The Dowry Blade (39 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

Brede woke to voices, faint, but angry. She glanced around quickly but none of the refugees and beggars she shared the stable with stirred in the pale dawn light. As sleep receded, she realised that the thin wooden wall beside her formed part of the next building. Listening to snatches of conversation had become a habit, providing a welcome, if unsuccessful, diversion from hunger. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The argument concerned Lorcan’s capture, and the possibility of persuading a witch to take up the government’s cause and win him back.

Brede lay in the musty straw, staring with great concentration at the grain of the wood beside her, and the patterns that woodworm had made. She wondered what could possibly persuade a witch to rescue Lorcan, and where they would find one with enough power to do it. She wondered why the rebels hadn’t simply killed Lorcan.

The louder voice thought the plan unworkable. Brede approved his scepticism, and then remembered Tegan saying that there was a witch in the city. Probably there were hundreds, but if there was one who was known like this, then she must be a Songspinner.

The quieter voice, the more reasoned, and perhaps more desperate, said something about mutiny. Brede’s mind latched onto that word. She wondered who those voices belonged to, and whether they meant what they said or were speculating. The meagre remnants of Lorcan’s army would not hold together without his hand on the leash. It was only a matter of time before the restless and undisciplined ones decided to open the gates to the rebels, or to loot the city themselves. The few who continued to hold fast in the face of that destruction had no hope of controlling the situation. It was a time for drastic action. What alternative could there be? The argument the other side of the wall continued – a mustering of the townsfolk untrained and frightened – could they really consider arming them and sending them out to fight? Why not try to persuade a witch?

Curiosity made Brede struggle out from her nest in the hay, scramble carefully over the sleeping bodies about her, and limp around the stables to look at the building adjoining her shelter. It had an abandoned air to it – just an old house, although a fine one, and well secured. Brede was about to turn away when the door opened. She slid to the ground, and sat with her back to the wall of the building opposite, hand out in the familiar beggar’s posture. Peering out from under the brim of her hat, Brede watched two men leave the building. They wore no identifying badge nor uniform, but there was no doubt in her that they were Lorcan’s generals. Brede kept her head down, not wanting her interest in them to be recognised.

As they passed, Brede caught a murmured comment; the soft-voiced one, still almost angry.

‘She owes us. The sword is not returned for all her promises.’

Brede had to force herself to keep her head down. She had no doubt as to the meaning of that. The witch, or Songspinner, or whatever she was, had promised Lorcan his sword back.

Brede ran a finger down the hilt, and out along the guard, remembering the sour ache of the sword when she’d touched it, lying on her makeshift bed in Kendra’s cave. She hadn’t thought, until now, why she had returned to the city. Now she wondered: had she been called back? If Tegan was right in her guess, she should get rid of the sword, before it could drag her into a trap. But she had been in the city long enough, why had the witch not found her?

Brede’s thoughts strayed back to the generals and the possibility of mutiny. Abruptly she worked her body upright and limped down the alleyway that led back to the bridge, where she could listen to the gossip, and hope for some food. At least she could be prepared for what would come.

Her usual place was taken. Brede considered whether she was prepared to fight for it. The man who sat in her preferred corner raised his head sharply at her approach and rose. He scuttled towards her, arms raised, his tattered blanket wings flapping as he lurched. Brede stepped back into a doorway, startled. He pressed up against her, staring beyond her shoulder, at the hilt of the sword.

‘People asking for you, swordswoman; asking for sword. Not wanting to buy, I’m thinking.’

Brede shuddered, put a hand in his chest, and pushed. He fell back, grabbing hold of the remains of her cloak as he did so, ripping it from ragged hem to neck. Brede swore, helpless with rage.

‘Soldier gave me money,’ he said righting himself, and smoothing the torn strip of cloak over her shoulder. ‘Smelt of blood. Didn’t want the sword, wanted you. Mentioned the hat.’

‘So?’ Brede asked, guessing at Corla.

‘So I’m telling you. Stay here, they all find you, leave, they all not find you. Good pitch, –’

‘– Find your own pitch, you’ve got money, I haven’t.’ Brede pushed him roughly away and made for her corner.

