The Kings Man (8 page)

When Grufyd lifted him, he smiled, pointing to the pier as the ship drew closer. ‘Look, my father’s carriage and my old tutor!’

He waved.

The tutor spotted Yorwyth and turned to speak with two large servants. The moment the gangplank was fixed, they all came aboard. The two burly servants picked Yorwyth up between them and carried him down to the carriage, accompanied by fretful admonishments to mind his bad leg. Meanwhile, the tutor went into the captain’s cabin.

Sailors threw hatches open and made ready to unload the cargo.

‘I wonder where Master Cialon is,’ Mitrovan whispered.

‘I’m just glad to see the last of the brat,’ Garzik admitted. His stomach rumbled. ‘Today I’ve had to sit and watch him wolf down more food than I’ve had in a week. And none of it was good enough for him!’

Mitrovan glanced over his shoulder. ‘No-one’s watching. Even Grufyd’s disappeared. Let’s go below and see if we can get something from the galley.’

But they only got as far as the hatch before Grufyd spotted them. ‘Go pack the master’s things and get your bundle.’

Feeling light-hearted and much closer to his goal, Garzik followed Mitrovan below. Together they packed Master Cialon’s belongings. No sooner were they done than Grufyd and his brother collected the chests.

There was just time for Garzik and Mitrovan to grab some bread and cheese from the galley, before going up on deck.

In the short time they’d been below, lanterns had been lit, bringing an early twilight. Just like back in Port Marchand, the sailors kept working by lamplight. The remaining injured seven-year-slaves stood lined up, ready to disembark. Each carried a blanket. When Feo saw Garzik and Mitrovan arrive, he said something derogatory to the cabinet-maker and spat over the side.

‘We’ll have to watch out for him,’ Mitrovan warned. ‘If he learns we’re spies, he’s just as likely to sell us out to the Merofynians to win his freedom.’

Master Cialon turned to see them. ‘There you are, Mitrofan. Where are my lists?’

The scribe had to dig them out of a chest.

When he tried to hand them to Cialon, the man gestured for him to hold them. ‘Tick this lot off. Fourteen injured seven-year-slaves, none lost at sea.’

The scribe hesitated. ‘Don’t you mean fifteen, master?’

‘Did I say fifteen?’ Cialon snapped. ‘I meant what I said.’

Mitrovan glanced to Garzik.

‘He stays.’ Cialon waved a dismissive hand. ‘The captain requested him.’

Garzik opened his mouth to speak, but Master Cialon directed Grufyd and his brother to escort the injured seven-year-slaves down the gang plank.

Mitrovan barely had time to clasp Garzik in a quick hug.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you down,’ he whispered. ‘And I’ll find some way to get the information back to Rolencia.’

Then he hurried after Master Cialon. Feeling utterly lost, Garzik watched the scribe go. All his plans were suddenly in disarray, and now that Mitrovan was gone, Garzik realised the scribe had been his one friend in all of this, and he felt the loss keenly.

A hand tapped Garzik’s shoulder.

‘You’re wanted below,’ Sionor said. ‘The ship’s surgeon asked for you.’

So Garzik found himself entering the surgeon’s little cabin.

‘There you are,’ Rishardt greeted him. He sat at his bench, a wine bottle open. His eyes had that bleary look again, which meant he’d been imbibing already. But the alcohol did not seem to impair his speech or movements as he gestured to the rack of vials and jars. ‘Inventory. We need to restock before returning to Rolencia. I’ll call the name, you tell me if we’ve almost run out. Come now, there’s no time to waste. The captain wants to put to sea with the dawn tide.’

Garzik ran his eyes over the rack. The names were Merofynian, but he could guess the Rolencian translation. Back home their family healer had a whole wall of herbals. But then Rishardt wasn’t a healer. His job was to sew up injured men and set bones.

Just then, the healthy seven-year slaves headed up the passage, towards the ladder to the middeck. Hearing the Rolencian language, Garzik froze and watched them shuffle past the cabin door.

