Waterborne Exile (23 page)

This was all the wrong way round. What advice could he possibly offer when he’d fled the precinct under a shadow? “In truth, I do not know what to say. My time at the precinct was… well, I wouldn’t be here now if I’d been successful in finding my true place there.”

“But… to withdraw from all this. To spend my time in prayer and reflection, to make amends for my poor choices…”

“My friend, if you hope to discover spiritual peace at the precinct, I fear you would be disappointed. One of the reasons for my departure was the lack of any true spirituality. After Brother Gwydion’s death, there were few there who were as devout as he had been. And Father Garrad, of course, betrayed a scared trust for the sake of money when he handed over the Lady Alwenna to the new king. There were others there, too, who held high rank, but…” What to say about Brother Irwyn? There was every possibility he might be in charge now without Father Garrad to guide the precinct. “You were frank with me when last we spoke, and now I must return the favour. Vorrahan has a reputation for piety and spirituality, but as your friend I cannot urge you to go there. That is not at all what you want to hear, is it?”

Rekhart took another mouthful of kopamid. “I don’t expect it to be easy… but I thought, if I could devote myself to service of the Goddess…”

“Can you not be content serving the Goddess through your work with the city watch? That is vital, after all. A great service to her people.”

Rekhart ran a hand through his hair. “I no longer work for the city watch. I was dismissed several days ago.”

Drew gaped at him. “Impossible! How can that be?”

“How? Very easily if a commander turns up drunk to work. Easier still if an influential businessman has already laid information against him, before plying him with drink.”

Drew’s heart sank. “And that businessman…” He didn’t need to ask, but he needed to hear the answer spoken all the same. “It was Jervin?”

Rekhart nodded, then drained his beaker. “The very same.”

“But… you and he had an understanding.”

Rekhart ran his hand through his hair again. “We did indeed. I was foolish enough to think I could break with him.”

Some of the sunlight had leached out of Drew’s day. Jervin wouldn’t have been so petty? Surely… He recalled the snippets of conversation he’d overheard when he’d eavesdropped on his meeting with the Ellisquay traders, the sense of Jervin’s implacable resentment. He pushed the thought away. “There must have been some misunderstanding. Let me speak with Jervin and see what can be resolved.” Did he have enough influence with him, when all was said and done?

“There’s no need. I’m sorry to have mentioned it at all, Drew. None of it has been your doing and I ought not set you one against the other.”

“But my friend, surely this can be resolved?”

“Jervin made it clear if I would not work for him I would work for no one in Brigholm. I fear he was as good as his word.”

“But… that’s unspeakable. I pray to the Goddess there has been some simple misunderstanding.”

“I cannot ask you to intervene.”

“Would you work for him now, if you were given the chance? If only until you could make other plans? I’m not convinced the precinct will be what you need.”

Rekhart hesitated. “Goddess knows, I dislike going hungry. See, even my pride has left me. I would swallow all my principles to see a square meal on the table again, after only a matter of days.”

“It need not be for ever. Only until you find something better.”

Drew watched Rekhart’s expression harden as he warred with himself again, and lost.

“Do you think you can persuade him?”

“I can’t promise anything. But you have my word I will try, my friend.”

Rekhart nodded and got to his feet. “Have a care for your own wellbeing. I will not think the less of you if you change your mind.”

Drew watched Rekhart walk away. He’d found the courage to act on his doubts, and Jervin had broken him. Could he really be telling the truth? Drew couldn’t believe Jervin would treat one of his own so harshly. He refused to believe it.

Peveril set the necklace on the table in his room and sat down, staring at it. It was a fine piece of work. For all he’d told the apprentice it couldn’t be repaired, he had no doubt it could – by the right craftsman. But with the way old Marwick had been sniffing around lately he couldn’t risk taking it to anyone in Highkell. And no one in the south, either, if his guess as to the origins of the necklace was right. That left east – Brigholm, or beyond. There were plenty of dealers there who’d give him a good price for it and ask no questions.

