being found by enemies. And for all they know you were grievously injured in the fire. You are safer here than you could be anywhere else on the Peninsula. Trust me.”

“I trust you believe what you are saying.” For all his protestations of loyalty, Marten would change his allegiance again. Of that she was certain. And she had no option, right now. She had to remain at Scarrow’s Deep. But for how long?

Weaver could not have said how many days he’d lain in that room. It might have been forever. He lay there, conscious of air moving across his face, sometimes of sunlight that warmed his flesh, sometimes of shadow that sent a chill through his entire body. The pain was ever-present: a sharp, stabbing that lanced from beneath his arm and into his chest. He lay there, mute and obedient, because that was what was required of him. He saw no reason to question his understanding. It just was. Any kind of movement was too great an effort. He lay there, on his back, hands down by his sides. His limbs were too heavy to move at all. Even his eyelids seemed weighted with lead. Stolen from a roof, like as not… Although why that seemed to matter, he did not know. Thoughts like that made the pain worse. He had no business thinking for himself. Orders. He followed orders. Deep within, he knew that made sense. How he knew, he could not say. He drifted from moment to moment, untroubled by… Well, that was untrue. He was troubled: by the pain, by the sense that all here was not as it should be. But he was not so troubled he could stir himself to rouse from this lifelong sleep he seemed to have fallen into.

Voices intruded on his inertia. They were a jarring note against the silence. He wanted them to go away. To leave him to meld with the emptiness, the silence. It was all he required. But instead they drew closer, louder. Two men.

“And how fares our patient?”

“Very well, sire. Very well indeed.”

“His progress is slow.”

“It is better this way, sire.” The man’s voice was hesitant. “We want him completely dependent on us, to lose all vestige of free will. This is the best way.” The voices went on, but Weaver had no interest in them. He yearned for silence, for solitude. For the stillness that had been before. Before all this tumult of… What? Motion and commotion. The urge to move, to raise a hand. To tug at the source of the pain in his chest. The demands of life pulsing through his veins, insistent.

“Did his fingers move?”

“Yes, sire. That is to be expected at this stage. Soon he will be ready to wake.”

“Very well, then. Keep me informed of progress. I want a full written account of the process…”

The voices drifted away then and Weaver relaxed. Except the silence was not absolute. Someone else moved around the room. Light footsteps hurried across the stone. There was a faint movement of air, the shush of fabric… Why would they not leave him alone? Had he not already done enough? How many times must he prove himself?

There was a stirring of air against the side of his face, then a voice whispered in his ear. “Can you hear me? You can, can’t you?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “You can’t trust any of them. But you should trust me.” There was a girlish giggle. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose in instinctive horror. Trust her? He’d as soon… but he had no words to express his revulsion.

There was a whisper of movement, then her voice sounded from further away. “They’ll try to use you, just like they used me. But I’m going to help you, and then you can help me in return. That’s how it works.”

Another shifting of air and the padding of furtive footsteps across the floor, and then he was alone. Solitude and silence, blessed be the Goddess. Let the voices not return so they’d trouble him no more. Let him be alone with his pain. He’d earned that right.

This was getting repetitive. Bleaklow braced himself before stepping into yet another muggy tavern. The stale air was thick with spilled beer and cabbage, a particular favourite of the dockside. But, in a reversal of recent ill fortune, the very man he hoped to find was propping up the bar at the furthest end from the door. Or perhaps the bar was propping the man up – it was ever hard to tell. The man in question was a guard at the palace and, according to the roster, had been on duty the night of the wedding. Tonight he was very much off duty, and clearly had been for several hours. He studied his pint of ale with the fixed stare of one who no longer cared if he drank any more or not.

“Evening. You’re Simmons, I take it?”

“Eh? Why? Who’s asking?” The man was startled well and truly out of his beer-sodden reverie. It seemed reasonable to conclude he was indeed Simmons, sometime guard of the royal household and drunken ne’er do well.

