The Blood Curse (3 page)

Wise
.

“What about the crew?” Prince Tomas asked. “Local or foreign?”

“Foreign.”

“Same accent as the passengers?”

The harbormaster nodded.

Karel glanced at the prince, lifted his eyebrows slightly.
Any more questions you want to ask?

Prince Tomas shook his head.

K
AREL STRODE BACK
to the ship. The breeze from the ocean was mild, reminding him of Esfaban’s warm, gentle winds.

“You think it’s the right sloop?” Prince Tomas asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.” A fierce grin sat on the prince’s scarred face. “What now?”

Karel glanced at him. Tomas was a year older than him, a royal prince, trained from birth to command.
And yet he abides by his father’s wishes and awaits orders from me
.
Me. The son of bondservants
. But Prince Tomas didn’t seem to resent him. There was no antipathy in the prince’s manner, no hostility or bitterness, just a respect that was uncomfortably close to hero worship.
Because I killed a Fithian single-handed
.

Karel flexed his fingers. Killed a Fithian, yes, but that hadn’t been enough to save the princess.“What now?” Karel halted. His body wasn’t used to being on land; the wharf seemed to heave slightly beneath his feet. Princess Brigitta had been ashore a full day and a half. Was she even in Droznic-Drobil any more? “We try to follow their trail up that street. You and me and two of the armsmen. I’ll send armsmen to each of the town gates to question the guards. If they have town gates, or guards. And armsmen to buy mounts and supplies. I want us ready to leave by first light tomorrow.”

“You think the Fithians have left already?”

“Yes. But if they haven’t... she’s here somewhere.” Karel turned and scanned the town.
I’m coming, princess
.

K
AREL HAD TAKEN
the Lundegaardan armsmen’s measure during the weeks they’d been at sea. He’d fought with them, talked with them. He knew who were the fiercest swordsmen, the sharpest thinkers. The ten men were all superb fighters—they were King Magnas’s personal armsmen, after all—but other skills were just as important on a mission such as this. Who could be trusted to ask the right questions, to listen, to observe, to not draw attention to himself?

He assigned tasks and handed out more of King Magnas’s coins. The armsmen set about their assignments with swift efficiency, buckling on weapons, tying money pouches to their belts, heading down the gangplank and fanning out into Droznic-Drobil. They wore commoners’ garb, plain shirts and trews; their forest green uniforms were buried in their packs.

Karel looked at the armsmen left on deck. Gunvald, lean, quiet, and lethal. And brawny Ture. Of the ten armsmen, these two were closest to him in skill. Gunvald had even managed to vanquish him at wrestling once.

“You two’re coming with me and Tomas. We’ll try to find where they took her.”

A
T THE MOUTH
of the street the harbormaster had pointed to, Karel halted. “Sire, you and Gunvald take that side of the street. Ture and I’ll take this side. Don’t draw attention to yourselves. Ask a few questions, keep your eyes open. If there are Fithians here, we don’t want to alert them.”

He pulled Gunvald aside for a brief word. “Stay close to the prince. If we run into Fithians, keep him safe.”

“Yes, sir.”

Karel watched the two men go. Prince Tomas already bore the scars of an assassin’s throwing star—the red slash across his cheek, the missing right ear.
What if I get him killed?

But Tomas had begged his father to come on this mission, and the king had known the risks. Whose life was more important? Princess Brigitta’s, or Tomas’s?

Neither. Harkeld is the most important.
And after him, Brigitta, because she was the bait to catch him.

Karel took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he told Ture.

They took the left side of the street, strolling, pausing to talk with the people they passed—shopkeepers sweeping scraps into the muddy gutter, beggars crouched in alleyways, toothless old men smoking pipes on doorsteps. The town felt a long way from Osgaard. The buildings were wooden, crowded together like crooked teeth in a mouth, their upper galleries jutting over the street on stilts. Warm, thick air moved sluggishly in the street. Sweat trickled down the back of Karel’s neck.

