King Breaker (29 page)

‘The tide to turn.’ Garzik lowered the farseer and returned it to Rusan.

Olbin pointed. ‘They’re raising sail.’

Rusan nodded, his eyes alight. ‘This is it. We follow them in and trust to our disguises.’

They flew the stolen Merofynian flag, and both Rusan and Olbin had allowed Garzik to shave them so that they looked more like hot-landers. With their lower faces revealed, Garzik saw the resemblance between the two half-brothers.

He’d also tamed their waist-length hair by tying each ponytail at the nape of the neck, then winding the tie down the length of the ponytail to form a respectable sailor’s queue. They’d both received their share of teasing due to their bare chins, but they’d taken the mockery with good grace.

Since Rusan played the merchant ship’s captain, he wore the fancy velvet coat he’d claimed back when the Utlanders had first taken the vessel. They hadn’t been able to find a Merofynian shirt large enough to cover Olbin’s broad back, so he wore only breeches and went barefoot, but this was common enough for sailors. Several beardless youths had bound their hair and offered to crew the ship. The rest of the Utlanders hid below deck.

On Olbin’s order, the youths raised the sails. Garzik watched the canvases unfold like concertinas. Each sail could be raised or lowered by hauling on a single rope without fear of fouling.

The canvas snapped and bellied out as the sails caught the wind, and Garzik felt the ship respond as if eager for the adventure. Now that his plan was unfolding, he felt nervous. He hoped he’d thought of everything. He didn’t want to let Rusan and Olbin down.

What was he thinking? He was going to abandon them before dawn tomorrow.

They sailed past Cyena Abbey on the outer headland. It was built of white stone, glistening like snow in the sunshine. Garzik found it strange to associate a goddess with winter. Everything in Merofynia was back to front. Instead of a benevolent goddess of summer, they worshipped Mulcibar, god of war. And instead of the cruel winter god, Sylion, they worshipped Cyena—pure and perfect, yet able to kill without compunction.

Once the ship entered the passage, the headlands blocked the wind, but even though the sails hung slack, they made good headway, carried by the incoming tide. The quiet of the passage felt strange after the constant sound of the wind and waves.

‘We’ll need to time our escape so the tide is with us,’ Rusan said.

‘Let’s hope the dawn breeze is good, then,’ Olbin muttered. ‘Or we won’t make it across the bay to the headlands.’

The steep cliffs of the headlands drove them towards the choke point, where a stream of lava oozed down the inner headland’s tip—Mulcibar’s Gate.

Olbin fingered the hilt of his short sword, and Luvrenc drew closer. He glanced uneasily to Garzik.

Where the molten rock met the sea it sent up great billows of hissing steam. Olbin shook his head. ‘I’d heard Merofynians boast of Mulcibar’s Gate, but...’

‘It’s not dangerous,’ Garzik said.

Rusan sent him a dry look. ‘It’s a river of molten rock.’

‘A slow-moving river,’ Garzik said, but he had to admit, it was impressive. ‘They call the steam Mulcibar’s Breath.’

‘Lower everything but the foresail,’ Rusan said. Olbin shouted instructions, and they gave Mulcibar’s Gate a wide berth.

Once they’d made it past the inner headland, the broad bay opened before them, with its many inlets and fishing villages. In the distance, Garzik could see the tip of Mount Mero, still coated with snow. Around its base lay the prosperous port.

Once they were beyond the protection of the headlands, the wind picked up. Olbin looked to Rusan.

‘Just raise the mainsail,’ the captain said. ‘We don’t want to approach the port before dusk.’

Not far ahead of them, the merchants and their escort of sea-hounds made their way across the bay to port.

‘We’ll follow them in. They’ll know the channels.’ Rusan caught Garzik’s eye. ‘But I still want you in the crow’s nest, watching out for sand bars.’

Garzik nodded and ran down to the middeck to climb the mainmast.

As they drew near the port they could see that the wharves were busy. Merchant ships sat at anchor waiting their turn to unload. Scattered amidst them were narrow-hulled sea-hound vessels, built for speed.

With the Merofynian flag flying above, Garzik felt a savage satisfaction. Last time he’d come here, he’d been a seven-year slave. Now, he was leading a raid to strike a blow for Byren, however small.

Utlanders had not ventured into Mero Bay for a hundred years, and the Merofynians had grown arrogant. An attack on their very doorstep would strike deep. He grinned with grim satisfaction.

