King Breaker (13 page)

One thing was certain, the longer he stayed with the Utlanders, the more his eyes would change, until he was marked forever. Then, even if he did make his way back home, he would never be truly accepted.

He had to escape, and the sooner the better.

Stepping out onto the middeck, he heard angry raised voices from the high reardeck. As he climbed the steps, he saw that Jost and his two half-brothers were going up against Rusan and Olbin, posturing and shouting insults while the crew looked on.

Jost had gathered the disgruntled crew members to his cause. Instead of rich pickings, they’d lost two men, and three more had been injured in the evening’s attack. Seeing Garzik, Vesnibor smirked.

‘We’ve gone days without a prize!’ Jost barked. ‘A blind nennir could do better.’

The Utlanders waited for their captain to respond.

Garzik glanced to Rusan. Captaincy of an Utland ship was much like being a spar warlord. The spar warriors chose the strongest leader from amongst the old warlord’s extended family, then swore to follow him—or, more rarely, her. If the warlord did not lead them well, they elected another.

‘You’ve had your chance.’ Jost thumped his chest. ‘I—’

‘Wait.’ The last thing Garzik wanted was Jost and his supporters taking over the ship. Rusan needed a success. ‘There’s still gold to be had.’

The raiders stared at him.

‘Trafyn’s father is a rich noble. He’ll pay well for his son’s safe return. If Trafyn lives long enough to reach Merofynia, you’ll have all the gold you want.’

Jost spat. ‘We can’t eat gold.’

‘Then take your payment in supplies.’

‘That’s all very well,’ Rusan said. ‘But we can’t drop anchor in Port Mero and ask for a meeting with the brat’s father. A thousand hot-land warriors would swarm our ship while we waited to negotiate.’

The raiders laughed.

Garzik hadn’t thought it through. While the Utlanders could sail the captured Merofynian ship into port unchallenged, the moment they identified themselves they’d be surrounded and executed. What’s more, Port Mero would be packed with the sea-hound ships that had escorted merchant vessels laden with Rolencian war booty—

Of course.

‘If you went in quick, and struck hard and fast, you could claim some of the riches stolen from Rolencia—red wine for you, grains and smoked meat to fill your children’s bellies, warm wool and velvets for your women. This is a merchant ship. You could dress like Merofynian sailors, shave off your beards and plait your hair. By the time the enemy was close enough to see the Utland cast to your eyes, it would be too late. You would be in and out before they knew what hit them—’

‘I’m no fool. The hot-lander is trying to lead us to our deaths,’ Jost said, and his supporters muttered in agreement. ‘We’d be surrounded and attacked.’

‘Not if you go in flying the Merofynian flag, wait until dark, then board a ship and deal with the crew quietly. Last time I was there, the wharves were so packed, ships were transferring stores at anchor. No one would be suspicious.’ Garzik looked around, trying to gauge the reaction of the crew. ‘You might even be able to capture another ship.’
And get rid of Jost and his troublemakers.

Even better, they’d strike a blow against Merofynia; and, in some small way, Garzik would be helping Byren.

‘Imagine sailing right into Port Mero and tweaking the hot-landers’ noses!’ Olbin grinned, a wicked light in his eyes.

The thought appealed to them, and every one had something to say. Eventually, Rusan held up his hands for silence. ‘We disguise ourselves and slip into port, wait for dark, sidle up to a ship and transfer the stores. Then anyone who wants to leave can sail with Jost.’

‘On a ship you’ve already plundered? Why should I take your leavings?’ Jost objected. He gestured to the captain and his half-brother. ‘How can you follow them into Port Mero after they lost the oracles? They’re cursed.’

‘You were off hunting manticores when Vultar kidnapped the oracles. We fought off the renegades and burned one of Vultar’s ships. But we’ll do more. I’ll swear a blood-oath!’ Rusan drew his knife and cut his hand, turning in a circle. ‘I swear before all of you here tonight, we will restore the oracles and exact vengeance on Vultar.’

The crew cheered.

Jost stepped forward, furious. ‘We wouldn’t have to save the oracles if you hadn’t lost them in the first place.’

Rusan’s hands curled into fists. ‘What’s your problem, Jost?’

Everyone fell silent. Jost glanced around the group, weighed the odds, then looked down.

Rusan turned away.

