The Godspeaker Trilogy (112 page)

He’d never heard her sound so lost. Poor Ursa. Her life was turned upside down now, just like his. Time to distract her from unhappy thoughts …

“Do you know I’ve not the first idea of where we are?” he said. “You’re the one who knows duchy Kingseat’s countryside like the back of your hand. How far away is the river-station at Grumley?”

She gave him a look. “Jones, you’re hopeless .”

“I know,” he said, and swallowed a smile.

“We’ve been on the road an hour, give or take,” she said briskly. “Another half-hour will see us at Lower Grumley. Grumley proper and the river-station lie a half-hour or so beyond that. But I’ve been thinking. It might serve us better not to take a barge at Grumley, but travel on to Pipslock instead.”

“You think Grumley’s too quiet?”

“I think Pipslock is a conveniently bustling place. Less chance of us being noticed in a station where so many barges and wagons and travellers abound. Not that I think we’re anything to notice,” she added. “Just one more peddler family eking a livelihood on the highways and byways of jolly old Ethrea. But why stick out like a sore thumb when we don’t have to? That’s what I’m thinking, Jones. What do you think?”

He pretended to have a spasm. “You’re asking me? Not telling me? Ursa, are you feeling well? Perhaps you’re touched with a fever!”

She swatted him. “You’re only half as funny as you think you are, Jones. I hope you know that.”

“I know you think so,” he said, grinning, then considered her suggestion. “I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry. Even though I’ll be nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs until we’re safely on the river. All right. We’ll travel to Pipslock. I hope you know the way.”

“Of course,” said Ursa, scornful. “We’ll get there just on sunset. Another good reason to take that road. We’ll be even less noticeable on a barge at night while we’re still so close to Kingseat capital.”

And that was a good thing, he had no doubt.

Please, Hettie. If you’re listening. Don’t let us be noticed. Let us get away unseen.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
here were Kingseat guards at Pipslock river-station.

Rhian took one look at them through the little hatch behind the driver’s seat and sucked in a sharp breath.

“The man in charge? That’s Commander Idson,” she hissed. “He’s garrison leader of the whole Kingseat guard. Damn. The man’s like a terrier on the scent of a rat. If he even suspects I’m here …”

Dexterity sighed. Hettie, Hettie, I asked for your help . The guards, led by this Idson fellow, were questioning the folk who’d passed through the river-station barrier and were waiting for clearance to load onto the next waiting barge. They were inspecting the carts, wagons and carriages too. They didn’t seem rude, just briskly determined. The many lamps lit to hold back dusk’s shadows threw their sharp faces into relief.

“But does he suspect it?” he said, hoping against hope. “Maybe he’s not looking for you at all. It could be some other matter that’s brought him to Pipslock.”

Ursa snorted. “And if you believe that, Jones, I’ve some swampland going cheap to sell you.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Even if he’s not looking for our runaway princess, if we join the line to get onto a barge here he’s going to poke his nose into the back of this van and see her. Even with her hair cut off and dressed like a lad he’ll know who she is. She’s not safe from being recognised till we’re out of this duchy.”

Dexterity glanced over his shoulder at Rhian’s frowning face, framed in the hatchway. “If Idson and his men are after you, Highness, who’s sent them, do you think?”

“Marlan. The clerica will have got word to him once they realised I was missing.”

He looked again at the garrison guards. “There aren’t very many of them. If the prolate really is searching for you, surely—”

“No,” said Rhian. “Marlan won’t want to raise any public alarm. He can’t afford the council discovering he’s lost me. If he can find me quickly and spirit me back to the clerica with no-one the wiser … Mr Jones, we can’t stay here. We have to move on.”

Their van was halted on the side of the road, just before the sloping side-street that led down to the Pipslock river-station where the bustle and disruption of the unexpected inspections kept everyone preoccupied.

But anonymity wouldn’t last forever. Once the final cart was inspected and passed onto the waiting barge, the guards would notice the peddler’s van at the top of the street …

“You’re right,” said Dexterity, picking up the reins. He looked at Ursa. “Perhaps if we take a barge from Grumley after all? Surely they’ve already been to Grumley.”

“No,” said Rhian, before Ursa could answer. “Grumley’s behind us. We have to move forwards . I must reach duchy Linfoi as soon as possible.”