Rusan called to Olbin to lower the sail. The ship glided until it lost momentum, and they dropped anchor. By rights they should send a rowboat across to the wharves to report to the harbour-master, but it was late and it would not be unusual for them to wait until tomorrow.

By dawn they’d be gone.

Right now they had to pick their prey. They needed an isolated vessel waiting to unload. Garzik wanted it to be Merofynian, with a cargo of stolen Rolencian goods, but the Utlanders would not care, as long as they could fill their hold.

As the sun bronzed the bay and their vessel swayed on the gentle swells, Garzik studied the nearest ships, settling on a three-masted merchant ship. It flew the Merofynian flag and he’d seen two rowboats make for shore, leaving only a skeleton crew. Decision made, he climbed down to report to Rusan.

At long last, he felt hopeful. By tomorrow morning, he would be ashore with Trafyn, and within a couple of days he would be on his way back to Rolencia with news for Byren.

No longer would he be the barely-tolerated little brother, running along behind Byren and Orrade. He would earn his place at Byren’s side. He’d be the king’s man.

F
LORIN HATED FEASTS.
It would have been good if she could have distracted herself, but Cobalt’s manservant never spoke. She had a terrible urge to ask him about coraxes. How did they train? How many ways could he kill a man? Would he kill on order, or did he refuse to carry out a mission if he did not believe the person deserved death? She’d heard the rumours, and now she wanted to know the truth.

But asking would probably get her killed.

Florin clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead.

Down near the end of the tables, she noticed a servant who looked vaguely familiar and was behaving somewhat oddly.

Rather than attending to the feasters, he was ignoring them as he wove through the tables and columns. Reaching the dais, he slipped around behind it, mounted the three steps and looked towards the royal couple.

Despite the clipped moustache and servant’s cap, Florin recognised Winterfall.

Her servant’s cap and male tabard only fooled him for a moment. His eyes widened as he realised who she was, then narrowed as one corner of his mouth lifted in contempt.

Florin’s first instinct was to protest that she had not changed allegiance, but warning Winterfall about the corax was more important. She tried desperately to catch his eye as he approached the royal couple.

He deliberately ignored her as he came up to stand on Cobalt’s right, then leant forward between the usurper and the abbot to pour more wine. With a sleight of hand worthy of a juggler, he pulled a hidden knife and went to drive it through Cobalt’s chest.

A savage surge of joy filled Florin.

But the corax was already moving. Amil shoved the would-be assassin face down onto the table amidst the wine, pastries and candles.

Varuska shrieked, tripping in her haste to get out of her chair. Florin steadied her.

Cobalt’s chair crashed to the floor as he sprang to his feet. The minstrel ground to a halt and conversation faltered.

The clatter of a pewter plate rolling to a standstill filled the silence as a hush fell over the great hall. Amil stood over Winterfall, pinning him. No one moved.

‘Assassin...’ the sibilant whisper spread.

‘Let me see this assassin before he dies,’ Cobalt ordered, his voice hard with anger.

Florin wanted to go to Winterfall’s aid, but what could she do? She was unarmed, and the hall was packed with Cobalt’s supporters and men-at-arms. Besides, she could not abandon Varuska.

Amil pulled Winterfall to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. ‘Winterfall!’ Cobalt said.

‘Yes, from Byren’s honour guard. King Byren lives!’ Winterfall’s voice gained strength. ‘You sent him to Merofynia to be executed, but he killed Palatyne and claimed the Merofynian throne. He’s on his way back here to—’

His words ended on a gurgle as Cobalt drove a knife up under his ribs.

But it was too late; everyone had heard and the whispers spread, sounding like rain drumming on the roof, growing steadily stronger.

‘Byren lives? Byren lives!
’

Florin’s head spun. Varuska steadied her.

Blinking, Florin focused in time to see Amil pass the dying Winterfall to the men-at-arms who had reached the dais too late to help their lord.

‘Hold him,’ Amil ordered, before going through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing. Cobalt’s mouth twisted in a grimace of annoyance.

Meanwhile the chatter grew. The leader of the Merofynians came to his feet, with his men at his side.

Cobalt gestured to his men-at-arms. ‘Get the assassin out of here. I want his head on a spike over Rolenton’s gate.’