‘Count yourself lucky,’ the surgeon told him. ‘They’ll be working in the fields, the mines or the ship-yards, up to the necks in freezing cold water. Half of them’ll die of the flux or the lung rot.’ He shut the door and took another drink. ‘If you keep your wits about you, lad, you’ll be a surgeon by the time your service is up.’

The thought of spending seven years at sea, serving Merofynians, horrified Garzik.

Seeing his expression, Rishardt smiled grimly. ‘I saved your life. Show a little gratitude.’

‘Why did you start drinking again?’ Garzik blurted, then flinched, expecting a blow.

But the surgeon glanced to the wine bottle, seemed to forget the question and poured himself another drink.

‘There was a man back home with a drinking problem,’ Garzik said. ‘We put him in a pit and left him there until he’d gone a week without drink. When we hauled him out, he never drank again.’

‘For how long?’

‘What?’

‘For how long did he stop drinking? One season, one year?’

Garzik thought back. They’d put him in the pit summer two years ago and Garzik knew the man had been killed in the Merofynian attack. ‘Until the day he died.’

‘Which was?’

‘Less than two years later,’ Garzik admitted.

‘So you’ve remembered your past. I take it that includes your name?’

Garzik flushed and closed his mouth.

‘Then Wyvern it is. Wynn for short,’ Rishardt told him. ‘Now that you’re my apprentice, I’ll have to teach you Merofynian.’

Garzik nodded and turned away, but the surgeon caught his arm. ‘I might be a drunkard, but I’m no fool and you’re no scribe.’

It was almost word for word what Mitrovan had said. Was he such a bad actor?

Garzik looked down at the hand on his arm.

‘Don’t worry. I’m the last person to ask what you’re running from.’ Rishardt gave Garzik a shove in the right direction. ‘Back to work.’

As the surgeon fired off words, Garzik repeated them, pretending to commit them to memory. But all the time he grappled with the sudden change in his fortune. Their ship was going back to Rolencia.

As much as he wanted to go home, how could he return to Byren empty handed?

While they checked the stores, sailors unloaded Lord Travany’s war booty and the rest of the seven-year-slaves. By midnight, the depleted ship’s stores had been replaced and the vessel pulled away from the dock so another could take her place.

When the kitchen lad delivered a tray of beans and bread, the ship’s surgeon pushed a plate in Garzik’s direction. Continuing to tutor Garzik in the Merofynian language, he poured himself another drink. A second wine bottle was almost empty. Despite this, he was no drunker.

Garzik could not reveal his deception, so he deliberately stumbled over the supposedly foreign words.

Rhishardt chuckled. ‘You’re asleep on your feet. Don’t worry, we’ve got seven years to teach you. Eat up, Wynn. You can bunk down under the bench.’

Grateful as he was for the food, Garzik hardly tasted it. Tired and stunned by the turn of events, he finished his meal and lay down to sleep under the surgeon’s table. Straps hung off the table legs.

He didn’t want to think what they were used for, but of course his mind presented him with the image of an injured sailor, restrained while the surgeon operated on him. Garzik shuddered. He wasn’t brave enough to be a ship’s surgeon. And he wasn’t as good a spy as Mitrovan. Somehow he must work out what to do next.

But he fell asleep before he could.

I
T SEEMED LIKE
only a moment later that Garzik woke, with sunlight coming through the cabin’s small window and the sensation of the ship cutting through the waves.

He woke with a dream conversation running through his head. He’d been on the battlements at Rolenhold, earnestly telling Byren how he’d sent Mitrovan to infiltrate the king’s inner circle. He’d been trying to convince Byren and Orrade to send him back to Merofynia so he could collect the scribe’s messages for Byren. It all made perfect sense in the dream.

And, once he was awake, it still made sense.

A weight lifted from his shoulders. This was how he could redeem himself. As the go-between for Mitrovan, who would do the actual spying, since he was so much better at it.

Now all that remained was to escape the ship when they returned to Port Marchand.