‘I know what you do in the cabin with Wynn, hot-land lover,’ Jost muttered. ‘You—’

Rusan spun around, punching Jost so hard the one-eared warrior was lifted from his feet and stretched his length on the deck.

For a heartbeat there was utter silence; then the crew laughed and jeered. They were going to Port Mero, into the very jaws of death. The Utlands would sing of their daring for years to come!

Now that it was decided, Garzik hoped he was right and they could pass for Merofynians. Because if he wasn’t...

If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be around long to find out.

As soon as the Utlanders were distracted, he was going over the side. The water would be cold, but he was a strong swimmer and he spoke Merofynian like a noble, thanks to Byren’s mother. He was going to deliver Trafyn to Lord Travany, where the scribe would have news of the Merofynians’ plans. That way, Garzik wouldn’t go back to Byren empty-handed. But for his plan to work, Trafyn had to recover.

Garzik sought out Olbin and led him into the captain’s cabin. The squire had thrown off his covers and was muttering under his breath.

‘He’s sick,’ Garzik said. ‘Really sick.’

Olbin touched Trafyn’s forehead. ‘Weak hot-landers.’ He left without another word.

Garzik sat hugging his knees beside Trafyn, not sure if the big Utlander was coming back. After a while, Olbin returned with a vile-smelling liquid, which he forced down the squire’s throat.

‘It’ll help?’ Garzik asked.

‘That, or kill him.’ Olbin grinned. ‘Come on.’

‘I must look after him.’

‘Why? He hates you.’

Garzik shrugged. ‘I must help him because he needs it.’

Olbin shook his head. ‘Are all hot-landers like you, brave but foolish?’

Garzik didn’t know what to say.

The big Utlander laughed and left him.

Garzik built up the brazier and put out the lamp. He placed a sack of watered wine beside Trafyn and prepared to sit up with him. After a while, the Utland drink sent the squire into a deep, troubled sleep.

In three, maybe four days, they’d both be free—as long as the Utlanders stuck to the plan.

But Jost and his brothers resented Rusan and Olbin. Back at the settlement, they’d been rivals over the beautiful singer, Sarijana.

Leaving Trafyn asleep, Garzik slipped out of the cabin. He found Olbin on the prow, watching the star-silvered sea.

Garzik glanced around to be sure they could not be overheard. ‘I thought Jost would jump at the chance for a ship of his own, but he hates you and Rusan because you two stole Sarijana.’

Olbin snorted. ‘She would never have settled for him and his brothers. She’d more than half promised to have us. One more successful voyage, and we could’ve...’

The brothers could have built a cottage for themselves and taken the beautiful singer for their wife. At first Garzik had found the Utlanders’ marriage customs strange, but after living with them, he understood how hard their lives were. They couldn’t feed many children, and the men often died young. If two or three brothers married a girl, all the children were considered theirs. If one brother died, the survivors reared the children.

The night Vultar attacked, all that had changed. They’d fought off the renegades, but not in time to prevent...

Garzik asked the question that had been troubling him. ‘Sarijana has joined the beardless.’ These women swore off men and vowed to die to protect the settlement. ‘What happens if she’s pregnant? What happens if the renegades planted...’—he didn’t know the Utland word for bastards—‘babies in the bellies of the women they raped?’

‘The babies will be born.’ Olbin shrugged. ‘Can’t stop that.’

‘But who will provide for them?’

‘The beardless,’ Olbin said, as if this was obvious. ‘Babies born of rape are always raised by the beardless.’ He hesitated. ‘I wasn’t there to save Sari—’

‘You did everything you could,’ Garzik told him. Just as he’d done everything he could to light the warning beacon for Byren.

‘Yet we lost the oracles.’

‘You’ll get them back. I know you will.’ But Garzik wouldn’t be around to help them do it, and that troubled him.

Chapter Ten

B
YREN BLEW ON
his numb hands and raised the farseer to search the sea again. Even dressed and dry, he was chilled to the bone. He didn’t see how Orrade could have survived immersed in the cold, cold water.

Even so, he searched the star-silvered sea, unable to give up hope.

A man came up behind Byren and cleared his throat.

Byren lowered the farseer, feeling his heart sink with it.

‘Kingsheir, no man could survive so long in the open sea.’

‘This isn’t winter.’

‘Even if it was midsummer.’

Byren knew he was right, but he couldn’t accept it. ‘We’ll search till dawn.’