Amil stepped closer to Cobalt, speaking Ostronite to hide his meaning from the Rolencian men-at-arms, but Florin had grown up in a tradepost and knew enough of the foreign tongue to get by. ‘You could lose everything. You’ve bought some of the Rolencians’ loyalty by recognising their claims to dead relatives’ titles, and most of the merchants are with you, but the people will turn on you the moment the Merofynian captains sail home with their men.’

The abbot must have understood as well. He groaned. ‘We’re doomed...’

‘Nonsense, Abbot Firefox,’ Cobalt snapped. He gestured to Amil. ‘Go, see what you can learn.’

As the Ostronite manservant slipped away, Cobalt turned to the feasters, who fell silent. He gestured to the body being carried away. ‘Byren the Usurper is a coward. He sent one of his men to assassinate me at my own table, in my own hall.’

Only Florin seemed to notice the contradiction. This was Byren’s hall and Cobalt was the usurper.

‘Captain Bevenwal, come here.’ Cobalt beckoned to the most senior of the Merofynian captains.

Bevenwal stepped forward with half a dozen men at his back. Cobalt went around the high table to the front of the dais and drew his sword.

According to the castle-keep, Cobalt had been a brilliant swordsman; and since losing his right arm, he’d trained left-handed every day. He raised his blade with practised ease.

‘You have proven loyal and brave, Captain Bevenwal,’ Cobalt said. ‘It is time I rewarded you and your fellow captains. Kneel.’

The feasters whispered in surprise.

Bevenwal sank to one knee before Cobalt.

‘I award you Dovecote Estate, confiscated from the treasonous Orrade of Dovecote.’ Cobalt touched the sword tip to each shoulder. ‘Arise, Lord Bevenwal of Dovecote.’

Bevenwal’s men cheered, as well they should. Dovecote Estate was one of the richest in Rolencia, and their newly ennobled leader would reward them well.

Meanwhile, the Rolencian nobles muttered disgustedly.

‘Send for your captains, Bevenwal. I have four lesser estates put aside for them,’ Cobalt said. ‘We’ll hold a great feast to celebrate.’

Reluctant admiration stirred in Florin. The Merofynians would never go home, not if they had estates here.

Cobalt sheathed his sword, then gestured to the minstrel. ‘Keep playing.’

As he made his way back to his chair, the music resumed and the feasters broke into excited chatter.

The abbot accosted Cobalt. ‘What will we do if Byren comes to claim—’

‘His mother had Affinity, which annuls her marriage to King Rolen and that makes us both bastards. My claim is better than his as I’m the eldest son of the eldest son. What’s more...’—Cobalt’s voice grew loaded—‘if you check your law books, Firefox, I think you will find that King Rolen issued a decree disinheriting anyone born of an Affinity-afflicted parent.’

The abbot’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’m sure I’ll find that decree.’

‘Excellent.’ Cobalt turned towards Florin and Varuska. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Piro. Do not fear, I won’t hold your brother’s treason against you. Come, sit down and finish your meal.’

Florin was amazed by Cobalt’s ability to think on his feet, twisting everything to his benefit, yet a fierce flame of hope burned within her. Byren lived.

Chapter Twenty-Three

G
ARZIK FINGERED HIS
knife hilt, remembering his trepidation the night Byren had sent him to light the warning beacon. He’d been afraid he would flinch when it came to the fighting.

No such fear worried him now.

Since it was his plan, Rusan had given him the honour of leading the boarding party, much to Vesnibor’s disgust. The broken-nosed warrior had made it clear he was only coming along because he did not trust Garzik. There were eight of them in the rowboat, all clean-jawed youths dressed as Merofynian sailors, all eager to win fame.

Tonight, patchy cloud partially obscured the stars. The boat glided like a shadow on the sea towards the dark bulk of the merchant ship. A single lantern hung on the reardeck and another on the prow. The windows of the captain’s cabin glowed, but that was the only sign of habitation.

The cabin jutted out over the stern and the Utlanders shipped oars as they eased into position. If someone opened one of those windows and looked down, they would see a rowboat full of sailors. They might wonder why the boat was passing so close on its way to shore, but there was no reason for them to be suspicious, not when the merchant ship was moored in its home port.

Garzik came to a crouch and swung the grappling hook. He let it go, heard a soft
thunk
, then pulled on the rope to make sure it was secure. He waited, mouth dry, but no one came to investigate. He scrambled nimbly up the rope.