“Sir?”

Sir. He still hadn’t got used to being called Sir, and, even less, to being called Sir by men who were older than him, and far more well-born. Both Gunvald and Ture were the sons of noblemen.
And I am the son of slaves
. But Lundegaard set less store in a man’s birth than Osgaard did. King Magnas had shaken his hand, as if they were equals.

“Gunvald’s waving at us, sir.”

Karel glanced across the street, saw the armsman beckon, saw Prince Tomas grinning fiercely. His heartbeat quickened. He threaded his way through the oxcarts and wagons, Ture at his heels.

A young girl stood with Prince Tomas and Gunvald. Karel examined her as he approached. Perhaps ten years old, perhaps twelve. Long, dirty, tangled hair. Thin, smudged face. Threadbare boy’s clothing too large for her. Bare feet. A street child. The girl’s arms were crossed over her chest, her chin boldly lifted, but her feet were braced to run.
Brash façade, but wary
.

Karel ratcheted back his urgency. He slowed to a stroll, waved Ture back with one hand—
Don’t crowd her
—made himself smile, ask casually, “What is it?”

“This is Goszia,” Prince Tomas said. He rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl stiffened slightly, as if hiding a flinch. “She saw half a dozen men carrying someone wrapped in a cloak.”

“Did you, Goszia?” Karel tried to look relaxed and non-threatening. He hunkered down so that his eyes were level with the girl’s. “When was this?”

Prince Tomas answered for her: “Yesterday morning, not long after dawn.”

“How big was the person they were carrying?”

“Bigger’n me,” the girl said.

“Did you see where they went?” Karel smiled encouragingly.

Goszia nodded, and glanced at Prince Tomas.

“The old one-handed merchant’s house,” Tomas said.

Karel blinked. “One-handed merchant?”

“Old,
scary
, one-handed merchant.” Tomas’s eyes met his for a moment. Karel understood the silent message.
Ex-Fithian. Possibly.

Karel straightened to his full height. “Can you show us where his house is, Goszia?”

The girl nodded again.

T
HEY FOLLOWED
G
OSZIA
down an alley, up a broad, busy thoroughfare, and along another alleyway, emerging into a street that ran down to the wharves. It was narrower and quieter than the one they’d started on. The girl halted. “Up there.”

Karel crouched alongside her. “Which one, Goszia?”

“That one.” Goszia pointed with her chin. Her bare feet shifted nervously. Her face was pinched, edgy, afraid. She didn’t want to be here.

“What did the men look like?”

She lifted one shoulder in a tense shrug. “Like men.”

“Old? Young?”

“Like you and him.” She jerked her head to indicate the prince.

Karel stood and drew her back to the shelter of the alleyway. “Thank you, Goszia.” He opened his money pouch and took out several coins.

Amazement flared on the girl’s face. “Silver?” She snatched the coins from his hand and ran, her bare feet slapping on the ground, her tangled hair whipping behind her.

Prince Tomas went to the mouth of the alley and leaned casually there, gazing up the street. “High fence,” he said. “Strong gate. No windows in the outer wall.”

Karel joined him. The house looked no different from its neighbors: tall wooden fence enclosing a yard, upper story of a dwelling just visible, wooden shingles on the roof. Not dilapidated, not opulent. Ordinary. The house of a retired merchant. A retired, one-handed, scary merchant.

Karel flattened his lips to his teeth in a silent hiss. Fithian house.

His heart thudded loudly, insisting on action. He wanted to storm the gate, invade the house, rescue Princess Brigitta.

A pigeon swooped down to land within the walls.

“See that?” Prince Tomas muttered. “You said they communicated somehow.”

“Yes.” Karel took the prince’s elbow and drew him back into the shadows of the alley.

“What now, sir?” Ture asked.

“Now we find out if she’s still here.”

“How?”

“Someone saw her arrive. Let’s see if we can find anyone who’s seen her leave. But discreetly. We must be
very
careful.” One misstep, one question asked of the wrong person, and they’d be dead; however good the Lundegaardan armsmen were, Fithian assassins were better.