The real question was, would they give him more than Vasic might pay for the tale he’d overheard? He took a swig from the wine bottle at his elbow. It set his teeth on edge, but he could afford nothing better. And he suspected Vasic’s generosity would do little to improve that situation. No, if he told the king his bride-to-be had been rescued from the rubble he doubted Vasic’s generosity would even be expressed in anything as tangible as money. A promotion, perhaps. Most likely in the form of a succession of taxing duties that would prove far more onerous than his present work. And would Vasic welcome the news anyway? He’d more likely be relieved to learn for certain that his erstwhile bride-to-be was dead. And the more Peveril thought about it, the more he suspected Vasic was likely to pay generously the man who could make sure of Alwenna’s death. Now there were possibilities. But discovering she lived was one thing; scouring the country to find her was quite another matter. He’d recognise her again, for sure, but he couldn’t hope to have the good luck of stumbling upon her during a routine patrol. She’d be far from Highkell anyway, if she had any sense.

No, Vasic would not be overjoyed to learn she may have lived. Peveril prided himself on understanding human nature. It would be a waste to offer the entire necklace to him: the single leaf would suffice to support Peveril’s tale. The king need never learn about the rest of the necklace, unless his reaction was unexpectedly favourable.

Was there anyone who might pay him more generously for his information? Vasic had enemies – would they be able to make better use of the secret? There were all sorts of rumours flying about the city already. The Goddess had handed him a rare opportunity with this necklace: he must turn it to a profit on his own account somehow. Peveril scooped the necklace up and folded it away, tucking it inside the leather pouch which he slung around his neck. Truth was, he was slowing down. If a gift like this had come his way a year or two ago he’d not have hesitated the way he was now. But he’d learned caution. This was too big a matter to risk his hand being detected. Art Peveril was on the up, and he wouldn’t waste this chance by acting hastily.

The scribe, Birtle, was already bent over the ledgers scratching away with his pen when Peveril walked into the counting-house. He looked up as the door opened.

“Good morning.”

Peveril grunted. There was little good about it. The leather pouch nestled against his chest, taunting him for his failure to find a way to turn it to profit.

“That’s no way to greet a fellow who’s just being sociable.”

“Is that so?” Peveril turned a dead-eyed stare to Birtle, who remained unabashed.

“Not when you hear what I have to tell you.” Birtle set his pen down. “Your friend’s been asking a lot of questions about you lately.”

“Which friend would that be?” Peveril kept his voice non-committal.

“Of course, you have so many.” Was that the ghost of a smile that crossed the skinny cleric’s features? Birtle rested his hands on the desk in front of him, clasping his fingers together. “That would be the friend you usually refer to as Old Faceache.”

“Has he nowt better to do?”

“Apparently not.” The cleric fixed him with a steady gaze.

Peveril fought the urge to turn away. “Are you implying something, Birtle? It would save us both time if’n you just came right out and said it.”

“Not at all, old fellow, not at all. I just thought it fair to warn you.” Birtle unclasped his fingers and took up the quill again, dipping it in the pot of ink on his desk. “We go back a long way. Neither one of us is likely to benefit if the other were to fall foul of the authorities now.”

Peveril had no arguments on that score. “There at least we agree.”

“Be careful of Marwick. He’s under pressure from the king to deliver impossible demands. He’s looking for easier ways to keep face.”

“If he thinks taking me on would be easy, he’s a bigger fool ’n I ever thought.”

“Again, we are in complete agreement, my friend. But he has taken a great deal of interest in that business with the stonemason’s apprentice. Poor lad was found dead, face down on his own bed. Strangled, apparently.”

“Arrogant little prick likely asked for it.”

“Like as not. The honourable Lord Marwick is yet to be convinced of that, I fear.” The cleric bent over the ledgers once more.

Birtle knew too much. Far too much. But he was one of Peveril’s more useful connections and he wasn’t about to cut off his nose to spite his face. Marwick, on the other hand, was rapidly becoming a thorn in his side. Something might have to be done about that.

Durstan watched from the gallery above as the soldier now known as Pius applied the last of the day’s nine strokes to the priestess’s back. The soldier applied the whip mechanically, without any apparent force, but the girl flinched a little more with every stroke. There was a time Durstan would have ordered the soldier to apply the whip harder. He liked to think he’d learned compassion in recent years.

