King Breaker (35 page)

In the last three days, they’d had two meetings, one with the leaders of the craft guilds and another with the lake captains. In both cases, Byren had asked them to spread word that he was alive. The guild-masters had a network of members throughout Rolencia’s prosperous towns, and the lake captains sailed the five great lakes, linked by rivers and canals. Any news they picked up in Port Marchand could reach the most distant lake village on the far side of Rolencia within fifteen days.

Byren paced. Thanks to the lake captains, the people of Rolencia would soon know he’d turned the tables on Palatyne and claimed Merofynia.

How Florin would smile... He must not think of her. She was never going to be his, and right now she was on the far side of the divide, safe in Warlord Feid’s stronghold, along with the survivors of Narrowneck. Feid would have to be compensated for housing and feeding Byren’s men. Before too long, he would need to get word to them. Feid’s wife was the mage’s agent and had a pair of pica birds. That reminded him. ‘Didn’t the mage have an agent in Rolenton?’

‘The hat maker.’ Orrade frowned. ‘Salvatrix.’ He took a thin volume from the corax’s desk. ‘I didn’t know you’d read Merulo’s treatise on power and leadership.’

‘I hadn’t. I spotted the corax’s copy. When he was questioning me I guessed he was quoting Merulo’s theories.’

Orrade grinned, thin face creasing. Then the smile left his eyes. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, that merchant was right. Thanks to Palatyne, a great many men of fighting age have been killed, crippled or—’

Shouts reached them from the street.

‘Probably just some molly-boys fighting over a street corner,’ Byren said. All the same, he strapped on his sword and hunting knife.

Orrade did the same.

The commotion began to move away, and Byren gave Orrade a relieved grin.

A heartbeat later, feet pounded up the steps and the corax threw the door open. ‘One of my spies betrayed me. Grab your things. Cobalt’s knows you’re here. He’s moved the wedding forward. He marries your sister in four days, on Narrowneck!’

Byren cursed. No time to gather an army, no time to do anything but save his sister. He reached for his cloak.

‘Take this.’ The corax thrust bread, cheese and a wine skin into a sack and shoved it into Orrade’s hands, then ran to a chest, tipping its contents onto the floor. Several bags clinked. ‘Here.’ He sprang to his feet, tossing a bag each to Orrade and Byren. Then he gestured to the screen at the far end of the attic. ‘We’ll have to go that way, over the roofs.’

Byren tucked the coins inside his jerkin. ‘I’m sorry we exposed you.’

The corax laughed. ‘I’ve missed this.’ He grabbed a cloak and his sword, then hesitated at his desk, looking at the books. ‘Pity—’

‘Come on!’ Byren turned towards the attic window.

A thump on the landing made them all freeze. Another softer thump followed.

The door flew open and slammed against the wall. Two lightly clad men stepped inside. One was old, the other young, but both moved with lethal purpose.

Byren’s mouth went dry. ‘Coraxes...’

‘You made it easy, Vilderavn.’ The grey-haired man spoke Ostronite. His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained cold.

Their corax took a step back, drew his sword and tossed the sheath aside.

‘I told them you weren’t dead.’ The grey-haired corax drew his weapons. He moved to the right, his companion to the left. ‘I told them you were a coward, who ran from—’

‘I’m no coward,’ Vilderavn said.

The older corax gestured to Byren. ‘Why die for a thick-skulled Rolencian royal?’

‘At least I choose who I die for. Who do you serve?’

‘House Nictocorax,’ the younger assassin said with pride. ‘Our Lady Death.’

‘But who does
she
serve?’ Vilderavn countered.

‘Don’t listen to him, Hraefe,’ the grey-haired corax ordered. ‘I’ll deal with him. Incapacitate the usurper, then kill his lover.’

Vilderavn did not take his eyes off the two coraxes. ‘Go now.’

‘But—’ Orrade began.

‘We can take them,’ Byren said.

‘This man was my mentor,’ Vilderavn said, holding the older man’s gaze. ‘Get out while you still can.’

Before Orrade or Byren could argue, the assassins attacked.

The young corax went for Orrade. Byren darted between them, caught Hraefe’s strike on his blade and deflected the blow.

The older corax leapt for Vilderavn. Their blades sang as they sliced the air. Hraefe turned his wrist, trapped Byren’s blade, twisted and disarmed him so effectively his hand went numb. Instead of closing in for the kill, the young corax kicked Byren’s knee and turned on Orrade.