For the rest of the voyage, he made himself useful. The surgeon was not a demanding master and he never drank so much that he passed out. But Garzik had to watch himself. Despite the wine, Rishardt was observant. If the surgeon realised Garzik spoke Merofynian, he’d be quick to anger.

And, to his surprise, Garzik discovered he didn’t want to disappoint the surgeon.

S
IX DAYS LATER
, Garzik stood on the middeck watching the Rolencian headlands slide past, his heart racing with excitement. Soon he would be back home. Then he’d hunt up a certain pie shop girl and see if she had news of Byren. Even if she didn’t, he knew how Orrade thought. His brother would have taken Byren into the foot-hills of the Dividing Range, those same foot-hills where Captain Blackwing had taught them both to hunt.

A smile tugged at his mouth as he imagined Byren and Orrade’s surprise when he walked into camp. Even better, how their eyes would widen when he told them about Mitrovan. The hard part would be convincing Byren to let him travel back to Merofynia as the scribe’s contact, but he had all his arguments marshalled.

Relief filled his chest and his throat grew tight with emotion. To be home, to be amongst friends, but best of all, the chance to redeem himself in Byren’s eyes.

A noise made him turn to find the kitchen boy behind him.

‘You’re wanted,’ Arolt told him.

Garzik followed the lad below. Arolt led him past the surgeon’s cabin to another door.

Garzik peered in. It was dark and smelled of onions. ‘Surgeon Rishardt’s in here?’

The words had barely left his lips, when the lad shoved him between the shoulders and slammed the door. Garzik collapsed on his knees amidst bags of stores. The door swung shut, leaving him in darkness, and he heard the bolt slide home.

Fool, he should have seen this coming. Of course they’d expect him to try and escape, and they’d take measure to prevent it. Orrade would never have fallen for such a simple trick. Fury burned him.

Shins stinging, he spun around and pressed his face to the tiny sliver of light and fresh air coming through a crack in the door.

‘Arolt, let me out,’ he pleaded. ‘Arolt?’

‘What, and get a beating?’

‘Tell them you couldn’t find me. I’ll hide and slip overboard, swim for it.’ It would be icy cold, but he was a strong swimmer and Captain Blackwing had taught him what to do if he fell through the ice on a lake. ‘I don’t belong here. Please, Arolt?’

‘You think I wanted to be the cook’s bum-boy?’ the lad demanded, emotion making his voice vibrate. ‘I was a cabinet-maker’s apprentice when they grabbed me. This is where the cook shuts me up when we return to Port Mero.’

‘Tell you what.’ Garzik pressed his face to the gap. ‘Let me out and I’ll take you with me. Your Rolencian is good. You can finish your apprenticeship.’

Nothing.

‘Arolt? It’s busy on the wharf. Easy to disappear.’

Nothing.

‘Arolt?’

He knelt listening. With the creak and pitch of the ship it was hard to tell if anyone was on the other side of the door.

‘Arolt?’

‘He’s gone, Wynn,’ the surgeon said. ‘I knew first chance you got, you’d try to escape. You’re angry with me now, but if you were free, you’d slip over the side, join the Rolencian resistance and get yourself killed. One day you’ll thank me for this.’

Fury bubbled up inside Garzik. ‘I’m not like you. I’m not going to hide in a bottle. Whatever it takes, I’m going to redeem myself!’

Silence.

‘You hear me?’

No answer.

Garzik retreated to sit on a sack that, by the feel of it, contained potatoes. He cursed his bad luck.

Then he cursed his too-ready tongue. He should never have accused the surgeon of hiding in a bottle. He couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Rishardt.

He should have anticipated this trick.

Now how would he serve Byren?

Frustration churned in his gut.

Chapter Six

G
ARZIK HAD NO
idea how long it took, but eventually the thin stream of light intensified as someone came up the passage with a lantern. Desperately hungry, he’d just eaten a raw potato, and now he regretted it. The unpleasant feel of the dirty skin remained on his lips. Grit still crunched between his teeth.