This was the ninth of the nine days. Durstan found himself clenching his fist about the holy sceptre he held before him. He could not speak out now – he had set the punishment, and he must be seen to be unyielding. At the seventh stroke, a tremor ran through the girl’s slender frame and fresh blood sprang to the surface where her back had been repeatedly crossed by the lash. His orders had done this.

At the eighth, she shuddered and her head sunk lower, but still she bore the punishment in silence. Few men had displayed her courage in the face of such an ordeal. At the ninth her knees gave way and she sagged where she stood, arms bound above her head else she’d have dropped to the floor.

The soldier took a single step back, impassive, coiling up the whip. He stood to attention as if the girl didn’t exist at all. That was one of Durstan’s doubts laid to rest, at least: he’d never quite believed they’d succeeded in bending the soldier to their will, but the man he’d once been would not have carried out those orders in so bloodless a fashion. If only he could allay his other doubts as easily…

Now it was for Durstan to bless the girl, and beseech the Goddess’s forgiveness for her failure to carry the dead king’s child to term. He raised his head, stretching his neck and clenching and unclenching his hands about the sceptre. May the Goddess give him strength to speak the words without stumbling over them. He proceeded to the narrow stairs, making his way down with all the dignity he could muster. Not an easy task with the way his lame leg was paining him in recent days. The girl was in no state to notice if his progress towards her was uneven, but… As one ordained in the service of the Goddess he must maintain his dignity.

Priests stood either side of the altar chamber, rigid and tense, awaiting Durstan’s orders. Did they dare disapprove of the girl’s punishment? If either of them thought it overly harsh, they did not betray it by so much as a look. The prelate nodded to Curwen.

“Release her hands.”

At the sound of his voice she opened her eyes. There was no mistaking the pride in their startlingly pale depths. It had to be pride, for once her hands were freed there wasn’t an ounce of defiance in her slight frame – she crumpled to the floor as her legs gave way beneath her.

Durstan raised his sceptre. “The Goddess has witnessed your devotion to her these nine days. May her blessing be upon you this day and every day henceforth.”

The girl pressed her eyes shut again then pulled herself upright, holding the front of her backless shift to her chin. She rose unsteadily to a standing position, tremors running through her. She opened her eyes once more, meeting Durstan’s gaze fully for the first time, as if she were his equal. Her effrontery was… magnificent.

“Do you accept the will of the Goddess?”

“In all things, your holiness.” Her voice was unsteady, but the words were intelligible.

“Do you accept the law of the Goddess?”

“In all things, your holiness.”

“And will you be obedient to the Goddess?”

“In all ways I will be her humble servant, your holiness.” She met his gaze with fierce pride a moment longer before lowering her eyes with due deference. “I stand ready to do her bidding.”

Only the rapid rise and fall of her chest spoke of the ordeal she had just undergone. Durstan turned his attention to Curwen. “Take her to the infirmary and see her wounds are tended. She will serve the Goddess as none other has before.”

Curwen frowned. “Your holiness, I don’t understand.”

“The girl has done her penance and now the Goddess has work for her. See she receives the best healing care.”

“Yes, your holiness.” He gingerly reached out one hand to support her by the elbow.

Durstan nodded his head to the other priest. “You there, assist brother Curwen.”

The priest hastened to do his bidding, leaving Durstan and the soldier alone before the altar. The soldier’s expression remained utterly vacant.

“You, there. Pius. Hand me that whip.”

The soldier turned blank eyes to Durstan. After a moment he held out the hand holding the whip. Durstan took it from him, and the soldier lowered his hand again.

“Return to your normal duties.”

The soldier blinked, hesitated, then turned and made his way out of the chamber. Once in motion he moved steadily enough, as if he understood the instruction. He would do. He would have to: right now he was the best they had.

Durstan waited until he was alone in the room before examining the whip. He ran a finger over the coiled lash; it came away reddened with blood. Her blood. Given so that she might appease the Goddess for her failure.