‘They’ll find you,’ he called again.

Brede glared at him, and laid the sword carefully beneath the crook of her knee.

‘Let them come,’ she muttered, trying to make either half of her cloak function as a garment. But once her heart had stopped hammering rage, an uncertain rhythm took over, and she watched every passer-by, jumping if someone came too close, wincing away if an eye stayed too long upon her. No way to get alms, no way to be inconspicuous, but she stayed, rigid with cold and fear, beyond finding the will to do anything but wait for whatever came to find her.

For days nothing happened. The gates remained closed, the gossip became fanciful, and the food scarce.

Dozing fitfully in her corner by the bridge, Brede was joined once more by Corla. She slid down beside Brede, and shifted her back uncomfortably against the roughness of the wall.

‘Still here?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Still alive, which is more of a surprise. You know you’re watched for?’

Brede raised her chin a fraction. Corla watched the motion out of the corner of her eye, and tried to fathom it –
Indifference? Bravado? Stupidity?

‘What would you say if I told you that there are a great many people who’d gladly let the rebels in?’ Corla asked.

‘Mutiny? I’d say it was common knowledge.’

‘And if I say that Lorcan with no Dowry blade is just a man in enemy hands?’

‘I’d say that he has never been anything else.’

‘And if I said that rumour had it they’ve already executed him?’

‘Not without the Dowry blade,’ Brede said, alert to how close her rival beggar had come, drawn by the sight of a green cloak.

‘Not without the blade, no. Do you still have it?’ Corla glanced furtively about, not seeing the tell-tale length of metal. Brede didn’t answer, didn’t move.

‘You know it’s the blade they’re looking for? Given a straight choice between handing over the sword and starving to death, why do you hesitate?’

‘I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ve no mind to help Lorcan.’

‘It’s only a matter of time before the witch ferrets you out.’

Brede shrugged.

‘It’s taken her long enough so far.’

Corla smiled wryly, and eyed the blade that Brede’s protective hand had drawn to her attention.

‘She’s probably walked passed you twice, seen that thing and decided her instinct was wrong.’

‘As might yours be.’

‘Brede, Tegan told me.’

‘She knows I’m here?’

‘That you’re still in the city at any rate.’

‘She’s not come looking.’

‘Yes she has. You weren’t to be found. If you want refuge it’s on offer; if you want help to get out, she’ll try to help with that too, although it’ll be a lot harder now.’

Brede shook her head impatiently.

‘Why are you still here?’ Corla asked. ‘Why are you sitting there with the most sought-after weapon in the country under your knee waiting for disaster to creep up on you?’

‘Do you think Lorcan can do worse to me than he has already?’

‘Frankly? Yes, I think he, or his kind, can do far worse.’

‘I was called here. I can’t leave.’

Corla turned her head slowly to see Brede’s face clearly. She let the idea that Brede might be completely mad flow through her.

‘Why are you wasting your time on this, Corla?’ Brede asked wearily.

Corla shrugged.

‘I like you. I’d rather you gained from that thing than I walk up here one day and find your corpse in the river, and the sword gone to glory. And no, that isn’t a threat. It’s honest concern. But you’re right, I’m wasting my time.’ Corla pushed herself upright. ‘One of the details to slip the general’s mind is the paying of the troops, but if you ever admit to desperation, you know where to find me.’

‘There is something you can do for me,’ Brede said, suddenly reminded. She searched her clothing until she unearthed a scrap of paper. Corla took it, glanced at the writing, and sighed.

‘This is worthless,’ she said. ‘We ran out of money to pay those whose horses we took about eight days ago.’ She glanced at Brede’s rigid expression. ‘It’s only for a few coppers anyway. You can’t trust anyone to give you the true worth of anything these days.’

Corla fished in her scrip, and glanced dubiously at the coins that remained.

‘I’ll help you if I can,’ she said.

‘I’ll remember,’ Brede agreed, pocketing the coppers Corla offered. Corla nodded, looking long and hard at Brede.

‘Tegan would help, too.’

‘No.’ Brede’s expression turned wintry. ‘I’ll take no help from Tegan.’