“Your Highness,” he began, but she cut him off with a hard slap of her hand against the wooden wall between them.

“ No, Mr Jones! You rescued me and I’m grateful but don’t let it go to your head. I’m not asking for your advice or permission. I’m your queen and I’m telling you plainly, we don’t turn back .”

“She’s right, Jones,” said Ursa, softly. “The sooner we get out of Kingseat the better. It may slow us down a bit, travelling by road for a while, but better that than ending up in Commander Idson’s custody. If we stay on the byroads, keep away from the towns, we can higgledy-piggledy across country into duchy Meercheq and keep on moving north until Idson loses heart along the river. Then we can get a barge. At Chaffing, if we’ve reached that far. Or maybe Rippington. That’s a plan as should keep us out of trouble.”

“Yes,” said Rhian. “Idson might be able to throw his weight around along the river but he has no authority to hunt for us in Meercheq itself. In any duchy. To get it he’ll have to ask permission from the duke in question and that’ll mean awkward explanations. By the time Marlan’s forced to that point I should be safely in duchy Linfoi. Now let’s get out of here before someone thinks to ask why we’re loitering.”

Dexterity roused the brown cobs and eased the van back onto Pipslock’s torchlit main street. Dusk was surrendering to the onset of night, and the last shops were closing their doors and shuttering their windows. Lamps bloomed into life behind curtains in the dwellings above. Townsfolk hurried home along the sidewalks, laughing and chattering in pairs or groups, and silently alone.

Nobody bothered to wonder about a single peddler’s van, drawn by plain brown horses clip-clopping on the cobbles.

As they reached the end of Pipslock’s main thoroughfare and came upon the open countryside beyond the small township, Dexterity glanced behind him at Rhian’s hatch-framed face, exchanged a look with Ursa, then voiced what he knew they’d both been mulling over.

“You seem to be placing an awful lot of faith in Linfoi’s duke, Highness.”

“Not its duke,” she said, her voice distant and calm now. “The duke’s son. Alasdair. We’re friends. He’ll help me.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Of course,” she said, and slammed the little hatch shut between them. A heartbeat later it opened again, and she added, “As sure as you are of Ursa’s help, Mr Jones. And by the way …” Her voice had dropped several chilly degrees. “Drug me again without my knowledge or permission, Ursa, and when this is over you and I will have words .”

The hatch shut again, just as firmly.

Dexterity winced. Oh dear. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She’s just feeling disappointed and upset. The sight of those Kingseat guards. They’d put anyone off.”

Ursa snorted. “Of course she meant it, Jones. Didn’t you hear her? She’s the queen . Or she will be, provided we can get her to duchy Linfoi in one piece and this friend of hers can perform some kind of miracle that’ll get her crowned and on the throne despite the opposition of both council and Church.”

That made him stare. In the wagon’s burning torchlight, Ursa’s face was flickered with doubt. “You don’t think we can do this?”

“I don’t know, Jones.” She sounded tired. “What I do know is I don’t like to think about what she’s up against. What we’re up against. Gives me the heebies.”

Shaken, he looked back to the road. “Hettie said—”

“A lot of things, apparently. But not a word about how we’re going to win .” She sniffed. “When are you going to tell Rhian, anyway?”

“About Hettie?” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise, Ursa. She’s wound tightly enough as it is.”

“You’ll have to sooner or later. When she asks you how you know what you know. And she will. You’ll have to tell her about Zandakar, too.”

“I’m hoping Zandakar can tell us about himself. Provided that wretched chaplain really can teach him to speak Ethrean properly.”

“Hmmph,” said Ursa, and folded her arms. “I think he can, Jones. He seems powerfully motivated not to touch the horses. I just wonder …” Her voice trailed away.

“Wonder what?”

“What kind of story Zandakar has to tell,” she murmured. “Because you know what they say, Jones. Curiosity killed the cat.”

Yes, they did say that. It was most disconcerting. “Ursa, where should we head now? This road out of Pipslock, where will it take us?”

“To the river-station at Jabsford, which straddles the duchy line with Meercheq and Morvell. We don’t want to go anywhere near it. We’ll turn off before then and head towards Foscote.”

She never ceased to amaze him. “How is it you know so many places?”