“Simmons.” Bleaklow smiled and set an urbane hand on the man’s shoulder as the guard half stood, setting one foot on the ground. If he’d had any thoughts of making an abrupt departure he abandoned them, sinking back onto his bar stool.

Simmons took up his tankard, as if he feared Bleaklow was about to take it from him. “Now I’m not sure what people have been telling you, but I’m a peaceable, law-abiding man.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Bleaklow bared his teeth in a cold smile. “But I’m pleased to hear it all the same, since I’ve some questions that need answers, and you are just the man to give me them.”

Simmons didn’t seem to find the smile or the words reassuring. His fingers tightened about the pint tankard. Good. Respectability had become something of a habit in the years Bleaklow had been working for the royal household and he’d been worried he might have lost his edge.

“Now then, Simmons. It’s nothing too complicated. I gather you were on guard duty the night of the wedding. Yes?”

Simmons nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Bleaklow nodded. “Excellent. Now think carefully: was there much coming and going to and from the palace after dark that night?”

Simmons’ brow furrowed. He shook his head slowly, warily watching Bleaklow for any reaction. Reassured by his bland expression, he got up the courage to speak. “It were quiet. Right quiet.”

“Again, excellent.” Bleaklow smiled again. “In that case I’m sure you remember everyone who entered or left the palace bounds.”

Simmons hesitated, his mouth dropping open for a moment. “Well, I don’t know as–”

“How many people left the palace before morning?” Bleaklow didn’t smile now.

Simmons licked his lips. “Well there were a couple of drays left with empty barrels.”

“Who was driving them? Did they carry any passengers?”

“No passengers.” Simmons scratched his head. “They were just the usual draymen – old Len from the harbourside, and that young chap from the top of the hill.”

“Anyone else?”

Simmons scratched his head some more. “Well, there were a few lads who’d been celebrating a bit much – got turfed out.”

“Anyone else? Any women, perhaps?”

Simmons’ jaw dropped again. “Well, now you come to mention it there was one. A laundry woman. Cheeky with it, gave me lip as she was waiting for me to open the gate.”

Bleaklow doubted that. “How old would you say she was?”

“Young.” Simmons nodded vigorously. “Definitely young.”

“Tall, short? Fat, thin? What colour was her hair? Eyes?” Bleaklow leaned in closer to Simmons. “Make no mistake now, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

“She was… normal height for a woman? Maybe on the tall side. Shorter’n most men though. She wasn’t fat. Was hard to tell cos she wore a thick cloak. Pretty. Long eyelashes, dark hair, I think. Tied back it was, but not fancy.”

Bleaklow grilled the man until he’d extracted enough details of the laundry woman’s appearance to be reasonably confident it was the Lady Drelena. A little more careful questioning elicited the information she’d walked off in the direction of the harbour. But when he thought he’d pumped Simmons dry, the guard rallied.

“So why you lookin’ for her? She done something wrong?”

The lie came easily now, he’d repeated it so often. “It’s a matter of petty theft. Once the complaint was made I have to follow it up or I’ll get no end of grief. Chances of finding her now are non-existent – but mind, if you see her again, there could be a reward in it for you. It’s not so much what she stole, but who she stole it from. Important people don’t like to be crossed.”

Bleaklow left Simmons to enjoy the remains of his tepid pint. He doubted he’d have any need to speak to him again. She’d not be on the island any more, not if he understood her character right. They’d already searched the docks, after all. Although they hadn’t been looking for a pert young washer woman with a sharp tongue and no manners. If Simmons could be believed; the man was just enough of a coward to have told him more or less the truth. He’d held something back, for sure. But that didn’t concern Bleaklow right now: he had a runaway royal to find.

Peveril was waiting with a scribe in the guardroom when the apprentice turned up at the palace. He’d slicked down his hair and wore a clean smock, in an attempt to make himself look respectable. This was going to be too easy.

“I come, like you said. You said to ask for Captain Peveril.” The youth enunciated every syllable with great care.