Byren went down, falling hard. He had to roll aside as Vilderavn and the older corax surged past him, their blades flying in a flurry of blows.

Outside, someone yelled. ‘This way. I hear sword fighting!’

Byren could see that Hraefe was every bit as skilled as Orrade, who was the best swordsman of their generation. His friend backed away, defending without counter attacking as he weighed up his opponent. He would not be lured into a strike that left him open.

Byren sprang to his feet, staggering as his left knee gave way. Furious, he drew his knife and threw it. The angle was bad, but it was enough to distract the young corax. Orrade cut him down.

Fight dirty, fight to win,
Captain Temor’s words came back to him.

Sudden silence made Byren’s ears ring. He spun to see Vilderavn near the table. He stood over the older corax, his blade through the man’s chest. Byren heard shouting and the thunder of boots on the steps.

Vilderavn withdrew the blade and saluted his old teacher.

The landing filled with Merofynian men-at-arms.

Vilderavn stepped forward to meet them, calling over his shoulder, ‘Go!’

With a ragged shout, the men-at-arms charged.

Eyes hard and glittering, Orrade grabbed Byren and pulled him towards the window.

Behind him, Byren heard a cry of pain, smashing crockery and angry shouts. Ahead of him, Orrade shoved the screen aside and flung the window open.

He took Byren’s shoulder and shoved. ‘You first.’

With one foot on the sill, Byren levered his weight up and onto the roof. Orrade followed. Byren reached down to help him. Someone made a grab for Orrade, but he kicked the man in the face and the Merofynian retreated, cursing.

The moss covered slates were slippery as a wet mountain slope. They ran across the steep incline, making for the building at the far end. Byren lurched with every second step. Two Merofynians followed.

As the gap to the next roof opened up before them, Byren swore under his breath. They couldn’t go back. Orrade did not hesitate.

He jumped, landed lightly and beckoned. ‘I’ll catch you.’

Byren had no choice. His bad knee went out from under him as he landed.

Orrade steadied him as several slates came loose and skittered off the roof to fall into the alley below.

‘Come on.’ Orrade took off.

Grimacing with annoyance and pain, Byren scrambled after him, up the slope and over the apex of the roof. Thank Halcyon there was an easy jump to the next roof.

But instead of making the jump, Orrade pulled him sideways along the roof, until they were hidden behind a dormer window.

Byren stretched out on the steep incline, taking the weight off his bad leg. Orrade grabbed a roof slate and threw it at an adjacent rooftop. The clattering sound lured the Merofynians onto the other roof.

As soon as the last pursuer disappeared, Orrade forced open the dormer window and helped Byren into the attic. It was littered with ragged blankets and rubbish, and the wattle and daub walls were exposed in places.

‘Can you walk?’ Orrade asked.

‘I can limp.’

‘Then we’ll have to dress as beggars to escape.’

Orrade draped them in rags and soon they looked sufficiently disreputable to blend in.

Byren was glad of Orrade’s shoulder as they navigated the narrow steps. On the next floor he heard a baby crying listlessly and women arguing. On the ground floor, he caught glimpses of couples in darkened alcoves. No one stopped Byren and Orrade as they passed down the passage and out into the street.

The lane was narrow and fetid, and there seemed to be shouting from every direction as the Merofynians searched for them.

‘Lucky for us I know my way around,’ Orrade muttered, and they set off.

Byren winced with each step as Orrade led them through back lanes and beer gardens to the nearest square. Seeing the stretch of open ground, Byren hesitated.

‘We need to get across to the lakeside docks before the Merofynians can close the wharfs,’ Orrade whispered. ‘This is the quickest way.’

Byren nodded.

Head down, he leaned on Orrade’s shoulder and watched the cobles under their feet. They were halfway across the square when someone shouted at them. ‘You two! The crippled beggar and his friend, stop. Stop, I say!’

Orrade reached under his ragged costume.

‘Don’t even think about fighting,’ Byren muttered. ‘Leave me.’

Orrade pulled out the corax’s bag of coins and tugged the draw-string open with his teeth. ‘Pity we have to waste gold, when coppers would’ve served as well.’ He raised his voice. ‘King Byren’s blessing.’ And tossed coins left and right. ‘King Byren’s blessing on his people!’