“Because I’m an old wicked woman, Jones. And when I was young no matter how hard I scratched my itchy feet they wouldn’t let me stay in one place for long.” She closed her eyes then, which meant she didn’t want to talk any more.

He took the hint and kept on driving.

Some two hours after turning at the sign for Foscote he’d had enough of travelling and so had the horses. He’d found water for them at a carters’ stop an hour ago but they were tired and hungry, their heads drooping, ears flat. He guided them off the wide country road, down a rutted laneway with verges broad enough to hold the van and the tethered cobs.

I’ll have to buy more oats for them, next village we come to. And supplies for us too. It’s bread and cheese for supper tonight.

After settling the horses he joined the others. It was too dark to find wood for starting a fire, so they were crammed into the back of the van. A single lamp burned, they were saving the lamp oil, and Chaplain Helfred’s face was a shadowed patchwork of discontent.

“No decent hot food?” he demanded as Ursa handed him his share of the night’s meagre meal. “How is a man meant to live on such pitiful rations?”

“Hold your tongue, Helfred,” said Rhian, tearing her bread into small, crumby pieces. “At least it’s something to put in your belly.”

He glowered at her. “This was a mistake. After sober consideration I’ve decided it’s wrong for us to travel any further. If we repent now, God will forgive us.”

Rhian swallowed a mouthful of cheese. “Your uncle won’t.”

“Prolate Marlan—”

“Is a power-hungry despot. You’re wasting your breath, Helfred. We’re not going back.”

Helfred put his plate aside. “You cannot keep me here against my will! That would be kidnapping a man of God! Your soul will be blackened beyond redemption if you don’t release me!”

Rhian seared him with a look of contempt. “Release you? So you can run squealing back to Kingseat, make things up with your uncle and tell him my plans and where we are?” She dusted her hands together. “I don’t think so.”

“Princess Rhian—”

Cross-legged on the floor, with his back to the hinged doors, Zandakar lifted his head at the new tone in Helfred’s voice. Dexterity held his breath. The look in the dark man’s eyes was frightening. Cold and pitiless, it was like staring into the face of death.

“No, Zandakar,” said Rhian, her hand raised. “Helfred can’t hurt me.”

Zandakar frowned. “Rhian is all right?”

She smiled at him, her cheeks tinted delicately pink. “I’m fine.”

Dexterity cleared his throat. He didn’t dare look at Ursa, but knew they shared the same thought: Oh dear .

“Chaplain, this isn’t easy for any of us,” said Ursa briskly. “But Princess Rhian is right. You can’t change your mind now. If it’s any consolation we’ll make sure to tell the prolate you were kept against your will, should the need arise.”

Helfred’s back was pressed so hard against the wooden wall his shoulder blades were in danger of cracking. Ignoring Ursa, he pointed a shaking finger at Zandakar.

“He wants to kill me! That heathen has murder in his heart!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Rhian. “He just doesn’t like it when you raise your voice to me.” She gifted Zandakar with another radiant smile. “And I appreciate it. He’s a heathen foreigner who hardly speaks my language and he has more respect for me than one of my own subjects.” Her smile vanished. “How do you think that makes me feel, Helfred?”

Helfred shook his head. “You’re a fool to trust him. All of you, fools. There’s a malevolence in him. Can’t you feel it? Are you all so blind?”

“Oh, Helfred,” said Rhian, breaking the tautly uncomfortable silence. “You do make me tired. Another word out of you and I’ll push a sock in your mouth.”

“Now, Highness,” said Ursa, reproving. “He’s your chaplain. A man of God. And until God discards him you’d be wise to remember that.”

Rhian flushed again, but not with pleasure. “You take it upon yourself to task me?”

“Please!” Dexterity said, lifting both hands placatingly. “Everyone! It’s late, and we’ve had a very trying day. Let’s not say or do anything we can’t mend. I’m going to check the horses, and then I think we should all just … go to sleep.”

No-one disagreed with him.

By virtue of rank and age, Rhian and Ursa had been granted the two sleeping-shelves. Dexterity left them rummaging about behind their curtain while Helfred and Zandakar eyed each other warily and cleared space on the floor. Carrying a second lamp, he went out to make sure the horses weren’t tangled in their tether lines. They were fine, dozing hipshot and not pleased to be woken. He patted them briefly then took advantage of the moment to relieve himself against a handy tree.