“An’ you found him. Right then, lad, first we need to take your statement. This ’ere’s a scribe an’ he’ll write down what you say. That way it’s official. An’ this statement is what my master’ll read. Got that?”

The lad nodded, his expression sombre.

“We start wi’ your full name an’ address, so’s it’s all official an’ above board.”

“Address?”

“Where you live, like. That’s what officials call it – the street, the house, the room you rent?”

“Oh, right.” The lad took a deep breath.

It took half an hour to repeat his story, while the scribe laboured over the parchment, each stroke of the quill painstakingly slow. There were faster writers to be had, but this one was, frankly, cheaper. And Peveril had bought his silence years ago.

“And now, lad, I said to you to bring proof. You done that?”

“Aye, I have.” The lad’s jaw was set again. This was not a promising sign.

“Out with it, then.”

The lad turned his eyes to the scribe. “You said be careful no one saw…”

“The scribe here will witness it. He’s sound – like me he’s in the pay of the palace.”

The scribe looked up from his parchment and nodded sombrely.

The lad looked from scribe to Peveril then appeared to reach a decision. He fumbled open his scrip and drew out a tiny fabric-wrapped bundle. He unfolded the wrapping to reveal a piece of gold, formed in the shape of a leaf, detailed with intricate veining. Exquisite work. From one end of the leaf dangled a short length of gold chain, from the other a single gold loop that formed part of a clasp. He held the object out towards Peveril, but did not hand it over.

“That’s a fine piece. But you said you had the rest of it.”

“Aye. I do. An’ if’n your master wants to see it, or buy it, an’ names his price, I’ll bring it then. An’ not before.”

Damn him, the lad was not as green as he was grass-looking. Not when sober, at any rate. “Very wise, Master Shott. Very wise.”

The lad nodded tightly. “Aye. I’ll keep it safe until then.” He closed his hand about the leaf he held out.

“Understandable. But you see, my master will want to see for himself – he won’t just take my word for it.”

The lad’s mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “I don’t know much, but I know this is worth a deal of coin.”

“Aye, lad, so it is.” This wasn’t quite as easy as he’d hoped. “That’s why my master will pay ten coins for it, right here an’ now. I’m authorised to buy it from you at that price. See, there’s some as will take your statement at face value, but there’s others won’t believe it until they seen the glint of gold for themselves. And them’s the kind my master has to deal with.”

The lad licked his lips. “Ten coin, you say?” The hand holding out the bauble shook a little. That must be several months’ work for a lowly apprentice.

“The whole piece would be worth a lot more, of course. Broken like it is, takes the value down. Can always see where these things have been mended. If’n you’re not sure take a look down at the market an’ see what you can buy from the goldsmith for that.”

The lad straightened his shoulders. “Ten coin, then. I’ll sell it to your master.”

Peveril counted out the money onto the table, watching the lad carefully as he did so. He paused at eight, but the lad seemed to know that wasn’t enough. Reluctantly he counted out nine, then ten before the youth nodded tightly again and finally handed over the leaf, scooping up the coins and adding them to his scrip.

Peveril wrapped the leaf in its fabric and likewise stowed it away safely, along with the scroll containing the youth’s report. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Master Shott. Expect to hear from me soon about the rest of the necklace – I have no doubt my master will be keen to acquire it.”

Peveril watched the lad cross the yard, looking far too perky for his liking. Arrogant young prick. This wasn’t over yet. The lad strutted past old Marwick, who paused and glanced back at him before resuming his ponderous progress to the guard room. It was time for the quarterly review of the accounts for the palace guard. The scribe was still scratching with his quill on a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Ol’ faceache’s on his way – you done with that yet?”

“Very nearly.” The scribe spoke without a trace of Highkell accent. It always surprised Peveril, perhaps because the scribe spoke so seldom. His face had been rearranged so many times Peveril always tended to think of the rogue as one of his own. And the truth was far from it. His best guess was the scribe had been a noble who’d fallen on hard times.