Like flies on a corpse, beggars, ragged children, desperate women of the night and eager molly-boys clustered around them. As the port’s poor fought over the coins and the Merofynians fought to push through them, Byren and Orrade took off, Byren lurching badly with every second step. Tomorrow, he would not be able to use his leg. But if he didn’t push himself now, there would be no tomorrow.

They had to get to the lakeside wharves and find passage on a ship going to Rolenton. And it had to be a fast one, if they wanted to save Piro from her own foolishness.

A little later, Byren hid in an alley out the back of a lakeside tavern, while Orrade went to negotiate passage to Rolenton. Three drunken sailors sprawled in the rubbish nearby, sleeping off a night’s overindulgence. From the smell, Byren suspected one of them had been there for several days and would not be waking.

At the far end of the alley, respectable folk walked by with their faces averted. This would never have happened when his father was still king. When he was king, he’d have to make sure—

Half a dozen Merofynian men-at-arms strode past, hands on sword hilts. Byren slunk lower and pretended to snore.

A mangy dog came down the lane, investigated each of the drunks, licked up something which could have been vomit, then sniffed Byren. It went past him and lifted its leg to pee on the dead man before trotting off. Byren was grateful for small mercies. Between the stench of the alley and the ale Orrade had sprinkled on his disguise, he felt ill. It didn’t help that his knee throbbed with each beat of his heart.

He tried to flex his left leg, only to discover it had seized up entirely. He was helpless. Equal parts frustration and terror surged through him. If he couldn’t run or fight, what use was he?

Orrade darted into the alley, picking his way through the snoring drunks. He carried a bundle of white material and was speaking even before he reached Byren, who struggled to haul himself upright.

‘...a lake captain will give us passage. He gave me this.’ Orrade unrolled the fabric with a flick of his wrist. ‘Get rid of the rags.’

‘What—’ Byren began, then he realised what it was. ‘A fever cloak? Has the blackspot come back?’

‘Yes. And, with the over-crowding in port and the filth that’s piling up, it’ll spread.’ Orrade kicked the rags aside, then draped the hooded cloak over Byren’s shoulders. ‘Now, show me your hands.’

Byren complied, palms up. Orrade turned his hands over, dipped into a jar and dabbed an oily black substance on Byren’s skin, producing a scattering of uneven black spots.

Byren lifted his hand to sniff the paint. ‘Eh, what is it?’

‘An old mummer’s trick. Charcoal and oil. Hold still.’ Orrade added more spots to his face and neck. He produced another jar. ‘Now your hair.’

Orrade rubbed ash through Byren’s black hair. ‘Now you are my elderly uncle, who’s sick with the blackspot fever. No one will stop us.’ He pulled the hood up so that it mostly covered Byren’s face. ‘Don’t forget to moan and stagger.’

‘Oh, I’ll be moaning and staggering all right. I can barely stand.’

Orrade grinned and offered his shoulder. ‘Come on, Uncle, not far now.’

Their passage out onto the street and down the steps to the dock was painfully slow. Byren heard Merofynian voices ordering people about, but no one tried to stop them.

He struggled along the wharf and up the gangplank. The moment they stepped onto the deck, the boat cast off. As he and Orrade made their slow way to the cabin, the sailors gave them sharp looks, but did not venture close.

In the cabin, Byren dropped into a chair with relief, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. He gestured to the table, laden with food. ‘We’re being well looked after.’

‘I should think so, Uncle.’ Orrade pitched his voice to carry. ‘I had to pay double for them to transport a fever patient. I hope you’ll remember this next time I gamble away my allowance.’

Orrade closed the door and stood still for a moment, concentrating on the motion of the ship. ‘Good, she’s making decent headway. The sooner we’re out on the lake, the better.’

He dropped to crouch beside Byren. ‘Now show me your knee.’

‘I don’t think anything is broken.’ But he couldn’t bend his knee to take off his boot. Orrade had to help him.

As he rolled up Byren’s trouser leg, Orrade whistled softly and Byren’s heart sank.

‘I shouldn’t have run on it.’

‘You had no choice.’

‘I was hoping the voyage would give it time to mend, but...’

‘I’ve bribed the captain to take us straight to Rolenton. If the winds are good, it’ll only take two days.’ Orrade looked up at Byren. ‘You’ll need the full use of your leg when—’

‘I know.’ Frustration ate at him.

Orrade rubbed his jaw then seemed to come to a decision. ‘You healed me.’ He touched his chest, where the scars of the Wyvern attack had faded to pale silver threads. ‘You could heal yourself if you drew on my Affinity.’