Karel eyed Prince Tomas.
Should I send him back to the ship?
If something went disastrously wrong, if they both died today, who would lead the mission to rescue the princess?

Ture took a step towards the street. Karel caught his arm. “No. We circle round till we’re out of sight of that house. We don’t go near it again unless we absolutely have to.” Fithians would notice men loitering, staring. And if they noticed, they’d do something about it.

H
E’D EXPECTED IT
to be difficult, but it wasn’t. The second person he spoke to, a vendor selling melons, told him all he needed to know.

Karel turned away from the man.

“Sir?” Ture said. “Prince Tomas is headed this way.”

The prince was wearing his fierce grin again. “Half a dozen riders, all men. And a covered cart! Just after dawn this morning.”

Karel nodded. “The vendor on the corner saw it, too. Dark brown canopy.”

“Do you think she was in the cart, sir?” Gunvald asked.

“Yes.” Karel ran through the equation in his head.
Half a dozen men arrive yesterday, carrying a person. Half a dozen men leave today, with a covered cart
. “They were never going to keep her here long. It’s Harkeld they’re after.”

Princess Brigitta had passed this spot today.
Today
. He glanced at the sky. Dusk shaded it pink.

“Back to the ship!” He turned and headed down the street, almost running. They needed horses, supplies. They needed to know which gate she’d left by, which road she’d taken.

N
IGHT HAD FALLEN
by the time they reached the Lundegaardan vessel. The armsmen he’d sent to the town gates had returned. Karel listened intently to their reports, Prince Tomas at his shoulder.

“Six men and a covered cart, not long after dawn?” he said, when Lief finished speaking.

“Yes, sir.” The man was massive, standing a head taller than the other armsmen.

“Any description of the men?”

Lief shook his head. “Didn’t look like merchants. Not wearing uniforms. Could be anyone.”

“Which gate?”

“The north-east, sir.”

“Torkild, Arvid, you bought horses? Supplies?”

“Yes, sir. Twelve mounts. Supplies for two weeks and packhorses to carry them.”

Urgency thrummed in Karel’s blood. He wanted to order the armsmen to ride out now, this instant, even though it was pitch black outside. He took a deep breath.
Calm
. The Fithians were smart. He needed to be smarter, to make no mistakes.

“Excellent work, everyone.” He looked around the cabin, meeting each man’s eyes. “Tomorrow we go hunting.”

CHAPTER FIVE

B
RITTA REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS
by degrees. Nausea first. Then hearing: the sound of wind in trees, men talking. Then smell: woodsmoke. Then, slowly, an awareness of each limb.

She lay for a long time, not bothering to open her eyes. Her stomach seemed to slosh from side to side. Her head ached. Her fingers and toes tingled.

After several hours, the tingle subsided. The headache didn’t, or the nausea.

Finally she opened her eyes. Night. A blurry campfire that was tilted to one side.

Britta blinked, and blinked again. The campfire straightened itself slowly, became slightly clearer. Dimly, she saw long, dark shapes on the ground. It took several minutes before her sluggish brain recognized what they were: sleeping men wrapped in blankets.

Movement caught her slow attention. A watchman.

The watchman made two circuits of the fire and the sleeping Fithians, then halted beside her. Leather creaked as he crouched. A bowl and waterskin were placed beside her head.

The smell of food made bile rise in her throat.

The watchman stood with another soft creak of leather and resumed his soundless prowling of the campsite.

Britta moved stiffly, freeing her arms from the blanket she was wrapped in, pushing herself up to sit. She reached for the waterskin and lifted it with shaking hands. Water spilled on her face, trickled into her mouth, down her parched throat, and met the sloshing discomfort in her stomach.

She bent over, retching.

T
HE NEXT TIME
she woke, it was dawn. Her head felt as if it had split in two. Her throat was too dry to swallow. Her stomach turned over and over inside her.