For a heartbeat it seemed the captain would refuse, but he nodded and left Byren alone with his guilt.

If only he’d been quicker.

F
YN HELPED
I
SOLT
escort the weary Benetir Estate survivors from the royal barge. The starlit terraces stretched up before them to the palace. Young Rhalwyn had run on ahead, and already servants hurried down the wide steps, bringing lanterns and blankets. Despite her weariness, Isolt was in her element, organising everyone.

They were half a body-length apart when Fyn caught her eye. He was going to Lord Dunstany’s townhouse to send the message.

Isolt sent him a swift nod. No words were needed.

In that moment, he felt his world shift and he knew they were meant for each other. The
knowing
bypassed all reason. The depth and power of it stole his breath.

She tilted her head. ‘What’s wrong?’

Fyn shook his head and backed away.

Deep in thought, he went to the stables, where the stable-master found him saddling a horse. The poor man was so distraught to think he had failed in his duty that Fyn had to stand back and let stable-master finish cinching the saddle girth himself.

If King Merofyn the Despot had this effect on a grown man, how had Isolt survived his bullying? Fyn had only seen the king when he was frail in mind and body.

With a word of thanks, Fyn led the horse out into the yard, mounted up and set off. Being a sensible creature, the horse was not happy about being taken out of a warm stall and moved at a reluctant trot.

With his mount’s hooves clattering on the paving, Fyn threaded through the palace grounds, past manicured gardens, fountains and follies. He reached the main entrance and passed under the linden tree where Byren had once hung in a cage, awaiting execution.

Fyn could not betray his brother, yet the thought of Isolt married to Byren... There was no doubt his brother would treat her well. Byren knew his duty, but he didn’t love Isolt and she deserved to be loved.

She deserved to be loved the way Fyn loved her.

With a nod to the palace guards, Fyn passed through the gate and crossed the market square. It was a little after midnight. The taverns were closing and soon the bakers would start work.

Nearly two hundred years ago, King Sefon the Fourth, Fyn’s several-times great grandfather, had laid out the streets in a circular pattern, with Mulcibar’s Abbey atop Mount Mero at the centre. According to the histories, he’d based the design on a spider’s web. Wide avenues led down to the bay on the south side of the slope; on the north, the avenues led to the Landlocked Sea, and to the east, they led to the Grand Canal which King Sefon had built to connect the sea to Port Mero.

With a start, Fyn realised that he’d reached Lord Dunstany’s townhouse. Ignoring the formal entrance, he went around to the tradesman’s entrance, where the sweet scent of lemon blossom filled the small courtyard. No light burned in the kitchen. Of course, with their master away, the servants would be abed.

When he’d stayed here before, one servant had been privy to Fyn’s comings and goings, supplying costumes and props for his disguises. Only Gwalt knew Lord Dunstany was really Tyro.

Fyn dismounted, tied his horse’s reins to the lemon tree andcollected several pebbles to throw at Gwalt’s window. The stones made soft plinking noises as they hit the glass.

The servant opened the window and leaned out. ‘Who disturbs an honest man’s...’ His deceptively mild face sharpened. ‘Fyn? I’ll be right down.’

A moment later, candlelight glowed in the kitchen and the door swung open. Fyn slipped inside. ‘Spar raiders have taken Benetir Estate. The queen needs Lord Dunstany’s advice. You must send a message to the mage.’

‘It will be done.’

‘How long before the pica bird reaches him?’

‘Best flight time is half a day. Better allow a day.’

‘What about predators and storms?’

‘I’ll send two birds. One will get through.’

‘How do you reconcile serving Tyro in the guise of Lord Dunstany when, by rights, Dunstany’s true heir should inherit the title?’ Fyn flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘It’s a fair question. I’m loyal, like my father before me,’ Gwalt said. ‘Lord Dunstany despised his heir. Duncaer is a drunkard and a gambler. If he got his hands on the estate, it would be lost to the Dunistir line. When Dunstany’s last son died, my lord planned to acknowledge his bastard grandson. Dunstany had my father sign forged papers that would have legitimised Siordun. But the mage tested the lad and discovered he had Affinity. So, you see, I serve the true lord of Dunistir Estate.’ He shrugged. ‘Dunstany shared the mage’s dream of peace for the three islands. Siordun carries on his work.’