‘If you stay here, you’ll have no choice. She’ll come looking again.’

‘Then I shan’t stay here.’

‘All right. Stay strong,’ Corla said softly, and sauntered away. Brede glared at the sharp-eyed beggar who had worked his way round into a nearby doorway. He turned his back, pretending a fascination in the paintwork of a shutter. Brede wondered whether he was planning to seek out one of those searching for her, and let them know she was back. She wondered if she cared. She worked her way to her feet, and hobbled off intending to search for fruit from the market spoil heap, and somewhere less conspicuous to fail to wring alms from passers-by, somewhere quiet, where Tegan could not find her, somewhere the witch could kill her without raising attention if she was so minded.

As she walked, she cradled the sword, wrapped in her ruined cloak, a precious burden, loved child. Her steps took her down the bridge-side onto the river-walk, along the bank away from the markets, toward the castle. She half-noticed when she slipped on wet cobbles that she was in unfamiliar territory, but still she walked, away from light and hope of food, away from the relative safety of crowds. She shuddered as she walked, feeling pushed and pulled and buffeted, as though trying to force her way through a throng of people, but there was no one there, as she made her way beside the high walls of the river-garths. Her leg hurt, and her shoulder ached with the weight of the sword, and still she walked, recognising the gate to Doran’s garth, locked and lit. She heard voices from the far side of the wall as she passed, indistinct, a child crying. She did not slow. There, on the far side of the water, girded by the bend of the river, stood Grainne’s tower.

Finally Brede stopped. She felt nothing but animosity, gazing at the deep slow running water, at the stone rising from the banks, at the lighted windows above. The sword slipped from her arms, and she let herself down on her hands and knees beside it, staring into the water at blistered warped reflections of lights – Grainne’s chamber, the shutters wide open, the room above, a mere splinter of light, and above that, torches on the roof walk. It seemed half a lifetime since she had stepped out on to that roof. Brede closed her eyes, dazzled by flickering yellow in the winter darkness. It didn’t seem as though that half lifetime was in any way to do with her. Her hand closed on the hilt of the sword, and she felt a tugging at her rib cage. She tightened her grip, raising the sword and plunged it into the earth.

‘I know you’re there,’ she said, watching that sliver of light in the uppermost chamber. ‘And you know that I –
we
are here. Call all you will, I cannot swim. All you have to do is look out, I’m not hiding from you.’ She hauled herself upright and dragged the sword from the soil.

‘I’m not hiding.’ She walked a few steps along the river’s edge, her eyes on the high window. Just for a second a shadow blocked the light and her heart jolted –
all you have to do is look out
– without question, someone stood at the window for a long moment, then turned away. Sorcha would have known. Brede smiled, not such a clever little witch after all. She turned away, snatching windfalls from below the immaculately plastered wall of the garden that backed onto the river here. Brede found a dark corner out of the wind, and recited her nightly ritual of warding song, without the slightest faith in its efficacy.

The town guard were up at dawn calling the news: telling the populace that the rebels were advancing on the city; that every able-bodied citizen should report to the barracks to be issued with a weapon. As she made her way back towards the market, Brede listened to the rising noise of concerned voices, and assumed that the Songspinner had chosen to leave the city, refusing whatever enticement was offered her to rescue Lorcan. Relief flooded her. For all her insane challenge of the night before, she feared the witch.

But now there was a new threat, or perhaps a new opportunity. She started the long walk along the riverbank to the barracks. Not that she needed a weapon; she had the longsword, blunt though it was, firmly strapped to her back. What she needed was the food that would be handed out to every willing volunteer. She would gladly take the army on single-handed if it would get a proper meal into her, even if it did meant saving Lorcan.

Brede wasn’t the only beggar with the thought of real food in their minds. The first citizens to reach the barracks were the poorest: the destitute, the refugees; the ones who could not avoid hearing the criers, as they crawled from their holes beneath bridges, down alleys, under carts.

As Brede walked the cobbled streets, she pulled her clothes straight, brushing off as much of the filth as would came. Her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them, she didn’t want to be sent away.